I just heard
\non World News
\nthat Smokin’ Joe
\nhad entered
\nhospice.
\nLiver cancer
\nwill take him
\nout.
\nHow they go,
\nhow they go,
\nall the ones you thought
\nwould never go,
\nbut they do. In this case
\na rogue white cell
\ngot to him; for others
\nit’s simply old age
\nand a natural decay.
\nFor still others
\nit’s a loss
\nof bravery
\nor spirit. Others still
\nfeared a drying up
\nof what made them
\nwho they thought
\nthey were
\nand took
\nan early
\nexit
\nthemselves, like Ernie.
\nNo matter,
\nhow they bought it
\nit cost all of us
\nsomething: a diminishment
\nof a world
\nthat has less and less
\nof stick to the ribs nourishment.
\nIt is all TV now,
\nall scripted.
\nFighters fight
\nonce a year, maybe.
\nPoets are sucked
\ntoward mics;
\nartists, auctions.
\nWhile junkies junk
\nand alchies drink
\nthe sickness spreads
\nto precincts without
\njurisdiction.<\/p>\n
I saw Joe
\nup close once
\nin front of the old
\nAmericana Hotel
\non Seventh Ave.,
\nin the fifties in
\nthe mid-seventies.
\nHe wore a full length
\nwhite mink coat
\nand a black felt pimp’s hat
\nin a pimp neighborhood
\nbefore Disney
\ndestroyed it
\nby making it safe
\nfor fat Minnesota tourists.
\nI saw him fight live
\nfour times–three
\non closed circuit.
\nI rooted against him
\nthe first three
\nand for him
\nat Nassau
\nwhen he fought Foreman.
\nHe came out that last time
\nhooded
\nin white satin.
\nHis head
\nhad soaked
\nin brine,
\nas usual,
\nfor half hour
\nbefore he dressed
\nfor combat.
\nHe danced, he bounced,
\nhe rolled his arms and shoulders,
\ntook off his hood and shone
\nhis stubbly head and face
\nto the crowd. Nobody knew
\nhow much Ali had taken
\nout of him
\nuntil Foreman
\nmarched across the apron
\nand hit him
\nonce
\nand he slid back
\nas if he was sucked
\ninto a black hole
\nand landed against
\nthe ring post and slithered
\nslowly
\ndown
\nlike wet brown cement
\nto the canvass
\nand stayed like that
\nuntil they came for him.<\/p>\n
He tried to fight
\na few more times.
\nAnd lost them all
\nbadly. Even
\nthe crooked doctors
\nwould not sanction him
\nafter those fiascos.
\nHe opened a gym
\nin the poor slum
\nhe came from
\nand slept near
\nthe bags and lineament
\nand the scars and the wins
\nand the cheers
\nand the women
\nand the men
\nand the jewelry
\nand the clothes
\nand the parasites
\nin a tiny room
\nplastered
\nwith fight posters
\nin the back.<\/p>\n
He said he hated Ali
\nbut I don’t think so.
\nThe cruelty, yes;
\nthe stupid humiliation
\nto sell seats, yes.
\nBut not the fights, brother.
\nNot the fights.
\nTo view them is a coward’s sport,
\na spectator’s high.
\nBut to be in them!
\nMy God! To fucking be in them,
\nround after round
\nand know
\nthat nothing else existed
\nexcept death
\nis something most of us,
\nunfortunately,
\nwill live without,
\nnever knowing
\nthat kind
\nof bravery.<\/p>\n
He was broke, of course.
\nBut he had it once:
\nate well, tipped well,
\nmade love
\nto all manner
\nof creatures,
\nslept in beds
\nunder silk
\nand perfumes,
\nand talked talked talked
\nto the shoeshine man
\nand presidents.
\nAnd that beats
\nnot ever having it.
\nAnd so tonight, Joe,
\nas you dine
\non morphine
\ninstead of rare steak,
\nsip tepid water,
\nthrough a bent straw
\ninstead of champagne
\nin a flute,
\nI salute you
\nand those other heavyweight gods
\nwho came before you
\nand the very few
\nwho have yet
\nto arrive.<\/p>\n
Tell Mama<\/strong><\/p>\n \u201cEver tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail Better.”<\/p>\n I’m gonna miss ya mama. I fell for you And through everything, At the end The Bathroom at Slugs<\/strong><\/p>\n in the far east, One night late Lee was on the bandstand After while people started to breathe, some whispered, I don’t know if Lee ever did come back. ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> At the end By Norman Savage.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-51032","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51032","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=51032"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51032\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=51032"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=51032"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=51032"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nI’m gonna miss ya.
\nI’ve always loved whores,
\nthose angels of kindness,
\nthose nighttime angels,
\nand mama,
\nyou were one of the grandest,
\none of the best, in your face whores
\nI’ve ever had the pleasure of tumbling with.
