235
A man without an ear
Was photographing my face
His left ear was bandaged
With ivory white gauze
And no trickles of blood
His flash would go off
Replicating my self
My features
My ears
He was an elder man
With greying hairs
And an aged-wisdom look
Dressed in slacks of burnt sienna
And a light weight top
Photographing me
...As if I was unaware of the events
...The past
At 235 he got Brazilian
At 130 a break from the day
He got kisses and luxury cigar smoking ladies
At 235 he was half-a-man
At 130 a traffic light shadow
A Van Gough look-a-like
Amusing himself to death
Around central neon
And upward steps
Laughter paid
The illegals scattered
The reggae made old stiff
And young, younger
At 235 he was sorry
At 130 better
© 1998 David Greg Harth
1998.08.09.00:00:00@FrontSt/WhiteSands Bermuda
11 (Version #2)
Eleven
She tells me
She enlightens me
Leans over me
Eleven
I hardly knew you
But now we are packaged
Like frozen dinners
Eleven
I never thought of you as a figure
I painted you in my sketch book
I’m only a corpse now
Eleven
You are on my tombstone
Two erect Ones
One beside each other
Eleven
On a football jersey
On an elephant’s back
Who has been faithful
one hundred percent
Eleven
Because its dark in this night
Because I’m a sentimental
Because I count the tiles down the wall
Because I cry myself to sleep
Because no one knows the pain of the twelves
Eleven
Because you are an escape from locks
Eleven
Because you are a test
Eleven
Because you are red and blue
Eleven
Because you are dead
Eleven
Because I hate you
Eleven
Because I overcame you
Eleven
Because you beat me
Eleven
Because you are the jungle in my nightmare
Eleven
Because you last for months
Eleven
Because they have no idea who I am
Eleven
Because I watch you go around in circles
Eleven
Because I want to be with you
Eleven
Because I know you through
Picture books
And Holy flowers
And table pieces
Through television
And undeclared magazine subscriptions
Twelve
Because you are me
Because you were my life
Because they know me there
Because they feed on me there
Because you were there
Because I was shot there
Because I met you there
Because I ate sweet bananas there
Twelve
Because of the view
Because of the time
Because of the water fountains
Because of the mystery
Because of the lost
Twelve
Because of the dozen
Because of the meal
Because of the day
Because of my sisters
Because of my brothers
And the pancakes they slapped each other with
And the pancakes they cracked skulls with
And the help they have given
On dark wintery nights
Eleven
Because you said so
Because it’s true
Because it’s me
Because that’s the way things are
As I crawl up into a ball
And wish for a tap
For a rest
That you and you and you
All understand
Eleven because at eleven times
twice and no one called plus one
No one gave a shit
A flying fuck
You didn’t even know
In fact
No one knew
Except the lamppost
That groped my leg
In my crossing dream
Eleven because you didn’t know
Nor care
perhaps
Twelve because you fucked me up the ass
And made me art and poetry
And that painful word that penetrates my world
You’ll never find it here today
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.07.27.23:42:00@NJ07430
458 (Found Poem)
blue eyes from the west
meet blue eyes from the east
she: olive skin
he: ghost from beneath
a thank you
a penetration
a no “please” on the ra-dio
smooth reaches
navel galore
experience truth, “A”
let the artist inside
and he may never come out
let the artist inside
and one day, I will dive
you reached an ocean
i took the lead
you felt the motion
I conquered the colors
crystal blue
round and yours
the touch, the feel, holy inside
the secrets, the fantasies
a division of society
sheets make a boundary
a simple hello
an intense hug
beauty surrounds
that glow within
from far they come
and to be with them
a wish from below
and above
a journey of no other
a complex wonder
desire
the sensual
the enriched
the lasting
from day to day
a thought behind
baby eyes
eyebrows to die for
every curve
every inch
heat sensitive
and a cool breeze
superior
exterior
no justification
just an imagination
outside or
inside
over and out
i am about
feel the time
hold it
grasp it
capture it
then and only then
ask yourself
deep down inside
why?
or why not?
wise, very wise
talk
and today
see a new red shape
© 1998 David Greg Harth
97.09.10.00:00:00@NYC
98.07.10.00:00:00@NYC
021-1670/18.99
1410
Kissing at 4th
Candy given
Chocolate given
0018
Served me
But did not wait for me
1219
Baked
Cooked
Wed
In the heart
Forgotten
0402
Wanted me
Sliced
1310
I fucked up
At least I thought
And every time I remember
0203
Never will I ever
Chugging along
Making it
Nature
0003
Where
Shove my tongue
Down that throat
0310
Pouring gasoline
Most fun I had
Burned soul
And frightened ass
I tattooed the smoker’s grave!
1118
Knowledge
Figure it
1813
Shave me
For I hardly knew
But I was hard
As I mounted numbers
0301
Fucked thrice
Thrived on my thirst
Bought me
And I gave it
Gone
0910
It’s a game
Desire my lust?
0105
It’s a game
Desire my lust?
