The Wall Street Journal
Coronary House
American Regulators
Think Wider
It’s GM Global
Introducing
Turn How
Well Will
I ©
Inflammation As
The Money
A Change
U.S. If
Senate A
A Introducing
Vote Death
Unlike Corporate
This The
Calvin Aetna
Trade Football
Datek’s Is
Technology The
Gambits The
Geocast Picture
AT&T This
Yahoo! To
I World
This This
Coke Quotations
Continued This
Continued This
Continued Quotations
Continued 52
Credit In
Continued Wednesday
European Dollar
Wednesday Hog
Composite Foreigners
Wednesday Name
Name Pimco
Introducing
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.10.07.17:12:43@1515 NYC
99.10.08.09:11:59@296 NYC
Run
Come, we have to clean the house. The television set is dusty and filthy and the flies are sipping at the spoiled milk. The milk carton unfolded on the kitchen sink. I smacked one fly by the mirror in the bathroom. We have to clean all those toothpaste marks on the chrome sink and spout and the K-Y Jelly stains on my bed sheets.
No, John, he never made it through puberty. He still goes to his shrine at home and masturbates to the playboy magazines and gives himself sugar disease. He is sad. No, John, you cannot go to the nurse.
Why must I peel away my skin and show you my cleverness or sadness or holiness or calmness or secrets or desires or falsifications or horrors? Why should I open the door and be a fool and dig you a hole in my garden?
I’ve got a ton of chores to do but haven’t been paid my allowance. Swimming in the water pool and bands from Australia play on the outdoor radio. I’m in shades, but not myself today. See my reflection in my glasses and smell the hot dogs and pure beef burgers on the grill. We sat on the bench with the peeling and chipped red paint. The old rain-soaked wood bearing through and sticking to my legs. The brook aside trickles underground to where our gang spray painted on the walls of the tunnel of love. That dog used to bark at us all the time and one time I ran and ran and my head bled and gushed my hands covered in burnt blood dry and thick. But now I’m afloat, adrift in chlorine feeling the heat, but not myself. Not today, maybe tomorrow, lets play catch, I’ve heard that tune, but not that tone now forever now always.
The photographs are lovely. Pornography. Every word, or association. Yes, I belong to the club. Did you see that comedian? He wouldn’t sign. No religion? And no war?
He drove us to see Egg Bert in his old dark green Nova. She with her blond hair, I’ve got my blue eyes from her. I once locked the door and cried but Scooby Doo and my fruit roll-ups after school always soothed the sadness of Lalla and Jocelyn that never formed. She and I always sled together and had Dad build igloos for us. I never got to drive the Volvo or the orange Vega. I’ve seen the Volvo, now and again, it sounds like a television show. Perhaps that one that is all dusty and filthy.
One more, I turned around, tickled, I kicked his ass, I loved it from her. She can tickle me over and over and over again. We smiled, held, the mirror knew. Too bad I couldn’t fit or be or even draw or tell hot from cold I knew the yellow-eyed loved. Black and white view was the best, even climbed, never failed and always slept. I hope he dies in my arms and not yours, beast.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.09.23.02:28:39 @ 296 New York City
99.09.29.24:17:35 @ 296 New York City
Crush
crush oranges
crush lemons
crush bug
crush car
crush eyes
crush hush
crush push
crush banana pancakes
crush streets
crush my footprints
crush in the doorway
crush on the floor
crush in my pants
crush outdoors
crush in the snow
crush down below
crush last night
crush just right
crush ice
crush dump
crush memory
crush hand holding
crush eye glancing
crush cold wind
crush warm fire
crush hug
crush kitten
crush ropes
crush tears
crush bird
crush drink
crush fag
crush sweater
crush ache
crush tomorrow
crush music
crush writings
crush smile
crush flower
crush photographs
crushed.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.09.23.02:33:42 @ 296 New York City
99.09.25.20:12:41 @ 296 New York City
Black Eyes
Stare into my black eyes
And see nothing
But the distance between Heaven and Hell
Cycle through and travel
In the cold stone
Bloodless
Heartless
Concrete construction
Oval
Stare into my black eyes
Do I remind you of someone?
Or something?
