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Stolen Cream
Before the rush came. Before the Christie's men in black escorted the
collectors, the rich, the famous, the infamous, and the wasted, with
umbrellas from the extended cars on the rainy street to the covered
building of thousands, I ran. I swiftly ran inside, all dressed in artists
attire; black pants, black shirt, black shoes, black ski mask, as fast as I
could, I ran. Swiflty with a gentle crowbar in black-gloved hand, I ran to
the center. There in the glass case at waist height was the magnificantly
lit art. Flesh toned rubber and silk blues and yellows with laser guided
video for my home entertainment system. With a flash and a crack I smashed
the thin, yet elegant, glass covering. No one in sight, not a soul hears
the breakage, the symbols, I smash. With my huge powerful downward motion,
one swoosh of angry art and emotion. The glass broken, not a cut, not a
curve, not a cream. I leave the the flesh and satin and silk and flowers
alone. Today I just grab the disc. The secret code, the pleasure dome, and
provide you all with video cameras on this advertising day! As swiftly as I
ran in, I run out. With laserdisc under my arm and crowbar swinging over
head, like a wild boar from Lord Of The Flies, or a huge black King-Kong, I
run. Straight pass the umbrella sculptures waiting to come alive, I run
into the darkness to bootleg my way to stardom, to surrender to the
darkness, to deface Picasso and become an art thief of my own obsession.



 1999 David Greg Harth
99.05.20.04:49:44 @ 296 New York City
Four Forty Nine and Forty Four Seconds O' Clock A M