THE EXISTENTIAL LOVEBIRDS

The Betty Poems


Honey,
he said,
move in with me,
live with me,
love me
inside and out.

Sweetie,
she replied,
I do love you,
I love you so much
I ache,
I want to,
I will.

Somewhere
a train whistle blew
in the dawn's wind;
each other's flesh
spread over a hill;
you could hear
their bones laugh
while a chinaman
ironed the last shirt
of the day.

They dressed
in each other's quiet.
Perhaps they could be happy
without being miserable.
But that was left
for another time
another day.
Then, bundled up,
they left
for dinner.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

IT WOULDN'T SURPRISE ME

one bit,
given all the speculation
now that the Pope is gonna call
it quits, if a young boy
very well-hung
gets the gig.

Why beat around
the bush?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

TAKING A WALK

Get the fuck off your ass,
I said to myself,
that's all the fuck you do,
I continued,
sit on your ass
all fucking day at work,
all fucking night at home,
and complain:
about your weight,
about your lungs,
while twisting
the arms
of old ladies
to buy your shit,
by day,
or to fall in love
with your bullshit
at night--
daisy-chaining words
to assholes and elbows.
After dinner,
I concluded,
you're gonna walk.

I was sixty-five.
Diabetes and smoking
and boozing had already
done its damage:
a blood blockade
to my pump and pistons.
The only things I could do
to halt the knocking
of Mr. & Mrs. Death
on my front door
was putting down the smokes
and kicking out the jams.
The last was eating "right."
But that I'd do later,
I reasoned.
You don't want to do
too much
too soon.

And so,
after eating
a pound and a half rib-eye,
baked potato
with butter/sour cream/chives,
and creamed spinach,
I had coffee
and New York cheesecake
for dessert.
I finished the last
of the coffee
with a Lucky, my last Lucky
I resolved, while Brian Williams
told me what I already knew:
winter had wrapped its arms
around the northeast
in a death grip.

I rubbed my Buddha belly
placed my two hands firmly
on the arms of the chair
and hoisted myself
up from the table.
I cleaned the dishes
and grabbed my hat, wool scarf,
coat, and sheepskin lined gloves.
Brian said something
about Chinese hacking
which I couldn't give a fuck about,
but this time found interesting.
I halted, but didn't stop.
I was determined
to live
a few extra years.
It was about ten steps
to my front door.
I made six of em
before I opened
the doors
to my icebox.
I took out
two pints of Haagan-Dazs,
(it was nice to have the gloves on),
and put them on the counter
to soften.
I had to back up
two steps to do that.
The rest of the retreat
was easy.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

YOU DON'T HAVETA EVEN MOVE

and it comes
ta ya;
finds ya;
uncovers ya:
feelings,
thoughts,
ideas,
inside the clothing
of letters
pirouetting
in your brain,
arranging themselves
(poorly or not)
into something
that seems
to make sense,
yet never really does.
After fucking
a million babes,
imbibing a million bottles,
shooting a million bags,
swallowing a million pills,
firedandhired and firedandhired again
from a million jobs,
and outlasting
world class pricks
of parents
by fading
their cruelty
masked by indifference
by being brokered
by millions of authors
and texts,
singers
songs
musicians
of magic,
and doctors
and dealers
shrink-wrapped
or pre-shrunk--
you no longer
have to do
a goddamn thing
to get invaded.
Your own parade,
wheeling and dealing
through a muddied
and muddled landscape
will, like a magic lantern,
dance behind your eyes.
It's your very own Grand Guignol,
pinwheeling through your wreckage
turning your psychopathology
into an art.

There is alchemy
still, still
to be conjured, still
to be amazed.
After all the bridges
you thought burned
or purposely fractured,
there lives those
who give a shit
about your breath
that wraps a life
around your words.
Most of you
I've liked
more than I cared to admit;
but the miracle is not "like"
or "love"
but "desire"
now
toward the finish.
I've read that the best of days,
are sometimes the first,
sometimes the middle,
and even sometimes the last;
I wanted then to believe
but didn't.
Yet now,
being offered passion
by my Mexican love
at 65
is more precious
than it was for me
at 20.
There is less of me
to kill,
of course,
but more minutes yet
to conquer
and enjoy.
Those older fucks
who sit
breathing on my words
might be justifiably jealous
at the gods
who have graced me.
They must make
their own peace.
For it has taken me time,
a very long time,
to learn things
which were quite simple,
but eluded me
for so long,
like saying:
I love you,
without it being brokered
by a drink
a drug,
or distance.
That has been
the slowest in coming,
but the big
and stubborn ship
is turning
into port.
I must let the captain
navigate, while I
make sure
the furnace
is stoked
and fed.
I must discipline
the crew,
make passengers
feel welcome. Like them
I'm but a tourist,
but a tourist
who no longer
longs
for a home.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

THEY KNOW ME:

the waitresses, bus
boys, hack
drivers, bar
tenders, bums,
workers
in dead end jobs
who dream
fantastic dreams;
blackandwhiteandbrownandyellow pure
and mixed womenandmen
oldandyoung carefree
or humped over,
who do it,
grind against it,
everyday.
they know
if they're not there,
they're going there;
a "there" that finds me
there,
because I've been there,
am there
and will be there
for however long
forever is.
They know
I've arrived
first
and still stand
amongst the wreckage
and pillars
of my life
and know parts
of theirs.

