Passage
The frost takes control of my heart
Hardening into impenetrable stone
You had complete jurisdiction
Behind closed broken glass
You saw me at my deepest lows
And you held my hand hoping for the highs
Together we heard whispers
From little footsteps on the hardwood floor
You lost twice
For twelve more years I’ve gone on
Buried the three of you so long ago
With such magnitude my heart aches
Turning corners on each city street
On every airplane bound trip
I hope I’ll meet you again
My rage is premature
A dozen more times I attempted
And I have failed
In the past I got such pleasure
Out of this constant thirst
That I have for you
Wandering in a state of existence
Not wanted without you
I question what I’m supposed to do
All I have now is desolation
That no one understands
I’m planning my departure
© 2015 David Greg Harth
15.05.04.07:12:12@130BklynNYC
Problem Solver
Let’s stop eating --
My cock sure could use a good beating
These useless goats are stuck in my head
Son of Man told me to neighborly break bread
So, I’m howling at the moon and I’m not making any alterations
Saluting complex decisions made by enemy nations
U.S. of A. is launching radar-evading jet fighters
While Commies have jailed rebellious writers
Lower the disguise, do not hide
Not my fault, Dear President lied
Inside battle not yet won
Truth is, my grandfather thirsts for a gun
All is quiet with death at the door
My Muslim brothers declare a backyard war
While my ex-girlfriend is finally seeing someone new
Several months have passed, I remember you
Salty cow’s tongue (against my chest) tasted like honey
Sold under black market tables, whoring for lots of money
Packing up my luggage, heading for Argentina
For years I secretly wished to date last year’s ballerina
Once told a man that I’d be on a box of cereal
Addicted to St. Matthew’s Vaseline material
Milk missing and children missing
Shorelines of Jersey reminiscing
Scattered synapses transmitted
Neurological institute committed
One day masturbated in her sight
To Freud’s mother, a trans-Atlantic delight
Politics at Brooklyn’s wooden table
Architecture to God burned to a child’s fable
Remind you: my next-door resident is a digger
Truth is, I’d pull my grandfather’s trigger
Bring on the jungle and mount the Veteran’s flag
It’s my wide girth that gets every little old fart fag
Offend you with my art, offend you with my words
Fourth day sunrise, we’ll kiss the Kurds
Debt rises with the ticking of the clock
Mounting doubts among the shepherd’s flock
Worldwide spread of McDonald’s juicy lard
Let me promote myself and give you my card
Coffee consumed and I have to take a smelly piss
Exhausted of watching the common Republican hiss
Return of the fighter jet and grandfather’s revolver
How have I become the number one problem solver?
© 2009 David Greg Harth
09.09.10.10:23:55@130BklynNYC
Pantheon Drip
Drip, drip, drip
I see your hot pink drip
Pigeon goes,
Pigeon flies
I hear a river flowing
Drip, drip, drip
Blonde bird
Brunette bird
Red bird
Bloom
White man
Helmet man
Suit man
Gone!
Drip, drip, drip
Alone
Drip, drip, drip
Dry
© 2008 David Greg Harth
08.09.09.13:41:00@PantheonRome
Polish Electricity
I was feeling faint
Weak, fragile and unreal
I was about to collapse
Decompose and fall apart
The end came
Before the start
Old age lines
Spread like disease
Chanting languages
Movements understood
September thunderstorms
Bolts break open the sky
Sitting behind desks
Crossing legs
Misplaced elastic
Spell check
Couple of donuts
Four pack hold
Didn’t get named
Watergate laughter
Burned inside
Dozen times
Multiplicity
Electricity!
© 2008 David Greg Harth
08.09.05.19:25:00@SchlesischeBerlin
Peter Cetera
I admit it
Right now, I’m listening to the song
“Glory Of Love” by Peter Cetera.
And you know what?
I’m not embarrassed.
Nothing embarrasses me.
I’m proud of the music I listen to.
