Note
Sorry I had to go.
Sorry I couldn’t live in consistent pain.
Sorry I had trouble dealing with the way we lived our lives.
Sorry that it was hard to grasp the life.
I’m sorry I was unable to reach my full potential at the young age I was.
I’m sorry I was unable to illustrate or communicate my true feelings.
I’m sorry for the debt I left you in.
I’m sorry for the pain I have left you in.
Please know that I had to do this,
I had to do this for me.
Many times, throughout my life I do many things for others,
Now it was time to do something for me.
It felt right. It felt like an answer. A completion. My choice.
I’m sorry for the evidence of no reasons.
I’m sorry that it will never be the same.
I’m sorry for a vacant spot that will be at the dinner table.
Sorry that I was unable to end the famine.
Sorry that I was unable to end the wars.
Sorry that I was unable to declare world peace.
Sorry that I was unable to grow old with you.
I’m sorry I had to go.
I’m sorry I had to leave this way.
I hope you’ll still love me.
As I will love you forever.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.12.16.20:28:05@296NYC
Not That I’m The Devil
I’ll lock the door behind us,
and come up close in back of you.
I’ll whisper in your ear
and stretch my split tongue beyond.
I’ll start a scorching inferno that burns
and kill myself for the love in my arms.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.12.16.01:33:51@296NYC
Numb
Numb from the blindness
Numb from the taste
Numb from what she left behind
Numb in my throat
Numb in my mind
Numb in my cancer
Numb without spit
Numb without love
Numb without regret
Numb with thought
Numb with ease
Numb with wonderment
Numb through the valley of darkness
Numb through the parted waters by staff
Numb through the sky of limits
Numb on the ark of forage
Numb on the sea of waiting
Numb on the land of growth
Numb feeling in my memory
Numb feeling in my overloaded senses
Numb feeling in my wet tongue
Numb from sealing envelopes of the fourteenth
Numb from stroking the tired
Numb from thinking aloud
Numb waiting for she
Numb waiting for the hunger to end
Numb waiting for the completion
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.08.26.03:50:47@296NYC
No Love
No,
not here.
No love to give
Penetrated mind.
I’m locked forever.
I’m boarded up.
Forever bound,
never, will I ever,
let you in
and inside.
No Love
to receive,
or accept
I’m not here anymore.
Nothing can be done.
No love
No honor
Swept away
left you,
not on your feet.
I’m solid
Rock.
Chained and sealed.
Dagger through my heart
Hurt so much,
forgot your name
from city to city
Search, an end.
No love,
today.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.08.14.12:03:22@296NYC
Norman
It was hot and crowded at the gallery on 126th Street in Harlem. Black viewers dominated the Jazz inspired exhibition. I was standing along the East wall with a plate in hand. Some rice, some pasta and some fresh vegetables were spread evenly on my white foam plate. With my plastic fork I stood there eating my free food, my starving artist food that I scored at this gallery opening. I stood and observed the crowd. As I stood there, to my left was a man of about age 70 who sat on one of the rare wooden chairs in the gallery. I saw him earlier in the space. He was decked out in a very fashionable jazz outfit. I remember him distinctly because he was dressed in a bright red suit and yellow shirt with matching colourful shoes. His shoes were red and glazed with a shine. They looked like great works of art, almost like Dutch shoes, but these were more electrified with Jazz, like Coltrane blew music through the soles. He walked with a fancy cane held by a hand with a silver nugget ring. Now I stand along the wall, eating my freely scored meal. Out of the corner of my eye I see this wonderful beautiful man all of a sudden slump over and fall out of the chair. For half of a second I pondered if this was performance art, then the other half of the second I realize that there was something seriously wrong. I quickly put my freely scored meal down on the floor with my bag which contained my Bible and went over to the aging black man in the red suit. His face was against the floor and his body twisted in a fashion quite unusual. His cane to the side and his legs overlapping each other. His thick rimmed glasses knocked off of his face, with the weight of his head pressing down on them against the floor. His red cap still on his head. I cradle him in my arms and yell, “Sir! Sir!?” I get no response. A woman walks quickly over from the front of the gallery, “Norman!? Norman!” I realize this woman must know this man and this man was Norman. I cradle him more, with my arms around his back and pick up his head slowly. I yell “Norman!? Norman!?” As I hear various other art viewers yell “Call 9-1-1! Call 9-1-1!” Finally, Norman, with the yellow ochre pants and grey socks slowly opens his eyes. The first being this black man sees in this Harlem gallery is a young white man with blue eyes. I wonder if he thought he was in heaven with white folk or knew where he was. In this hot gallery. This overcrowded space with people who chit chatted to loudly when the speakers wanted to speak. I continue to soothe Norman and his companion leans over with tears and yells for Norman to come to complete consciousness. Norman was only probably out a mere eight to ten seconds, but felt like the lifetime of a pet with four legs. His glasses were off his face now. Yellow glasses with black stripes forming the pattern of a zebra. His yellow shirt cleanly pressed under his stop-sign red jacket. As I continued to cradle this beautiful Jazz man, a man approached me and said “I am a doctor, can I help?” I said yes, and the doctor took over the procedure for caring for the man. As the doctor continued to assist, I stood nearby in case if another helping hand was needed. Finally, in a short amount of time, the emergency workers arrived and attended to my beautiful jazz friend and he finally arose and walked with assistance to the waiting ambulance outside.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.06.18.20:30:00@104E126thStNYC
03.06.24.05:23:00@296NYC
No Time On Earth
No time is left,
Let’s leave this place
and shut the door.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.05.22.12:28:40@296NYC
New Orleans, Definitely, On the 15th
Canadian Goose flew down
Great grasping the blanket down
Awesome she went down
On the 15th, vivid memories
Temples and Churches
Brought you to the cemetery
Visited your next plot
I saw your back door
Pulled out and broke
Under the tree
New Orleans Bible
Found you yesterday
Five Foot Over
Showing your feet to me
An angel landing
I looked up
All I could see
Was you in the sky
Definitely
Stay one more night
Catch the early flight
On the 15th, I’ll be back
No more time
For the dance and rhyme
Dance of the dead
New Orleans Head
Come to me, better off dead.
