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