HOLDING HANDS IN HIGH SCHOOL

After crossing
a canyon of fear
where small deaths
were lily pads
across the divide
& finding her fingers,
then hands, pulling me,
like liferopes of possibilities,
(and despite an erect & pulsating newness),
gave form & meaning to Curtis' Gypsy Woman.

Suddenly,
poetry made sense;
we were meant to be sung.
Old as we were being born
into a soiled & sordid world,
yet as unabashed as desire must be,
we read each other
in that mischevious look,
a smile worthy of Mona
and a leap into a trust
that defied your history
granting, finally, a childhood,
full of fancy & exploration
flushed with a kitten's curiousity
and a lion's hunger.

We bumped hips
making our way
from the stale
high school morning
into a new day
of frivolousness--
she in her jeans,
tight hot everything
and me in my coolness--
cutting those stupid classes
of dullness & dandruff,
trying to figure out
how I could be this lucky.

We had taken the chance to look
for that most elusive minute
in a corner of convenience--
whether in a four postered bed
overlooking the Atlantic,
or on a mildewed mattress
in an abandoned Coney Island tenement--
to discover each other
again and again and again
in an indifferent home
that was vacant that day
and welcomed our foolishness
and our courage
to enter.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

MY DREAMS HAVE CHANGED THEIR CLOTHES

I dream now
of living within a Xanex,
big as a cloud,
rolling above my landscape
as I float
from dusk to dawn
battling those forces
that wants to pin me
against the ropes
& bring me back to earth;
or sometimes I'm strolling
in the park, amidst a blizzsrd
of heroin dissolving
on my tongue, taking in
the wonderment of nature
& man married
in an architecture of need;
a Mt. Kilamanjaro of reefer,
buds as big as your fist,
in their rainbow splendor
sits outside my back door.
waiting for my pleasures,
my forays into the wild...
steeling myself,
like a Kamikazie pilot,
into the wind...

then,
behind Venetian Blinds
of fear, I'd have an Uzi,
semi-autos wiht scopes,
hunting rifles, pistols,
grenades, IED's, bazookas,
flame throwers, Bowie knives,
blackjacks, brass knuckles,
& I'd wait...& plan...& wait
as these Saturday night invaders,
these revelers from the sticks,
who had crossed over bridges,
gone through tunnels,
traveled from corn fields,
or desert oil wells,
their voices skunky drunken loud,
girlish puberty, whiny, rageful,
slinging curses
as if they've driven trucks,
at boys playing men
and I'd shoot the vowels out of their teeth,
gnash the consonents from their throats,
dilate then extinguish the light
from their pupils,
and granade their dumpster's maw...
I'd watch while their dumb lips
pushed out a wince
while their backbones cracked,
vertebrea crumbled, heart exploded,
hear their screams singing an aria
of disbelief leading
to a god-awful quiet...

As you can plainly see,
I've gotten better.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

THE OLD FUCKS CLUB

In those ebuillent, carefree,
serious as cancer, full of shit,
sixties, while driving
I'd see a car approaching
from the other side of the road,
and, as he drew near,
he'd flash
his highbeams at me.
And in the spirit
of comradery,
I'd flash him back.
We were part
of an unstated club
of Porsche drivers
and nothing more
need be said.

Now, I'd be walking
concentrating mostly
on what was in front
of my next step,
but also what awaited me
further on as well.
I'd see coming up
on a cane or walker,
fingers gripped
& knuckles white,
sometimes with a friend or attendent,
another old fuck,
and as we neared,
measuring each hard fought
& precious step,
we'd look up
into each other's eyes
& smile,
or nod,
or shake our head,
wondering where
it all went
& to where next
we were going?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

I'VE CRISSCROSSED

your body,
a priest
of pornography
seizing
on each
of your neuron's tits
and sucking
the pleasures
of your offering.
I've traveled a lewdness
knowing no discretion
or boundary.
Once inside,
your blue vein
of decency
I've allowed a subterfuge
of manners.
Your body's gutters
were chastened by angels;
your only accidents
were those of purity;
a river
so relentless
it reeks
from my own
stink.

How often I've memorized
your mistakes,
sifting through
your dark forest
of motives,
your illusions
of logic,
until this old bull elephant
was strung-out & stripped
of everything
except must.

And so
I must follow
it again; I must
follow the smell;
I must search out
your secrets
that light my steps
with an explorer's fever
because as you've defined my greed,
you've also defined my love:
inexhaustible.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

EVERY DAY, A HOT, STEAMY, CONEY ISLAND SUMMER

A carousel of women
encircle my brain;
some demur & lovely
in their tease
& some fierce & subversive,
all locked for a moment
in a terrible beauty
& embrace
of my choosing
what to remember
and why
to remember it.
Eyes wide
with panic--
or is it fear
--proudly prancing
their manes dancing to deities
of visions sung loudly
proclaiming my birth
and my lies.

Yes,
my memories
oiled up
& waiting
to be caught
in this arcade,
this hothouse
of simulacrums

while my mother hides
inside the ride,
clocking my action,
judging,
finger pointing,
wagging her stiletto like tongue,
cursing my infidelities now,
then, and those to come
to term
leaving her free
to pull the levers
and adjust.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

OLD AGE

is treacherous--
I could get a hernia
merely by lifting
my eyelids.

And lowering them
is no picnic either.

Norman Savage
Greewich Village, 2019

A LITTLE OF THIS, A LITTLE OF THAT

I loved the beauty,
but needed to be bled;

I heard an alienist,
face like parchment,
cured the mentally ill
with the stories
from the mouths of mutes
swimming with the deaf;

I can't say
it helped,
but I can say
it worked.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019