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.08.08.13:10:40@1515NYC
New Year’s Day: Learned
I learned she couldn’t sing
Couldn’t sing on top
Or even in the back
She danced
Taught me about dancing on the line
I couldn’t ignore the eyes
Just those eyes
It never was a blank stare
On a New Year’s Day
Not today
I’ve been great, how are you?
See you tomorrow
Not tonight
See you later
Not tonight
She hung up, never phoned me back
Left with her nipples hard,
Never Again
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.01.01.20:02:02 @ 296 NYC
New Year’s Day
New Year’s Eve 01-2002
I can’t sing tonight
I can only try to smirk
Try not to smile
I can only put my head down
Wrapped around in the fetal position
Jam Jam Jam
The doctors jam the needle in my spine
Drain Drain Drain
The doctors drain my spinal fluid
I can’t sing tonight
I’m not allowed
It’s not proper
It’s not right
It’s not connecting the dots
Father knows
Neuro Twelve Times Two In Two Thousand And Two
Not any more
Not here today
Gone today
More tomorrow
I can’t sing
No more singing
I can’t sing tonight
Just have to count those tiles
Up and down, up and down
Watch the Benz and Bulette go by
Go by
Go by...
© 2002 David Greg Harth
01.12.31.23:59:59@NYC
02.01.01.24:00:01@NYC
Nowhere
...in the middle of the sentence, she got up from the oak table,
and walked out. She in her ravishing red velvet dress that has
been worn out for many years. Threads hung from it until they
dragged along the beer-soaked wooden floor. She dragged her
tapestry of filth with her, like the slutty Vegas whore she was.
Walked right out away from me, passed the yellow hissing lights
and drunk couples who only dream of copulating in pornographic
films. Passed the midget on the bar stool who is smothering his
oversaturated moustache in the cleavage of a buxom blonde bitch.
She walked swiftly in that red old dress, I could hear her
thighs move back and forth, swish, as they rubbed her pubic
hairs together like Velcro...
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.08.17.12:32:38 @ 1515 NYC
not mechanical
Bionic Blend
Blurred vision
Cellular devices hooked up
Surrounding my brain
Encompass my thoughts
Bookend around the B Train
RA-Dio waves passing through
Traveling speeds
Fast speed
High on crack
On wave tunes
High tunes
Electronic exchanges
B sides
Brave ballrooms
Hung balls
Nut cracking massages
Super Duper High Tech
Revolution
Lube
Glued
television
multiplication the simplification
B frank B kite B byte
Singapore
Tye
Von
Ren the dollar, rent the book
Streak
Light
Mental note
note of sugar
Sugar cane
note in the bag
B
B the travel
B the plane
jet just blast
Bring on
Become the ring
Role off the tongue
9 8 20 23 20 2 sea you 2 Bnm
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.11.21.12:47:34 @ 296 NYC
Not Your Fuckin
Not your fuckin world record
Or turn at a hand job
Not your elbow at the table
Or icing on the cake
Not your fuckin hunger
Or food chain blues
Not your half-moon scent
Or Harley-Davidson lover’s good-bye
Not your fuckin problem
Or glass smashing dozen
Not your bed room outfit
Or wax melting smells
Not your fuckin gorgeous wetness
Or summertime romance
Not your babies I’m worried about
Or sucking back jolt
Not your fuckin gender bend
Or daisy duke flower dropper
Not your Hollywood star
Or mothers lost hope
Not your fuckin lover’s completion
Or ballad love harmony
Not your dreaming sensation
Or connected counterfeit
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.05.24.18:26:00@PH17OBNC
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
Never Been
I don’t want to lose my faith
I just picked up my electronics
I don’t want to lose my laundry
Or follow the suit or be in trouble
I don’t want to be left in the sea
And have salt solidify around my tears
I don’t want to lose my brother
I just picked up today’s news
I don’t want to eat the pig
Or listen to the radio or be in sight
I don’t want to be molded in plastic
And have photographers at my funeral
I don’t want to hear the bagpipes
Or play with puzzles made of gold
I don’t want to hear your voice
Or play games with your mind
I don’t want to hear you on the telephone
Or swallow your spit at night
I don’t want to hear your children’s story
Or be your partner in crime
I don’t want to burn the ants or watch them crawl
I don’t want to eat your lunch or borrow your money
I don’t want to be a rich man’s lover
Or grow old in disbelief
I don’t want an eagle feather
Or be documented and remembered
I don’t want rope around my neck at a thin age
Or for you to be sorry in your lonesome
I have warm hands for the holding
I have a heart filled with steel
I have a thick head filled with dreams
That never come out in positive white
