(something)
not here,
found,
roaming in the
hallway.
found a fountain,
communicated to traffic signals,
sheets pulled up,
over himself.
in your eyes,
i found everything i’ve wanted to be
and much more
beyond your physical beauty.
hearing your voice,
i can’t stand no longer
in this world we call earth
falling apart without a dove.
i belly up at the end of the day,
figuring you’ll love me,
in silence
or heavy noise
travelled deep,
found those returned to me,
emptiness after the course
i’ll reach for you forever
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.24.19:08:14@296NYC
It Is A Good Day
Traveling through the states of my land.
Following my path to find my beloved.
Across mountains of earth and rivers of birth.
I moved through the woods and through the valleys.
My partner awaited me in the high desert sun.
She called my name again and again.
I sucked poisonous rattle snake venom out of my limbs.
I lived with my brothers among wolf packs in the wild.
Nightly I danced around the flames of the fire.
Like a crazy horse chasing his tail.
Through the fields of golden still wheat.
Beyond the trenches of my empty ache.
Visions of her kept my path clear.
Struggling among dirt of the mother.
Finally, I arrived to her beautiful side.
Put on my dress and placed on my paint.
Against the wind I approached my love.
An angel came down from the heavens.
She whispered in my ear.
“It is a good day to die.”
So, I took my pride and walked once more.
Great red of the core ate at my holy insides.
Drifting to my sleepless constant sleep.
My body became numb and my tongue ill.
I die a slow death becoming dead.
On this mighty good day under the same sky as she.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.23.02:49:22@296NYC
Friends
I have so many friends.
So many that love me.
My family and so many great friends.
But I don’t have any best friends.
I never had a best friend.
I’ve had many great friends. Plenty of good friends.
Seriously, I have very many GREAT friends.
But when everything is wrong in the world,
you want that one really close friend.
That best friend.
To count on.
To phone.
When you’re alone.
And contemplating suicide.
But there is no one to call.
Because you have so many great friends.
But you don’t have a best friend.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.20.22:07:44@296NYC
Jobless, Homeless, Loveless, Loneliness and Despair, Hunger, Ache
I asked you for forgiveness,
you gave me shame.
I asked you for protection,
you gave me abandonment.
I asked you for bread,
you gave me not even a crumb.
I asked you for guidance,
you gave me shadow without light.
I asked you for love,
you gave me empty hope.
I asked you for healing,
you gave me illness.
I asked you for comfort
you gave me hell.
I asked you for safety,
you gave me processions of death.
I asked you for someone’s heart
you gave me nothing but grief.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.20.21:46:11@296NYC
I’m Digging In The Dirt
I’m digging in the dirt,
trying to find support.
I’m repairing my spine,
restructuring my backbone.
I’m digging in the dirt
trying to find myself, lost.
I’m listening with open ears,
feeling my heart beating empty.
I’m digging in the dirt,
with nothing left to win or gain.
I’m taking a leap of faith,
believe it not.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.15.10:55:00@NYC
Time To Go
I’m long overdue.
It’s time to visit my favorite floor.
To not have pillows and see nails in doors.
I’ll give my father the peace symbol.
Witness my grandparents cry again.
Get scolded for pleasuring myself.
Admitting to no wrong doings.
Keep sketches not created by me.
Eat with the roaches at the dining table.
Not understand the television.
Eat my sweet bananas.
Escape this cynical world.
Visit the bad waiters.
Get lost on the subway train to the museum.
Go underground in secret passageways.
Spring buds on the trees, but it was just winter.
Time to spit, time to color, and time to break.
Let’s play pool and ping-pong and hang-man.
I’ll let all of them worry about me.
Some can quit smoking or drinking.
Loose your weight and gain your strength.
Watch me shrivel up into the fetal position.
I’ll get punctured in my back.
Once again we’ll measure my protein levels.
Objects will appear closer; I’ve got a disease.
Time to go.
I’m long overdue.
Time to go...
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.06.03:14:36@296NYC
Four
I’ve got four hands.
Four hands for holding you.
Blisters on my hands from the pleasure.
Dancing to the dusted planet.
I hear satellite phones.
Four times the speed of sound.
I can’t take this foursome.
