DOCTOR'S ORDERS

I was overdue
to see my endocrinologist
and wasn't feeling well,
so I set-up a visit.
After checking my vitals,
we sat down to talk.
You look well,
he said,
but a tan covers many things.
We'd been doctor/patient
for many years
and usually spoke
about what aging men speak about:
pussy, growing old, and death.
He had me by ten years
and so was closer
to the aging and death part,
but was so gentle and funny
it made me feel further away
from those processes.
Tell me,
he continued,
what you've been eating?
He stopped me
after the third item.
What was that
again? he asked.
I repeated the name
of the woman.
Oh, her,
he began. Don't
eat that--she's
sugar coated
with an inside
of arsenic.
Really,
I replied. Damn.
You know that, he said,
sounding a little pissed,
most of the good fucks are.
I know it's easy
for me to say,
but just stop it; don't
do it. I want
to see you in a month.

I walked out of his office,
lit a smoke,
and made my way
home. I'm going to live,
I said to myself.
But no one
would be
very happy
about that.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

ONE FOR MY OL' MAN, BIG MICK

"Norm,"
he said to me once
when I was quite young,
"those 'short hairs'
on a woman's pussy
are stronger
than the cables
that hold up bridges."
I laughed.
I'd been fucking
by then
anytime I could
(of course)
but was still sixteen
or so.
He said this to me
in the presence
of a wise guy
friend of his
in some Canarsie lounge
in Brooklyn
in the sixties.
The wise guy
shook his head
in agreement,
drew on his Camel,
and snickered as well.
They knew
something
I didn't.

Until now.

I never knew
or felt
that kind of love
from my side
of the fence;
never knew
the pull,
the draw,
the obsession,
or strength.
Never knew
how powerful
a thing
one woman's pussy
could be.

Until now.

It's a mighty thing.
A miserable cunt
of a thing.
A Bermuda Triangle
of pain.

Sure,
I thought I was in love
many times before;
and sure,
it didn't work;
and sure,
there was a hangover
for however long there was--
but they passed
--sometimes like piss
and sometimes like a kidney stone,
but they passed.

This one,
has sealed all the doors,
and fires back.


It's good to know
I'm just
one of the guys.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

THE POPE DOES RIO

His Holiness came
to the beaches
of Rio
and the favelas
too. He touched
us all,
especially me,
when he put his holy hand
on my sinner's head
while my daughter
gave a blowjob
in the other room
to a man
she doesn't
know, while
two of his friends
waited.

I felt
truly blessed.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

POOR FELIX

The Betty Poems

must be terribly confused:
recently bitten
by a fellow canine
his dog walker walks,
he took
twenty stitches in his leg;
then Felix was kicked
in his chest
by one who he loves
and professes to love him
for being
a dog
and now
has to wear a megaphone
like funnel
which is meant
to prevent him
from biting the shit
out of the stitches
that itches
him to madness.
To suffer all this
on top of the past few weeks
being forced
at his own home
to deal with
and adjust
to a demented, yapping,
incontinent,
pipsqueak
chihuahua.

If there's an ounce of mercy
in your veins, mom,
cook him a steak tonight,
and then get him laid
with the finest
bitch in town.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

TRAYVON MARTIN & ALL US NIGGERS

Yeah,
you heard right:
we all niggers.
Everyone who has to get up
every mornin,
put on some black face
and do some mindless
fuckin shit
just to pay rent
are niggers.
Even the niggers
who dance
on basketball courts,
the quote unquote "gridiron",
the jeweled green
of baseball pastures,
are niggers entertaining
all the rest of us
to sell us a beer
another car
hemorrhoid tolerance,
chicks
who we'll
never get
and never
got. Just so
we can drag our ass
into work the next day
and wonder where
the time went.
They have this figured out:
they pay us just enough
so we have to show-up
on Monday.
We know this.
We know this country's
racist: big fuckin deal?

There is no more Martha
and The Vandellas. No more
dancin in the streets. In fact,
no more Motor City. No more Newark.
Even New York is pretty,
dignified, safe
for all the corporate hustle.
The avant-garde's gum'
are bleeding; all the teeth
have been shaken loose
and lie like pebbles
in God's rectum.
The gears are oiled
the commerce continues
with no one to fall
on the machinery.
We are
a tame lot.
The preachers
have been bought; their
protests are funded
by the people protested
against. It is all
one big circle jerk
and it's our dicks
getting pulled.

I humbly suggest
that the Jordans,
the Kobes, the Riveras,
the James', the C.C's,
the Jeters, the Denzels,
the Spikes, the Lee's,
the Smiths, the Berry's,
who have squirreled away
millions walk
the fuck off the field,
the court, the stage,
and not sell another
motherfuckin thing.
The only thing this cunt of a country knows
is money and how to fuck for it.
They have to feel it
to believe it.
If they don't
don't wear
hoodies and walk
as if you mean it.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

MY GIRL, BETTY, & INDEPENDENCE DAY

The Betty Poems

I'm glad
that my girl
is a pain in the ass.
I'm sure
that I give her the same pain
in her ass as well.

I'm free
of nearly every
addiction
except her.
I'm a slave
who wants to stay
on this plantation
of crazy love
and I hope
I haunt
each and every breath
she takes.

Who'd want to be free
when this feels
so fuckin good?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013

I'M JEALOUS

The Betty Poems

of everything
and everyone
except myself;
and everything
and everyone
is jealous of me;
that is how it works
or doesn't.
We desire
every absence
in ourselves
as if
that would bring us nearer
to completion
only to find
a sponginess
and air pockets
in our souls.

I see an ugly man
walking with a hideous woman.
They seem to be
at peace
although I know
their peace
is only temporary.
And their fights
would bring us
to our knees
as it does them.
It makes me think
of my girl,
up in Toronto, safe
from my mania
and keeps me safe
from hers. Yet,
I miss her terribly.
Her touch,
her look,
her smell,
even of combat--
perhaps especially
of combat--
has me longing
for the ring
of combat
under the white hot lights
of conflict
where the mind
and hearts of men
were meant to exist.
She has brought me
that love
again.
It is within that
that love exists
where love retreats
into the madness
we were born with
and that few
remain attached to.

Suddenly,
that couple
of human beasts
became beautiful
and the stars came out
and aligned.
But I'm still jealous
even after
such silly profundities
like the writing
of this poem.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013