There are others
who nibble
around the edges
liking the taste
in small doses
still thinking
they control a part
of who they think
they are.
I don't quibble
with them;
but instead
allow them
room
to find their own
failures
or march to an easy
delusion that moves
each of us
to the graves edge.

It's the others
who provide me
with hope: a free tea
or coffee, shutting
the meter off
on my ride home,
or pushing my "case" ten
back to me from the lip
of the bar;
or charging me less
than half
for their late night touch.
There is little dialogue,
no "thank you,"
no stupid cordiality
that greases commerce;
just a nod,
and a smile--inner
and outer
to
and fro
across the ages
of what only seems
like a limitless
divide.

Happy New Year
to all us travelers
everywhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

I'M SUPPOSED TO BE FUCKED-UP

but I'm not
as I sit down
to write
on this
the sixty-fifth Christmas Eve
of my lifetime.
I've written
often enough
about the pain,
silliness, self
pitying uselessness
of it all
with all my defenses
honed and sharpened
depending on what year
it was and who
was listening.
But not this year.
This year I feel
rather well:
I'm loved
by a woman,
a musical luscious babe
who lives
in Mexico
and inside
my head,
who I think
I could love
if I let myself;
I'm loved
by a crazy brother
who I met again
after a storm
tossed me against
his door;
words still dance
and spark, igniting
fires in my brain--
and even though
they are brush fires,
they still, if briefly,
heat the inner landscape;
even my job,
which robs
my time
and steals my fantasies,
provides the four walls
that make it all
possible.

The odds were against
this poem
ever being written.
But odds never meant
shit to me. For me,
waking up was
the nightmare.
Yet I've learned
how to compound
and paint the chipped,
cracked, and open holes
in my soul
and was lucky
to have some hand-holding
along the way
by educated fingers.

Lately,
I've put away
some of the guns.
Others remain
loaded
and at the ready,
I know.
There are some,
I know,
who don't want to hear that.
Let some of those take heart:
misery never ceases.
But the opening of the cage
has widened
just a bit
as has my willingness
to walk
through it
at times.

Breathing
comes before
bravery.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012

SOMETHING FOR THE VAPORS AND VIPERS, THE CONDUCTORS AND PLAYERS, THE WHORES AND ANGELS, AND THE MEMORIES OF MAGIC

Random musings
on a lazy Saturday
as I scratch against
the advancing cold
that hints at the coming
winter.
I still sit outside
at a table sipping
coffee in the slate gray
moistness that indicates
snow not too far off
and the emptiness that is
closer.
Bundled up,
with sweater, and shirt,
and undershirt and scarf,
and hat I smoke
a cigarette
in a purified New York
and look at the young legs
and faces thinking
of all the loves
I've betrayed.
The most basic of things
I've had to learn
last. How I once
could of thought myself
brave, escapes
me now.
I was the cheapest
of tricks; a ventriloquist's
dummy speaking the words
that helped silence
my fears.

Memory lies
of course.
It's not its fault.
Even now
when I think of the music
of love
it is not
with the grandeur of Mahler,
the nuance and beauty of Bach,
the titanic battle of Bee;
nor with the eccentricities of Monk
or the harmonic brilliance of Miles,
but the simplicity of song.
The softness of voice
cushioning pain, muffling
thought; pretending
to care--which is really
all I ever wanted. Here,
listen:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=osVaF4t-zFc
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWGn_-MeuZ8
www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsgL35RCGcc
www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQRV4NM2O1g
See,
see what I mean?
Simple,
like slugs fucking;
hardly have to think
about it at all.
That's what I could have been:
a slug, a dog, a whale,
chimp or a wisp
of pollen
in the heated air.
Not at all the rogue,
nor the halfback running
through the field
of broken girls and women.

Now,
unfortunate only for me,
my maleness dangles
like a rope; something
to piss through.
It amuses me
still
to do this; this writing,
this talking, to all
the unseen
who are now breathing
on this page. You
have your own lies
to keep you busy
should you choose to.
You have your own passions
to either cultivate
or long for. They are all
sweet
and delicious ramblings
that take you outdoors
for walks
and talks
and daring confrontations.
My advice to you
is the same I give
to myself:
Dress appropriately,
and don't forget
to take
your
keys.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012