Let’s have a drink, and make it right.
Do the right thing.
Black cars, black cars, black cars.
Four girls waving good bye.
Children riding the merry-go-round.
Time to go out and get the newspaper.
I’ll pour the coffee if you pour the juice.
We’ll cut coupons.
Four.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.04.04:04:04@296NYC
Decipher The Lover’s Poetry
Hunting in the lover’s words.
Looking deep inside.
Knowing the statements.
Consuming the nightly challenges.
Bordering insanity.
Singing to the lover’s tongue.
Experiencing the thoughts.
Eating at the plate of the devil.
Smelling the scent of the lover’s breadth.
Listening to the heart.
Thanking the lover for the evening.
Laughing to the spoken silence.
Parting the lips to welcome.
Softening the touch behind the nape.
Hiding the pleasant untold secrets.
Turning over and moving your hips.
Painting the picture of the flourishing valley.
Opening the door to the soul.
Standing near the open window with a breeze in your hair.
Sharing the mind’s eye.
Feeling the sensitivity.
Playing the part of the unwanted friend.
Stretching rules and guidelines of humanity.
Changing mournful times to healthy pleasure.
Growing older with the lover hand in hand.
Greeting with a salt sea and scroll.
Penetrating walls of thick mortar.
Swimming lost oceans of messages.
Creaming whipped blends of ache.
Ending with lines of amendments.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.04.02.05:12:40@296NYC
Held to Words
She held me to my words,
she held me to the false promises
the false truths
the false love.
She held me in her arms
as I said my last words
upon my death bed
bleeding inside
from never being loved
on this jobless day.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.03.30.01:15:41@296NYC
Through My Brain
I don’t know how I could be typing this.
Because I put a bullet through my brain.
Pop. Snap. Blam.
I know how I could be typing this.
Because I’m typing this.
This poem.
Before I pulled the trigger.
And now I’ll hit send.
And one of you,
will have to come to my studio
and clean up the bits and pieces
of brain matter
on my lap
and lap top
keyboard.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.03.24.21:04:12@296NYC
Decay
I sit across from you at the dinner table
watching you decay
slowly age and quickly die
I’m not sure why you chose this path
I wish there was something I can do
instead of witness and observe
and watch you decay
into a mere sculpture of grains
I stand here watching you
act like a professional fool
a man with a huge heart
but at times perhaps too silly in states
I wish there was something I can do
beyond banning or talking
something significant to make a change
I know I can’t make you pregnant
I listen to the sounds
of swigging and hunger for drive
thank you words are not enough
for what you have done
I wish there was something I can do
tell me how I can help
instead of sitting and laughing and enjoying
as I watch you decay
I cry for you daily when you’re in sight or hidden
it hurts so much to see you this way
I don’t want to read a ready-made
a eulogy at tomorrow’s funeral
I wish there was something I can do
I’m exhausted from watching you decay
It’s affecting me and others around you
As you decay into a pool of death
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.03.19.22:14:03@296NYC
Visiting Death
I picked up a hitch hiker
on route 303
passing the cement factory
and quarry
and all the huge dumping vehicles
I picked him up
took him where he was going
only to discover
after the rain showed itself
that I’m in the trunk of my own car
wrapped in a black plastic bag
dead
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.03.18.24:11:59@296NYC
Tell Me Not To Fall
Tell me,
whisper to me.
Take my ear,
cup it with your warm hands.
Whisper to me
with your soft rose colored lips.
Whisper to me,
silently,
faintly,
honestly.
Tell me,
as you hold my hand
our fingers among each other,
our hands encompassing each other.
Tell me,
this evening.
Tell me,
in the morning.
Whisper to me,
in my ear
with your romance.
Whisper to me,
Tell me not to fall.
in love with you.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.03.14.20:34:00@296NYC
Salt
Like a pillar,
standing alone,
in the dead sea,
the dead calm.
Like a single man,
leaping from the platform,
in front of the speeding train,
to his untimely death.
Like a mystery,
behind eyes of blue,
never seen down the aisle,
forgotten too soon.
Like honesty on the bench,
never chosen under the words of God,
only witnessed while listening,
never thinking acoustically.
