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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 Verzion.

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 wouldnt 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 colour 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,
talkshows, 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 arent 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 eventhough 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 cant 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 cant 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