THE ART OF BEING MISERABLE

A sign
of mental health
they say
is how quickly
you can turn
away
from things
that make
you unhappy.

I've never been
more miserable
in my life.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

TIGHT HOT EVERYTHING

It's 80+
in NYC
today.
It was 80+
yesterday
as well.
Winter
has finally given way
to a less worthy opponent: hope.
Each new thaw
is like love
arriving
for the first time
fevered
with expectation.

Young girls
and older women
have bared
themselves
of everything
except mystery;
tits and hips and ass,
arms and shoulders
and backs and legs
are in abundance.
Only the pussy
is hidden,
but men have never been good
at finding it anyway.
Besides, women
will try and save it
for a real illusion.

Old fucks
like me
are eternally young,
but most are thought
to be harmless,
while young hounds
are stiff
with howling. Rarely,
are there a shortage
of suitors.
Soon,
there will be
free fireworks
on boardwalk evenings,
fumbling with a bra strap
and zipper;
the stickiness
of two souls
spinning together,
then break-ups
and make-ups,
and promises
and new starts
and false starts
and restarts;
some making it
for awhile
most bowing out
to look again.
It's the same with short-order cooks
in diners
around the world:
scramble two
and don't
burn
the toast.
You hope
you can last
the shift.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

JOPLIN, MISSOURI

has seen
its share
of disasters.
Recently,
a twister
mangeled
its inhabitants
silly.
It seems
the city
has a pedigree
for this kind of thing:
In 1945
my parents
got married
there.
He, a private
in the Army;
she, a sheltered
Jewish babe
from Brooklyn.
She traveled
in that hot summer
to do the deed
at his urging.
I suppose he used
the same line
that other G.I.'s believed:
c'mon baby,
before I die;
or words
to that effect.
It took her
all day
to find a room
that rented
to Jews.
He was learned
in the ways
of the world
and knew
that cash
spoke at least as loud
as Christ.
They were matched
and mismatched
from the start.
Probably
the same disturbances
that create
tornadoes.
The proof of that
is that neither I
nor my brother
recognize
each other
but remember well
what we used to
look like.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

TRYING TO BE HIP

when younger
had me rubbing
up against
older artists
and bohemians
of many flavors:
painters, poets,
and musicians
mostly.
They showed me,
informed really,
about how to smoke
reefer, eat Japanese,
and shoot dope
in the mid-sixties
with a nonchalance
that was meant to attract
little notice.
They schooled me
about what to read
and how to read;
what to see
and how to see it;
how to listen
to the past
and hear the future
identifying voices
and motives.
I was told one day
about a film
(it was called "a flick" back then),
Jazz On A Summers Day.
I did as I was told
and saw it.
It helped my hipness,
but hurt it as well.
I pass it on to you,
but not
for your hipness
only your
enjoyment.
That's all
we really
have.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011
http://www.youtube.com/embed/L36AhSocVlc

Reincarnation

for K

I'd like to come back as song,
(this song)
(any song)
inside you
and feel
as you sing
me...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

I'VE ALWAYS SAT

near exits;
an easy escape
from myself
and other dangers.
A quick survey
is all I need
to size up
any scene
and its inherent
hostilities: too much
brain or
too much brawn;
I love my neighbor
with the same absence
of light
as I love myself:
skeptically,
impenetrably,
imperfectly,
while knowing
we are
capable
of anything.
And I'll always
take those odds.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011

HINDU

Home, you knew,
was always impossible;
and so you tried
to fashion a life
away from it.
You were able
to make up rules
that had nothing to do
with reality
except yours
usually
at the moment it was happening.
For the guys
playing sports
or gambling
it was Hindu.
If a ball
would hit
a crack
or submit
to a sudden gust
of wind,
or the dice
hit a rock
or somebody's foot,
you could call, "Hindu"
and that would mean it's
a do-over.
No questions asked.
Sometimes you knew
it was bullshit,
whether from you
or someone else,
but the lie
was tolerated.
Perhaps we all knew
that soon
we'd have to go back home again
and hear
bigger lies
that cut
deeper
than your father's belt
or fist
or silence.
There,
you could never call,
"Hindu;"
there could never be,
a do-over;
just an accumulation
of little murders
each day
in your soul
until
you no longer knew
whose soul
was being punished.

Gradually,
you grew
into the coat.
It offered
a certain kind
of warmth
and even though
you knew that warmth
had the smell of death about it,
it was a smell that smelled
like home.
I became good
at recreating that smell
everywhere I went
until I didn't need anyone
to kill me anymore;
I did a pretty good job
by myself.
In fact, if someone
was as bad to me
as I've been to myself,
I'd have killed them. Instead,
I've only killed
the kind ones.

I was too dumb,
too stupid,
too scared,
to know
or understand that;
too many people
stood in harm's way
who I never meant
to harm, but meant it
all the same.

I'd call a Hindu now,
but there is no one left
who'd hear
or care.
With no plan
or help from me,
it's worked out
very well
indeed.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011