Like taken from his home,
cooked in the raw,
followed down the floors,
grown alive.
Like being forced to count ceramic tiles,
sleeping without feathers,
waiting on nails,
while eating sweet bananas.
Like telling secrets to the signals,
living for all the wrong reasons,
pretending to love,
never admitting crime.
Like the craters on the tongue,
steamed milk below the mother’s breast,
looking at the thin lines,
fearing the new day with a trigger on your lap.
Like feeling beneath your soul,
knowing he’ll grow old without you,
punctured daily to measure the system,
she cleaned up the broken glass.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.03.12.24:11:53@296NYC
Miss You
I went to my day job,
went out to the yard,
the field,
and dug a hole.
A hole as large as a casket.
I buried their loved one today.
Put that dirt back in,
on that solid grave.
I found the place where I hurt most.
My vacant hole, I dug a lasting plot.
Fill it in with your deepest and darkest secrets.
Whisper in my ear and make the dust settle.
I miss you, more than ever.
I hardly know you, in the present.
I miss you, today and tomorrow.
I miss you in my heart, lost at sea.
I went and did what I had to do,
went to do the work and stand in line,
approached the counter,
and ordered a twenty-four hour stomach ache.
An ache of butterflies,
I swallowed all the women one by one.
Put that net out,
in that blue sky.
I found a trace of your scent on my inner sleeve.
My black long-sleeved, freshly cleaned, pressed.
Comfortable under my chocolate house.
Listening for you calling my first name.
I miss you, more than ever.
I hardly know you, in the present.
I miss you, today and tomorrow.
I miss you in my heart, lost at sea.
I went down and kissed,
up and down your hips,
the beauty,
and found Eden.
A bayonet lies next to my bed.
I stay still, without motion.
Hiding my emotion,
not even a tap of spine will make me love.
I found a kiss no more bound against my lips.
My lips now empty and dry.
Looking for you under pilgrimage gardens.
Finding you in the bottom of the grave.
I miss you, more than ever.
I hardly know you, in the present.
I miss you, today and tomorrow.
I miss you in my heart, lost at sea.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.03.08.03:22:56@296NYC
Pouring
It’s pouring out,
down the west coast beach.
Rain is pouring in
and all about.
It’s pouring tears,
rolling down lost cheeks.
Sea water salt is penetrating
and haunting my soul.
It’s pouring down stream,
and making smiles turn into aches.
Lovers wed out there
and bend around turns here.
It’s pouring out,
I can hear the birds singing.
Seeing the waves crashing,
I can only but think of you.
It’s pouring heartless actions,
among all the lovers.
I remain cold with a warm inside,
while waiting for you.
It’s pouring stirred emotions,
as the bay sounds its flute.
The orchestra of kingdoms
are ignited during my chivalry.
It’s pouring out,
through my endless search.
I’ve found you melting like stone
in the deepest part of my heart.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.02.24.15:18:09@TheBeachStPetersburgFL
Realization of a Serpent
Serpent in
and serpent out.
My thickness will see,
what it’s about.
Passes over
and passes under.
My drive will find,
the cement to bind.
Lookers looking
and waiters waiting.
My shadow unexpected,
yesterday least connected.
The trades go out
and protection is slipped.
My angel wings are ready for flying,
it is certain that I am tired of buying.
Celebration days come
and tree gatherings go.
My what an incorrect lie,
when I say I am going to die.
Grave diggers dig
and mourners come.
She is here not,
as they grant my last plot.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.02.12.22:32@LIRRNYC->StnyBrkLI
Visitor
She’s just a visitor
visiting my life
just for a moment
She’s just a visitor
visiting from over seas
out of town for today
She’s just passing through
passing on by
a passenger waving
She’s just passing through
traveling in distance
being parted by envelopes
She’s just an executor
beating the shield and drum
while carrying the cotton flag
She’s just an executor
with a job left undone
leaving behind a swallowed carcass
She’s just a discarder
not aligning mirrored reflections
or portraying evil sunsets
She’s just a discarder
from 80’s descent
with Grandma’s eyes
She’s just a visitor
with intentions unjust
and phallic fruit
She’s just a visitor
of the inevitable kind
attached to the transistor
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.02.08.03:24:33@296NYC