I have been influenced
I have been in a coma
I have been back and around
But I’ve never been with you
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.01.11.04:22:25 @ 296 New York City
New Year’s Eve 99-2000
All I can feel is emptiness inside
Feel my shadow crawling
Up my empty stomach
Past Christmas lights of
Green and White
Reflect on the river Liffey
Green hovering lights
Illuminate O’Connell bridge
And I remember the taste
Of Guinness just one night before
The sounds of whistles and horns
And delighted drunk happiness
All invades the air
Waiting for slow fireworks in the night sky
Camera flashes pop and go off
As I smell the scent of wood burning
And salt sea
And alcohol last night
But now
Lost once again
Deeply wondering
On a cold-warm wet
December night
Wonder if I’ll wake up tomorrow
No fear of Millennium
Or Technology or Harm
Just want to know
If I will be me tomorrow
Or just my reflection and
A cold dark empty stare
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.12.31.21:57:00 @ Dublin Ireland Alongside the Liffey River
No More Babies For You
As I raised up
Got up from my seat
On my luxury airline cruiser
I walked up the narrow alley
Between the rows of sun-burnt travelers
Old folks with sorry ass peanuts and bearded women
Sunflower hats and greying eyeballs
Seeing the sun glare across the left wing into my iris
And on the right bolts of lightning flashing in my path
Igniting the flame of my actions
About to become real and in memory
I walked up to her
The flight attendant ahead
In front of the plane near the cock-pit
She stands there as if she awaits my pleasant surprise
She stands in her corporate uniform
I go straight to her
And slam my mother fuckin fist right in her
Deep into her ovaries
Below her chest
Right there
And in my devil language
In my yells of horror
And red glow of death, I yell,
“NO MORE FUCKIN BABIES FOR YOU!!”
Fearless and trembling in tension
Like a roaring animal full of disease and plague
I take my tough macho bad ass mother fuckin punching baby self
Back to my seat and enjoy my ride
Quietly
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.11.23.01:20:08@296NYC
99.12.02.22:09:45@296NYC
Ninety
I’ll catch you
When I can
You and my ninety
Stamped dollars
You & Nina’s Holiness
And the ticket for inspiration!
You should have been honest
But now it’s too late
When I see you on the street
I’ll know who you are
Because you are the man
With no thumbs
Ninety dollars is nothing
And I’ll shove
A cows tongue up your ass
And this ain’t
No Mapplethorpe photograph!
I’ll see you without pity
A man whose meals are free
For just a little longer
You’ll be wishing you were the fly on a bathroom stall door
Instead of the misery and the ass-mark you’ll have
Red and Black, the colors of America
For Twenty Five Dollars
I write a little note to you
Forever carried on me
So, when I meet you
And Mohammed
I’ll smack you in the face
Until your family feels my fists in your soul
And my children can spit on your blood
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.06.26:22:12:00 @ St.Marks&3rdAve
99.06.28.24:12:00 @ 296ES
New York City
New Year’s Day
It’s quiet out
The snow drifts downwards
Upon the cold pavement
On which I lay upon
Waiting
For the eighteen wheelers
To come by
It’s New Year’s Day
Come re-invent yourself
And play hopscotch upon my chest
It’s New Year’s Day
Feel the new as it gets older
And feel sorry about last year
It’s New Year’s Day
Kill the bad ones
And create new luxurious habits
It’s New Year’s Day
The eighteen wheelers have not come by
I lay
Still
Waiting
For the next celebration
To be forgotten and forbidden
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.01.01:01:01 @ 296NYC
New Year’s Day
Never Again
Never Again
Will I make midnight cab rides
To underplayed Stevie Wonder fans
To fall in love with them
And rush back home
To wash up
Go to sleep
And bite my lips
To bed
Never Again
Will I repeat digits for those who want
Company and profit
Under black and blue skies
Or roll around in comfort
To be watched by hidden eyes
Behind locked doors
Never Again
Will I work up the courage
To tell you the truth
And share my friendship
And to tell you when it’s time to go
When I’m tired
And when i will dive off building tops
Never Again
Will my love be lost
Or my time be spent
With you
Because you are a waste of time
And you make me cry
And huddle in the puddles I create
Because you are not real
And you make me mad
And make my stomach spin
Never Again
Will I be your belly dancer
Or proud pounder
Or teacher
Never Again
Will I catch you
Protect you
Or save you
Never Again
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.21.23:22:00 @ 296 NYC
98.12.23.17:11:40 @ 1515 NYC