1920
All I can do is think
And recall
And the donation of the fucker
1802
Gotta love it
Going down on me
Like a fluttering bee
0320
Wish it was
Next to me
Beside me
Hugging
0010
I don’t know
Hidden behind paint
Get to know anatomy
It’s the future
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.07.09.23:00:59@NYCNJ
220 sandwet
I was at your doorstep
With a semi-automatic
Ready to kill
Make your teeth bleed
You told me wrong
A lie
And now you must pay
For you have created time
An erotic porn star
In the doorway frame
Standing like an old fashion whore
From out west no where
You always make me weak
But every time I come back to fight
With strength so strong
Of raging black bulls
I’ve been to different countries
And fucked you everywhere
You wait on me and stare at me
You charge me and change me
A glowing business man waits
Your pinks, purples and blues
I think it’s time to change
The rules
I ask to photograph
Your pregnancy
Your fat belly
And large milk nipples
Talking drunk to me
Flirting with your eyes
Exploring art with me
Reading East books
Like a 76 deck
I watch you burn
You crumble and fall
And expect me to pick you up!?
No. Not me.
I’ll leave you for the vultures
For the pretty salt ones at sea
I’ll leave you for the celebrations
And the church worshipping beggars
I was at your doorstep
With a dozen flowers in hand
You slammed the door in my face
And now you ask me
Why I have your lover’s hand?
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.06.24.24:29:33@NYC10036->NJ07430
42nd street
I used to walk those days
passing the whores
the drugs
the sexy stores
see the lights
flashing arrows
light up the sky
hot pink, bright yellow,
neon green and orange too
smell of sweetness in the air
weed on the side
black man white man
inside out
girls in heels
knee high boots
mini skirts
cheeks seen
feathers around necks
stocking covered long legs
I used to walk those streets
filled with motion
and sperm lotion
with chaos and nudity
pornography
and money money money
twenty-five cents
televisions
I have 125 stations
it’s time to go back to join other creations
prostitutes
no institute for freedom
where the men all go
to dance and prey
where the men all rape
the young of their innocence
the children still cry
for cigarette butts
was inspiration
for artists and poets
musicians too
for films and movies
and womyn too
Now it’s no more lust
but falling dust
demolition
to create a new political nation
filled with children
not selling
but buying
mickey mouse
and donald duck
theatres and candies
no more sluts
Now its towers of products
no more vibrations
just new fun
no more poetry
no more art
that is dead
instead,
corporate business
making a buck
instead of a fuck
Now it’s no strip
for the men who tip
it’s just a collection
and only a few
stand at 42nd and 8th
offer me a smoke
or a blow
but don’t ever
ever
offer me disney again
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.10.16.18:46:00@505MAHWAH
3 AM
It’s 3am
Outside
the rain pours
I wonder what you wear
in your midnight sleep
I wonder what you are dreaming of
tonight
and tomorrow
I think about you
what you look like
who are you
I ponder the wonderful things
the bonds, the poetry, the art
and the darkness
I hope for truth
a belief
maybe a dance in this rain
a naked rain
Outside
the rain comes down
continues to flow
down the window pane
I hope to be in the nude one day
when one paints a picture
of me today
I wonder how you sleep
curled up
on your stomach
or on your back
in the heat
or no covers above
I wonder how the moonlight
shines in your room
reflects across your bed
your face
your glorious breasts
I wonder if the rain will end
so, the black sky will be quiet
so, I can lean over
and
at 3am
whisper into your ear
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.10.15.02:54:14@NYC
0-72457 AUXILIARY
Nancy Rubins must be laughing
Her viewers explore and walk around her.
Looks of shock, disgust, and confusion are written on their faces.
Some get close, some do not.
Some talk, some do not.
Is it right? Or is it wrong? They argue.
Is it art? Or is it junk? They continue.
Open mouthed viewers look at Rubins’ detail.
Close up, or far away.
No viewers interfere with other viewers or Rubins.
They stand alone, or they stand with others.
They do not take up your room, or my room.
Some point, some tilt their heads, some read.
The guard wipes his sweat off.
Couples go on.
0-72457 Auxiliary.
Rubins’ old jet.
Rubins’ old crap.
Rubins’ space on the first floor of MOMA.
Rubin is in my room.
I am in Rubins’ room.
Her viewers are in her room.
The guard wipes his sweat off.
No one touches.
No one speaks aloud.
Discussions and arguments can be heard.
I am sure Rubins is laughing.
Rubins has no sweat, just bread.
The guard is hungry; he sweats.
Tourists, students, professionals, observers.
All of them are present, but none interfere.
Quietness.
Dirt in the metal do not make a sound.
I can hear the echo of flight.
No one here is flying.
Only the guard sweats.
We all stand to look.
I am sure we all wonder why we cannot sit.
Why can’t we touch?
Why can’t we talk aloud?
I am sure we obey the rules of the current society.
I am sure we question them.
Rubins’ art questions them.
The guard does not.
New viewers roll in.
New viewers follow the old viewers’ patterns.
The guard is still sweating.
I wish I could meet the “First Officer.”
Does anyone else fly?
Spring 1995
© David Greg Harth 1995