\nYou mighta been born Jamesetta Hawkins,
\nbut Peaches fit
\nfor me and other
\none nighters; you mighta been fathered
\nby a pool stick hustler,
\nbut everyman who ever laid down a bet
\nor grabbed what they could,
\nwhen they could,
\nhad a piece of your action
\nand wanted more–
\ndidn’t matter the odds,
\ndidn’t matter the price,
\ndidn’t matter the cost.<\/p>\n
\nwhen your body
\nshimmied,
\nand when your hair was dyed
\na black rooted whore’s blond,
\nand when it sprouted red,
\nlike a cockscomb,
\nwhen your eyebrows arched
\nand when your lipstick ran
\ninto your mouth’s cauldron;
\nI loved you when your tits were giving
\nand when your thighs and ass
\nturned as big and thick
\nas a Montana mule’s.<\/p>\n
\nyou felt the painfulness of the air
\nrubbing against your skin
\nand made that sing, too.
\nI know nothing
\nmade sense
\nunless you were singing
\nand sometimes
\nnot even then.
\nThere was drink
\nof course
\nand there were men
\nto get you through,
\nbut never enough
\nand never for long:
\ndrink took too much out,
\nand men took too long
\nto come
\nand go.
\nThe ones you wanted
\nto stay
\nnever did
\nfor long, but you knew
\nthat no one
\ncan ever stay
\nthat long. At some point,
\nthe point that rusted
\nin part of your heart,
\nyou didn’t know who
\nyou were fucking
\nor why. But then, by then,
\nit was survival
\nnothing else. And it was time,
\nthe time eaten up
\nbetween shots
\nuntil forgetting
\nwas not even an option.
\nYour arms became
\nscarred and your hands
\nblew-up and swelled
\nwhen you missed
\na vein.
\nBut that was all right,
\nwith you, too. By then falling
\nwas welcomed
\nas much as flying was.
\nEach offered a different repetition
\nof repetition; breath
\nof another beat.
\nYou fell
\nand got up,
\nand fell some more.
\nAnd landed better.
\nYou were Beckett’s queen:
\nperfumed, dolled-up,
\nregal.<\/p>\n
\nyou didn’t know
\nwho you were
\nor where you were,
\nand that
\nwas a good thing.
\nThough
\nwho could be sure
\nof such things?
\nThis country
\nand this life
\nmakes fools of us all.
\nBut even most of us fools
\nknew the wrong star shone
\nInauguration night
\nand starting tonight
\nwill not come out
\nagain.<\/p>\n
\non third, between B&C
\nwas hot. It was over forty years ago
\nwhen even taking a piss in there
\nfucked with your imagination. It smelled
\nof sex, quinine, morphine, reefer, body odor
\nand wastes. Before sets, in between, and after
\nthere were lines to get in: singles, often times couples
\nof the same or different orientation.
\nThere was a kind of understanding: sometimes it took longer
\nto get hard, or find a vein,
\nor role and fumble with a stick, and so you waited.
\nThe ones with priority were the musicians. They needed
\nto do their business and get the hell back. Besides,
\nin truth, that’s why most of came to Slugs
\nin the far east village. The other joints
\nwhere cats could work ideas into riffs
\nfor weeks or a month or two at a time,
\nlike The Five Spot or Half-Note,
\nwere already dead and gone.<\/p>\n
\nblowing hard
\nsweating into the collar of a stained white shirt,
\npin-pricks of dried blood
\nin the crook of his arm
\nwhen his common law entered. She walked up,
\nopened her purse,
\ntook a gun out,
\nand shot him dead
\nduring his solo.
\nShe turned, walked calmly back to the bar
\nand placed a revolver on pock-marked wood
\nand ordered a drink–scotch, I think. And waited.
\nFrankie, the bartender, served her without saying a word.<\/p>\n
\nand others went back to the bathroom.
\n\u201cThat no good motherfucka sonofabitch deserved that killin,”
\nan older chick nearby me said,
\n\u201cthat junkie bastard usin her bread for his vein was bad enough,
\nbut his bitch’s vein too, that’s even worser…
\nsomeday he be back though, hope he learned
\nhis motherfuckin lesson.”
\nThe ambulance came, and so did the cops.
\nThey took out one living and one dead;
\nwhich was which I couldn’t say.<\/p>\n
\nBut this I know:
\nmen will be men,
\nand women women;
\nthat is the task,
\nand that, my friends,
\nis the terror.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/IMG_0439_edited-1-233x300.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nNorman Savage<\/strong> has lived a life of madness and mayhem. He grew up in Coney Island and has been living in Greenwich Village most of his life. He’s had diabetes for 50 years and has been addicted to one substance or another for 45 of those years. It has been a beautifully joyful and painful schizophrenic ride: drugs, booze, women, music, and writing. His poems try to come to grips with all of his fractures and contains everything–even you. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/IMG_0439_edited-1-420x179.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nyou didn’t know
\nwho you were
\nor where you were,
\nand that
\nwas a good thing.
\nThough
\nwho could be sure
\nof such things?
\nThis country
\nand this life
\nmakes fools of us all.
\nBut even most of us fools
\nknew the wrong star shone
\nInauguration night
\nand starting tonight
\nwill not come out
\nagain.<\/p>\n