Grab a hold
Watch my wings part and soar
Now I look upon you with fire behind me
And depths all around
Stare into my black eyes
Become a scared rat and run
Watch me step on your tail and make you suffer
Eat your mother’s feces on your child’s lap
And drown in your lover’s urine and spit
As the earth ignites in blue flame
Stare into my black eyes
Search for the emptiness
Pray to your believer
Take your garlic and cross and wooden stake
Your manuals and books and written words
Your theatre and paintings and tongues
Twist them around and carry them off
Stare into my black eyes
My eyes will bite at your heart
And steal your soul and spirit and faith
Hold my hand
As your eyes become black as mine
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.09.20.03:51:32 @ 296
New York City
Expensive Rolling
Hard headed
A toilet surface
Sweat thrown onto me
Like gravel and pebbles sticking to my back
Cold ears never hear what I have to say
Never listen
Only flood to the dimple in your chin
Wind of nakedness
Giving you my rights
Justice never served
You told me to phone you if it was illegal
I will see you Monday
Bald spitting head
Tough guy
In hospital shorts
Not right now?
I saw you on the cover of that magazine
No kidding
Surface & Wallpaper for Furniture
How is your girlfriend?
Good
Really?
Take off your leather pants
He wasn’t feeling well
Cereal wet-ones
A lawyer in a tie
I’ve broken my toe
Split ends
Now my eyes are open
Wont someone please help me?
They said he would be killed
Killer Mosquitos
Cab ride
And I breathe
I’m paying my bills now
Please leave me alone
Downtown
Freshness
Newspaper seeds and dirt
Leftover panties stained from last night
Unlocked keys and rubber bands
Full and complete
Sitars
Posted
Simon says
Chicken Geek
Circus Freak
Sugar Rush
Complete Blush
Pencil Stick
Lollipop Lick
Simon says
See you Jack
Out back
Forgotten
Squeezed
Brutal disease
Bag-piper
Bug in the mashed potatoes
Smothered
Drowned
Happy New Year
Happy Birth Day
Timing is perfect
Bob Dylan is on Bleecker Street
I’m not religious
Hash brown
Sausage
Eggs and Bacon strips
I’m huddled nude
In my fetal position
I lay still for minutes and minutes
You have punctured my life
You have not listened
Ouch
I’ll take a shower
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.09.18.08:22:37 @ 296
The Sound Of Silence
Deaf
I hear nothing
Silence
She made me keep quiet
An orchestra of violins
And ultramarine hues
Asian sun
Humid air over my two moons rising
The ocean steps foward on white sands
Three times I called out
No return, no echo
Shaved myself clean today
No stubble on my jaw
No under arm hair or eyebrow hair
Just an empty road taken alone
Curving and bending
Oncoming cars and hotel tips
My army shirt
Afternoon tea and biscuits
She made me deaf
I drown in the pools of my tears
They swallow my body and shadow
And I sink to the bottom of the dark blue
In the coldness of silence
As Iπm kneeling down infront
I hear an angels voice calling my name
Breathing in the ebony air
Wrap my arms around empty self
My tears of salt and past drop to the floor
The aged wooden floor absorbs my history
And the dreams of fallen teeth
Fly up to the windows from beneath my stained self
I hear nothing
The thoughts in my head
Yells from my father and mother
Wind birds on my shoulder
The silence now buried
And you can kiss the air and taste the scent
Chisel my name into your stone heart and memory
Always remember that I cared you
© 1999 David Greg Harth
1999.09.03.24:13:25 @ 296 and 1999.09.05.23:56:12 @ 296
Wholesale Limited Edition
Limited Edition
Signed and Numbered
Special Series
Autographed
1 for 1
Make a buck
Prints
Limited Edition
One time only
Unique opportunity
Great cause
Super deal
Intense Art
Limited Edition
Please send check, money order, or cash
In the amount of $25.00 to:
David Greg Harth
PO BOX 7786
New York NY
10001
USA
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.09.02.02:24:07 @ 296
Flies
I come home nightly
To strip to my cold nakedness
And run around in my baby skin
My smelly sweat attraction
And roll up my current fall issue
Of New York magazine
Curl it up into a bat
And swing at the iridescent
Buzzing-by larva laying
Disease infecting mother fucka
Flies
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.8.30.01:27:17@NYC 296
Grey Hair (Orange Juice & Coffee)
We took the sour Orange Juice together
soaked in the wetness of health
and had a delightful toast
She massaged my back and that was that
Like dead animals living
flesh eating flesh
She quivered in her own cum
She used salt chalk for make up
Q-tips until her ears bled
brushed her teeth until gums bled
choked on her tears
He laughed and laughed with me
We ate sweet bananas together
And laughed at the fat laugher and the tall guy
That guy was really tall and skinny and always shook
He did the Thorazine shuffle
Wish I was in the Day.