Each song over the course of my life
has a special moment
and continues to bring back that moment.
Music sparks a certain memory
in the data bank of my brain.
Brings back the history of that time.
I recall the moments exactly.
I enjoy this song.
It has helped form me into the person that I am.
Into the knight I am.
Chivalry still lives.
© 2007 David Greg Harth
07.04.11.12:01:57@205HudsonNYC
A Pigeon Sits
To the left of me
In the abandoned brick window frame
A pigeon sits
Just hours ago
I bent over my porcelain toilet
And vomited yesterday’s meals
© 2007 David Greg Harth
07.02.13.14:06:20@296NYC
Passing
For days now I’ve been blind.
I woke up two Tuesdays ago blind.
Not knowing how this happened, I led my current life puzzled.
Put your arms out and guide me across this street.
Filled with chaotic delivery trucks and bike messengers.
Take me to the other side.
And let me be free, on my way.
Someday I’ll come across you once more.
On one knee I’ll fall.
And ask you to marry me.
© 2006 David Greg Harth
06.10.26.12:02:04@205HudsonNYC
Plastic Wrapper
Do you know what it’s like?
To not be able to open the plastic wrapper?
Your mind wants to
Your fingertips wish too
But your coordination cannot succeed
Because you are not yourself
You are not you
The car travels on Route 6
Over Bear Mountain
You know who the champion is
But that does not matter
Your heart beats
But still
You are not you
Speaking with the person across from you
Dinner on the table
You may fall asleep not knowing
What tomorrow will bring
Not knowing when the switch will turn
You are not you
So, you put on the repeats
You read nothing
Taste nothing
Speak to no one
You have no Mr.
You have no misses
Alone trapped in a mirror
Suicide is an option
You are not you
Shatter the glass
Not Picasso
Not on the 12th floor
And let her watch
As you get thrown down in restraints
Let her cry knowing
She never got to love
You are not you
Do you know what it’s like?
To not be able to open the plastic wrapper?
I bet you don’t
And you thought you’d make it out alive
I assure you
You can’t
Because
You are not you
© 2006 David Greg Harth
06.08.29.03:00:54@296NYC
Peach
I was eating a peach,
and I thought of you.
The soft fuzzy skin of the peach,
Reminds me of your soft cheeks.
Your touch.
Against my hands
Against my soul
The rose red color of the peach,
Reminds me of your rose lips,
Your pink tint
Your hue of love
The orange color of the peach,
Reminds me of the joy
You brighten the day with
You bring to my heart
The yellow color of the peach,
Reminds me of the happiness
We’ve shared with our times
We’ve bloomed upon
The sweetness of the peach,
Reminds me of the sweetness of your heart
The glow you possess
The glare you share with my eyes
The firmness of the peach,
Reminds me of your sensuality
Your desire within
Your breasts so perfectly you
The moistness of the peach,
Reminds me of your inner beauty.
The heart you encompass mine with
The lips you grasp me with
The scent of the peach,
Reminds me of when I shed my amorous gaze upon you
Your smells from the back of your neck, below your ear
Your smells from your clean washed hair
The peach in my hand,
Reminds me of love
That you are an angel
And you are my peach.
© 2005 David Greg Harth
05.06.27.11:27:05@205HudsonNYC
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
Put Your Gloves On, I’m Coming Home
Turn the heat up
Turn it on
Get underneath the blankets
Look overhead at the fighter jets
My work is done here
No more time to spend,
Must not delay my lover’s end
Put your gloves on, I’m coming home!
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.10.25.15:12:12@1515NYC
Perfume (Version #2)
Why won’t you at least
tell me the name of the perfume
you wear!?
