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The Gallery/The Artist
A gallery is there so a tree can get cut down to be made into pulp to be
made into newspaper so a journalist can write a column on the gallery
white-walled opening in the paper so mothers and fathers can read about the
naked wine-drunk opening and so the artists can show work on the clean
floor and eat dead birds and dish out secret service blow jobs for an
ongoing dispute and so someone developed ink to print on and so children
can be offended and old grandma will turn over in her grave and mothers
wont support and people get jealous and art wars raid your mind and so
people can buy art to appreciate and or possibly just for the hell of it to
make a buck we don't know we only represent be ourselves do the art be the
art conflict the art and so tourists have a place to go and view and so
culture can see what we think and where we are going and what we will do in
trench coats and postage stamps that say Kill All Artists while cardboard
thieves line the streets of Broadway to Tampa tribune miles away and the
gallery is there for us to meet greet and massage our lonesome feet and
shave ourselves clean of the beauty we once knew and to listen to an arch
of McDonalds frenzy and creme filled donoughts and smokers cars and blue
eyes and money and models and chicas and cock fights and luxury cars and
hostess cupcakes or airline stewardesses and mighty mighty lets go play
baseball and hit and hit and hit pull the revolver up the bunny rabbit and
the gallery didn't notice those who didn't laugh but the gallery is there for
the artist for the self to be safe to feel like a groovy a musician a poet
and parent a human a gatherer a co- you never know or do we with just make
a simple phone call the gallery pays bills makes bills is a bill is a bitch
is a boredom is a bore is a whore is a heep is deep is dough is divine is
wrong is write is right and real and now and here to stay because we chose
to go in to be artists to do what we do best and we took an oath to our
heart to be all we can be without the army but in our brain our heart we
are ourselves and we are artists.

We are artists.

 1999 David Greg Harth @ 1515 NYC