She really knows how to burn a friendship
and scatter the ashes
across the plains of death
I wonder if she will tuck me in at night
Read me a bedtime story
Knowing I cannot respond
or remember her name?
I got dressed up in my tuxedo
We wined and dined and she did her usual grind
We had a ball, a grand all time
but it wasn’t her who I wanted
All these years
I wait and wait,
search and search
I see her reflection
her dirty ragged old hair
her aged skin with valleys of wrinkles
Liver spots and dead skin drifting to the floor
I comb her thick hair and hold her fragile hand
We talk for lasting hours into the night
I learn about her two sons and her daughter
The life she had in the vivid colors of greens and blues
Tomorrow a new day
it’s today
to see my friend, I dive the traffic
and I find her dead
Her silver hair
She gave me ten-dollar bill in my hands
I never said thankyou
It rained down
Oil upon my face
I go outside
Rub chalk on my face
and wash up
brush my teeth
and discover my feet under the covers
You know I did wrong
but I only sang the song I knew
and now my hair is grey.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.08.25.24:08:13 @ 296 NYC
99.08.27.08:58:09 @ 296 NYC
Leo
Leo
I’ve never met you
You’ve left before a new discovery
You lion, you
Leo
My sign is cancer
A disease I hope I did not end you
Did you get my invite?
Leo
No bible tonight
No 72nd or lower down under
Make me a star
Leo
Your aging face
And little ones up there
It’s nice to be the singing song
I’ll never forget
The name plate I have written
Leo
Father
Art of the man
Should have bumped into you then
Was born too late
Perhaps too early
But now I’ve got Nine
And Nine more coming
Leo
I never saw your shadow
Or heard your footsteps on wood
I never sold you a painting
Or complained once or twice
Leo
For you
I make art
Tonight
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.08.24.23:45:34@296 New York City
In Memory Of Leo Castelli
Love (Version #02)
Fist
Concrete
Fist
Steel
Fist
Glass
Fist
Tar
Fist
Iron
Fist
Bark
Fist
Moat
Fist
Barbed Wire
Fist
Stone
Fist
Truth
Fist
Lies
Fist
Promises
Fist
Apologies
Fist
Looks
Fist
Warmth
Fist
Birth
Fist
Opera
Fist
The Book
Fist
Mind
Fist
Beauty
Fist
Navel
Fist
Eyebrows
Fist
Eyes
Fist
Lips
Fist
Breasts
Fist
Ass
Fist
Legs
Fist
Communication
Fist
Sharing
Fist
Caring
Fist
Welcoming
Fist
Cradling
Fist
Singing
Fist
Aging
Fist
Sleeping
Fist
Thinking
Fist
Broken
Fist
Chained
Fist
Bound
Fist
Lost
Fist
Hurt
Fist
Fuck
Fist
Art
Fist
Her
Fist
Fist
© 1999 David Greg Harth
1999.08.21.03:13:13 @ F to Broadway & 296 New York City
The Bag Of Shit Side Step
I woke up this morning
In a pool of my salty tears
From now on I will cry
Yet I realize why I have my rules
And why I follow them
Because every single time I fall
I fall into the darkness of emptiness
Where people shed their true skin
And expose their evil intentions and unwarming heart
Once again, perhaps I could have stepped into a bag of shit
But before I could try I got pushed into the darkness
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.08.17.23:27:40 @ 296 New York City
Wolf’s Flu
She asked me, “Would you like some more?”
I said “Yes please.”
Overhead, on the radio, I could hear what seemed to be the Talking Heads
We had a conversation, about the songs that related to every woman I dated
or was involved with. It’s weird, we both realized, ... it was a hot summer
night.
Am I right or wrong? My god, what have I done?
Nowadays it’s no more 12 cups of coffee with 4 sugar and 2 sweet n’ low per cup.
Now I take it black, strong, thick.
It was a conversation unrealistic. I only spoke to her once. When she was
in California and I was in New York. We’ve exchanged before but not like
this. It was just grand. I recall my High School English professor using
that word.
Today I put on a suit and tie and got myself a new job.
In a way it’s kind of horrible, I have to ‘dress up’ now when I goto work.
Some days are better than others.
And, If I want to be free, I’ll be free.
It’s in my head.
