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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 rootbeer 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 lightining in the thunder-storm clouds,
Right between the horizon and cloud lines,
Thats where my partner exists

But unfortunately Ill 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 Ill 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 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 nightime
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 infront 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 colours
It said "Lover Boy"
Interesting, the prostitue 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 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 wont hear from me anymore...
at least for a little while.

Sadness is something we all have.
What has an affect on it?
Art? Music? Film? Literature?
The lack of something or someone?

Relief is something we all have.
Its amazing to me, that throughout the wars we've had.
Like Viet Nam and Desert Storm, that both enemies,
they both have to shit and sneeze.
Doesnt that boggle you?
That they are both human?
Yet they both kill eachother?
Both sneeze. Both shit. Both kill.

Some peope say I make run-on poems
I don't really give a damn
Maybe this isnt a poem
But a forum of collected or remembered or created thoughts
Or maybe not. Maybe its 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?

 2000 David Greg Harth @ 296 New York City @ 296 New York City @ 296 New York City @ 296 New York City @ 296 New York City @ 296 New York City @ 296 New York City