© 2002 David Greg Harth
02.03.15.04:00:00 @ 296NYC
Peace, Goodbye
Fighter fly
Go away
I don’t want to see you
Today
Helicopter
Shed your wing
Split up the light
The twins once made shade
It surrounds us tonight
Stench of rotting
Death at my door
I don’t want to cover my mouth anymore
Whole digger
Dig your own
My family is hurt
And I bury my friends
United States
I don’t know what to say
I burn your symbol on four
But today I see the shine from sea to sea
Come back and set foot
Put you in the ring
And a street fight from my fist
Ill blow you to bits
After sitting down forever in peace
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.09.19.22:38:42@296NYC
Pain (Version #2)
I know what pain is.
Lifting your index and middle finger upwards,
forming a “V”
That international peace symbol,
now a memorable symbol for Verizon.
Staring out the small glass window of that
locked wooden door. The glass with the wire mesh
imbedded in it to prevent breaking and smashing.
The wooden door with sharp nails that protrude outwards,
towards my white face. The nails I might have thought about
smashing my skull against and splitting my head open
or my dream open.
Sitting on a porcelain ivory toilet bowl,
staring at blue tiled walls and praying to God
that you would have a normal, solid shit. Praying
you wouldn’t have diarrhea scattered with corn again.
Praying for one instant in your life to be good.
Looking at yourself in the mirror and unable to see.
Unable to see the stubble forming on your face. Unable to
see the color of your iris. The lashes surrounding your eyes.
Unable to split the fog open and see the truth, your skin,
and the sins you never had a chance to commit.
Watching television for hours, watching the News, reruns,
talk shows, comedies, soap operas, infomercials, dramas,
entertainment shows, car races and realizing the only
programs you understand are movies you have seen before,
because you base your understanding of it by your recollected
memory of it.
Eating your favorite mashed potatoes or French fries with
red ketchup and not tasting a grain of salt. Listening to
the wind howl outside of your 12th floor room and wondering
if Tic Tacs changed your life. Reminding yourself that
when you write this, that the only person that will fully
grasp most of these implications is your father.
Walking down hallways with patterns unrecalled, and one day
you see a water fountain that was not there for months.
But today it is there, and it always has been.
Contemplating why you aren’t allowed to have deodorant next
to your bedside. Perhaps fear that the Black Man or White Man
or the So-Called Man will eat my deodorant, overdose on the
freshness and die. Leading to a lawsuit?
Drawing dots, being punched, being thrown around, being stared at
and being worshipped by voices I never heard, but only dressed in
white and sweats even though I was not working out. Sleeping every
night, being comfortable, with no pillows.
I know what pain is.
The pain that only 1 in a billion get.
The pain you can’t describe
The pain you can pretend to illustrate by smashing glass frames
holding portraits of 3 wise and 3 blooms.
The pain you can pretend to express by sleeping forever.
The pain you can pretend to share by writing.
The pain you can’t touch, hear, see, smell, or feel.
The pain is so large that you know it will happen again.
Because my pain, saves the lives of millions.
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.05.31.14:33:48 @ 1515 NYC
Poem For A Girlfriend
I’m sorry I made you cry
I never wanted to hurt you
I’m sorry we shared those moments together
I never wanted to waste your time
I’m sorry we connected and lasted so long
I never wanted to deceive you
I’m sorry I encouraged you into commitment
I never wanted to lead you wrong
I’m sorry we dedicated so much time to us
I never wanted to confuse you
I’m sorry for everything I have done
But you didn’t tell me
You had a dick.
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.09.17.14:17:00@BABSON/MASS.
Peeing & Peeking
She was peeing and peeking
Peeking while she was peeing
Peeing on the potty
Peeking around the corner
Pee-Pee she made
And peek she did
Peering out
About
Around the corner, she peeked
Peed she did
Not in the pool
Or on top of the stool
But in the potty
There she made pee-pee
Peeing & Peeking
Thats what she did
Looking around the corner
I see her peeking
Peeing and peeking
She peed a peeked
And peeked a pee
She peeked when she peed
And made a pee-pee
Peeing and Peeking
No peep or poo
Just a pee and peek
For me and you
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.06.22.23:11:20@296NYC
00.07.07.24:04:00@296NYC