She rolled over, next to the ice cold glass of water.
She was in white, the drapes moved with the wind from the open window.
Far in the back we heard the rumble of a stock train going by.
This is where we were that day.
Pittsburgh
Later I met with Paul and Andy and Myself.
I wish I had some tongues with me.
One summer I would drive my car on errands for my gay boss.
I would drive up the New York State Thruway and get off.
That summer I listened to two songs over and over again, and one tape.
She made me a turkey sandwich; He knew something was up.
My grandmother, on my mother’s side, she would make this potted chicken
dish stew thing.
I, pretty much hated it. But I really did dig the potatoes and carrots in
the stew.
If I’m out in the sun too long, I get an awful sunburn.
Who wants to go walk on a nude beach?
I was walking home the other day, just after a thunderstorm.
The sky was so incredible. The sunset was just over the clouds, but hiding.
The sky was pink and the light reflected all over me and on the streets and
buildings and people and taxi cabs, gosh I wish I could replicate that
beauty ... in a painting or photograph... But It will have to last in my
head. As long as I can take it.
So, like I said, I’ll bring down the government walls.
I finished, and asked her for the check.
I told her “Have a good night.”
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.08.13.24:07:19 @ 296 New York City
Woman In Blue
The woman in blue
My Azul
From Argentina
Showing her belly button
Her smiling lips
Her beauty bending
Few words spoken
Glances from chairs
I wish I knew her name
I wish I knew her name
She sat just a few chairs away
Just before we exchanged questions and answers
She would look back at me
I would look at her
Glancing her up and down
Following her contour
Her bare feet
And black low cut pants
Up upon her waist and her tight piercing-blue top
The curves of her breasts to her neck
And her rose lips and great baby brown eyes
Imagined the love we could make
She was, a guess, about thirty-four or five
Beautiful from the Southern Sea
All we did for the rest of the evening
Was glance at each other
Not speaking a word
Only exchanging smiles of wonder and understanding
And appreciation for the photographic memories
Woman In Blue
I wish I got to know you
Your aging hands and palms and ringless heart
Woman In Blue
I might bump into you and grind away at what makes you tick
Through our connection of wires that brought us together
I’ll see you later
Hopefully at Two
Tonight, I’ll dream of Blue
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.08.09.24:12:12 @ 296
99.08.12.24:12:12 @ 296
99.08.12.23:19:38 @ 296
New York City
Mass gun killings, they’re not just for kids anymore
Mass gun killings, they’re not just for kids anymore
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.08.11.23:18:52 @ 296
New York City
with direct inspiration from H. Wagner
JFK
USS Grasp won’t lift me out of the sea
The United States Citizens won’t pay to fly my father via helicopter
to my crash site out in the ocean bed
At least now I know there is a big loft available in Tribeca
I could be doing lots of art there, and not be just a rich folk
How come I’m not famous?
Because my father didn’t die?
Because my father didn’t work for the government?
Maybe my father did more, if he saved one person from suicide, does that
make him famous? A hero?
Would you dive for me?
Would you dive for my dead father?
And his airplane?
Would the President give a damn?
Will Newspapers cover my death or will I be buried in lonesome without
public knowledge?
Will a Coast Guard ship ferry my father out to see my dead plane?
Will England and Australia and Japan write about my disappearance in the sea?
Why is it appropriate for the Navy to find them?
Aren’t we all equal? all human? Isn’t there an Amendment?
If I contribute the birth of a child or a smile, is that not enough to save
my life?
Or now, my taxes, my money, must pay for the salvage of three I never knew?
I know what really happened, you see...
It was just a little Orgy.
You know the car fun, why not airplane fun?
JFK’s wife was going down on him, giving head, on that airplane, now there dead.
Her sister got hot, and her panties, damn wet - before you know it, the
windows were foggy
and wha-la! JFK was going speedy, and kaboom! (remember that cereal?)
All right, you may be disgusted, but we all know what happened.
It was a double murder-suicide.
You see - JFK was smackin’ around his bitch. The bitch’s sister interfered.
JFK lost his cool and punched her in the face and pushed and pushed and now
she’s gone without a trace; he pushed her out of the plane
JFK knows he done wrong - so now he must beat his bitch out of the plane too
He beat and beat and killed two - that’s a double murder on his plate - what
to do?
He didn’t want fame nor George nor boats nor airports nor common sense,
murder just led him to heaven,
so, he committed suicide after a double Dutch!
