Night Tracker

Last night, after going to my favorite prostitute,

on East 30th St, I stopped by the 24-hour diner on 2nd avenue.

I had a greasy grilled-cheese sandwich

and a side plate of hot French fries with tomato ketchup.

I could still smell the scent of cheap sweet awful sex

on my hands and face as I ate alone.

I had a root beer and had to get a refill.

Then I had a plate of horrible chocolate cake

with chocolate chips on the sides.

and a nice good glass of cold skim milk.

Although I was not allowed to read the paper.

I recalled a bitch calling me a prick earlier that day for nodding my head

and denying her a donation of money for a lie she has created at the

subway station.

Everywhere I look is a couple. A couple here or there.

Persons hugging, female and male or women together or men holding hands.

Park benches filled with kissing couples and copulating in my head and

On my shoulders.

Tell me, if a restaurant only has one couple in it,

is the restaurant bad or is the couple really good?

I realize where my partner is.

Flying on a jet plane the other day I was sitting on the West

So, I can see my sunset.

And the point between the sun setting

and the lightning in the thunder-storm clouds,

Right between the horizon and cloud lines,

That’s where my partner exists

But unfortunately, I’ll never meet them

Maybe lack of effort or seeking or hiding or hunting

But I do fuck my art every day.

Well, what I mean is I make love to it.

I put art first and maybe one day I’ll put my partner first.

Or maybe not.

I called up the suicide hot-line.

The person on the other end of the phone convinced me

that I have things worth living for.

Although the gun in my palms disagrees

So, instead of killing myself, I write this poem about my agony for all of you.

And some of you may think, where does the line of truth begin or end?

And where does the line of lies begin or end?

I was all prepared, I had my list ready, my favorite song was playing, but

instead of picking up a slug, I picked up the phone; are you happy now?

War is something I’ve never been to. But I do create mine daily.

They are driving me nuts. The people, the slow, the computers, the lies,

the advertisements, the fame, the art, the songs, the stench, the poor, the

disease, the love, the acting, the bills, the information, the creation,

the make-believes, the obsessions, the politics, the job, the lack,

I could go on.

Counting bathroom tiles never helped.

Apple juice is all I ever wanted.

The Two-Pupil-Eyed-Man is something that no one will understand,

Although only one person knows about him

And a team knows what he can be.

One time, when I was very young,

I was at the beach, down on the New Jersey shore

(No, I’m not from there, I was born in my city)

Looking over the deep blue ocean, at nighttime

A song came over the outdoor radio of the motel

The yellow gold lights that surrounded the pool

They made it so beautiful

My partner appeared in front of me and then suddenly left.

There once was a partner whom I chased around the playground

I remember her hair and wind perfectly that day.

In nursery school I wore a mustard golden-yellow T-Shirt

It had an iron-on glitter decal with bright colors

It said “Lover Boy”

Interesting, the prostitute said I’m big. How do I know?

I don’t know what big is? Shall I compare it to when I was smaller?

When I was smaller I asked my father to wipe my ass clean of shit because I

didn’t want my hands near that stuff. One time I slid into the bathroom and

my bottom lip fell off and the neighbors heard me screaming on the way to the

hospital. Sometimes, many times, I wish I would go back to the

hospital. So, I can have another break, a few beers when I get out, not

worry about crap and not work. But I wake up every morning just as good, or

bad, as the last. But one morning, you won’t hear from me anymore...

at least for a little while.

Sadness is something we all have.

What has an effect on it?

Art? Music? Film? Literature?

The lack of something or someone?

Relief is something we all have.

It’s amazing to me, that throughout the wars we’ve had.

Like Vietnam and Desert Storm, that both enemies,

they both have to shit and sneeze.

Doesn’t that boggle you?

That they are both human?

Yet they both kill each other?

Both sneeze. Both shit. Both kill.

Some peope say I make run-on poems

I don’t really give a damn

Maybe this isn’t a poem

But a forum of collected or remembered or created thoughts

Or maybe not. Maybe it’s a copyright or a camera up my ass or a forest on

fire or a cement truck implanted on a towering breast or a sex madness

episode or the misunderstanding and perception of feelings, smells, and

tastes of the inner-self?

Again, I called.

I saved.

I have my soundtrack; do you have yours?

© 1999 David Greg Harth

99.08.05.03:33:33 @ 296 New York City

99.08.12.24:17:17 @ 296 New York City

99.08.15.22:00:20 @ 296 New York City

99.08.24.23:25:12 @ 296 New York City

99.09.05.21:25:10 @ 296 New York City

99.11.17.02:09:11 @ 296 New York City

00.02.24.02:15:10 @ 296 New York City