And now i buy the papers, it’s what we call art,
or I use for kitty litter and abbey road junior can make a piss on.
How can you say, that the Kennedy family contributed more than the Harth family?
And this justifies why I spent my tax dollars on a man I never gave a damn
about?
I would never get the USS Briscoe out to sea for my commitment
Now I have to go home and take a JFK Jr highway home or bridge over waters?
And later plan my schedule to go around blocked streets because I’m paying
for the President to come to town to pay respect. Fuck that, It’s a free
world, let me walk on the street, or If I do, I’ll be arrested?
I went on the online auctions today
Did you see them?
You can get the first issue of GEORGE magazine for currently $150
You can get the current issue of GEORGE magazine for currently $26
You can get the next month’s issue of GEORGE magazine for currently $26
(with JFK Jr on the cover!)
I got mine; did you get yours?
You can also buy domain names, like JFK-Jr.com and such, for five thousand,
fifteen thousand and twenty thousand dollars. There’s something I need!
I went to St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral
Just a few blocks away
I was just there, a few weeks ago
Out on the street watching girls eat mangos and French films projected on
the church walls.
The old Irish lad came out and said it was a circus in there
Kind of like the media circus out here?
I heard the bag pipes
And took some photographs
The priest came out to those who couldn’t get in, though those that were in,
were hot smelly sweaty pigs and dogs. With no air conditioning, the FDNY
went in often. And Con-Edison, that I paid for, set up unique
air-conditioning that didn’t work.
The priest giving Communion. He came around. He placed a wafer in my hand,
circular with a cross in the middle. I saved it in my palm close to my
heart and now tomorrow, check out the online auctions I’ll make a million
with it!!
After services I toured the church, couldn’t find my art but lit a candle
for a friend.
I ran away and got more tape
I ran away and printed up signs
I trekked down to Tribeca where I posted signs on the Police barricade.
They said
“
(in small letters):
WE LOVE JFK-BASSETTE
(in big letters):
PRESS
LET
THEM
REST
“
A woman asked me, “What organization are you with?”
I replied, “None, I’m just Human.”
But the press didn’t like me.
Gave me weird looks
Yelled and called me names with sarcastic thankyous.
I took photos of my art and went on the waiting line.
It’s time to fuck up the mainstream, and I’ll start with my medium, the media.
so, I went to the flower shrine in TriBeCa
waste of money flowers? how about all the dying children and cancer?
i left an “I AM AMERICA” bill there to lay
and on it I wrote
‘In JFK we don’t trust to fly us’
I have photos to prove it, I’ll show you one day.
And I taped up all over the walls and flowers my signage to the press;
PRESS LET THEM REST
I passed the candles, American-flags, teddy-bears, signs, photos, children,
letters, drawings, paintings, guitars, caps, dead flowers, 20-dollar bills,
glitter, marker, ink, non-American flags, poetry, hands, flashes, elevator
shaft ways, and life
went back to my Police barricades and my signs were ripped down
The press doesn’t like it when I fight back
So now I plead with you all
Realize today we play the bagpipes all together
Like the bum on the corner making a dime
We once were told we were equal, but you see we are not.
Some pigs are more equal than other pigs
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.07.23.02:10:17 @ Tribeca/New York City
RABBITFUCK
I remember, one day, a few years back ...
While sitting on the toilet, peaking at my shit, as if they were clouds. I noticed the magnificent shape the shit was in. Like Disney characters Mickey & Minnie, ah, childhood. Believe it or not, I was reading Artforum on the potty that day. When talking on the phone and having a drag, my girlfriend calls. She tells me that she wants to tie my legs up to the kitchen chair and make me masturbate in front of her. I tell her she’s crazy but she comes over anyway and fucks me to sleep on my throne of porcelain. I wake up, she still on my shoulders, shit below me, she had pissed all over me. Madonna once said piss is a cleanser, today it got my fungus out of my ass and toes. So, I picked her up, way up high, and ate her out until her thigh was giving me a great big red television reception. She brought that tv in earlier. Just to watch porn, or maybe herself. My girlfriend is a porn star in daisy dukes, she shopped for those cut-off jeans on long ass lines just too entertain me and drive me crazy and insane. Which is why now I do nothing, not even walk or keep house; I just sit on my pot and give up my spouse for this daily shit I do. Too bad, I could have wed or even done med, but without a degree, I’m just going to continue to pee.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.07.22.01:51:56 @ 296 NYC