Elevator to the 77th Floor
After entering the lobby of the art deco building
The desk attendant instructed me to take elevator five to the 77th floor
I got in
With a woman
Who had auburn shoulder-length hair
She was in a grey pantsuit which I think was made of linen,
Or something easier to wear in the summer months
With a man
Who had a clean-shaven face
He was carrying a briefcase which had brass hinges with a gold finish,
And a worn leather shoulder strap
With another man
Who had a beard and a baseball cap with the word “DETROIT” on the front in orange stitching
He was deeply involved in a texting conversation
Or perhaps he was just scrolling
With another man
Who was dressed in all shades of various black
He was looking like a young Johnny Cash
And he also had a swagger like Elvis
It was just the five of us
Going up in the elevator
The first man got off on floor 67
The second man got off on floor 71
And the woman got off on floor 75
Then came my floor
- 77 -
I suppose the third man got off on another odd numbered floor
But I really don’t know
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.07.13.20.22.44@130BklynNYC
I’m Sick and Tired of Your Love Poems
“No more love poems.”
She demanded
It was a tough sentence to hear
How could I just stop cold from writing love poems?
Poetry about love?
About romance?
Affection?
Obsession?
Infatuation?
Searching?
Yearning?
How could I just stop cold suddenly?
Merely because she demanded.
Or did she request?
So, I stopped writing love poetry
And you should too
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.07.12.08.15.13@130BklynNYC
The 11th of July, The 11th Floor
I’ve struggled to make it one day more
I’ve struggled to get to the floor below
If I made it to the next day,
Then I would have considered that an accomplishment
For I went one more year
Without killing myself
If I made it to the floor below,
Then I would have considered that an accomplishment
For I managed to escape the locked floor
Without waking up from the dream
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.07.10.09.00.00@130BklynNYC
Held Dream
I held onto the dream so long,
I forgot to live
and
I didn’t make my dream come true
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.07.08.11.01.00@130BklynNYC
Lucille’s Sandwich
I had to journey out there myself
Not by the railroad
But by rented automobile
Because I wasn’t sure exactly where I was supposed to go
I found myself driving well past Huntington
In search of something ordinary yet so extraordinary
I heard rumors about this
And I’ve read articles about this
I’ve seen it in print
I’ve seen it online
I’ve even seen it on television
I drove around
I knocked on doors
I spoke to locals
I spoke to out-of-towner folks
I spoke to the baker
I spoke to the sheriff
I spoke to the barber
And I spoke to the pharmacist
It took me all day
But finally, as the sun was declining to stay in the sky
I pulled up to this diner
Where I knew for sure
I was about to have Lucille’s delicious egg salad sandwich
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.07.07.21.30.18@130BklynNYC
Tongue
Careful
With that tongue of yours
Your fleshy wet muscle in your mouth
Helping you –
Taste
Lick
Chew
Swallow
And
Speak
Tongue
-
Caught
Tongue
caught between a cat’s paws
caught between unleaded and diesel
Tongue
caught between arrivals and departures
caught between connecting flights
Tongue
caught between workshop vice
caught between springs of a clamp
Tongue
caught between railroad spikes
caught between a scorpion’s pincers
Tongue
caught between a black widow’s web and a lion’s den
caught between the frozen and thawed
Tongue
caught between spread thighs
caught between a zipper’s teeth
Tongue
caught between the seat cushions
caught between cunnilingus and fellatio
Tongue
caught between shibari and nuru
caught between dirty underwear and clean sheets
Tongue
caught between anonymity and identity
caught between given names and adopted names
Tongue
caught between the front seat and back seat
caught between casting couch obscenity
Tongue
caught between monogamy and polygamy
caught between a downpour crossing the street
Tongue
caught between elevator doors
caught between a lover’s quarrel
Tongue
caught between the Rolling Stones and the Beatles
caught between Ab-Ex and Pop
Tongue
caught between house grooves and 60s folk
caught between stocks and bonds
Tongue
caught between the Hudson River and East River
caught between North Dakota and South Dakota
Tongue
caught between transphobia and homophobia
caught between racism and sexism
Tongue
caught between Republicans and Democrats
caught between Fascists and Socialists
Tongue
caught between an arrow and tȟatȟáŋka
caught between a stinging bee and it’s hive
Tongue
caught between enemy flanks
caught between exosphere and thermosphere
Tongue
caught between innocence and sinfulness
caught between atrium and ventricle
Tongue
caught between Gaza and Palestine
caught between Jerusalem and Bethlehem
Tongue
caught between David and Goliath
caught between Adam and Eve
Tongue
caught between Mesozoic and Cenozoic
caught between Anno Domini and Christ
Tongue
caught between euthanasia and DOA
caught between life’s mystery and seppuku
Tongue
-
Caught
Crushed
Compressed
Squeezed
Squashed
Tongue
Destroyed
Demolished
Disintegrated
Tongue
-
Caught
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.06.26.17.47.20@130BklynNYC
Speak of the Shadows
There are whispers
When you turn corners
Don’t speak of an assault from yesterday
Incomplete assassinations are inadequate
Poor judgement and poor timing
No printed names in tomorrow’s paper
Don’t speak of that hidden space
Between her inner limbs
Just under the edge
Such a dark corner
Don’t speak of secluded cabinets
Filled with curious collections
Passionate about someone else’s skin
Just out of an upstate penitentiary
An interlude of romance
I love her
She heals my forever scars
Let’s me say no farewells
Introduces me to the wisdom of the moon
The illumination of the sun
Don’t wish you didn’t witness
Take an endless breath
Cut out their hearts
Plant their thumbs in terracotta pots
Don’t listen to secrets untold
Put your ear to the floor
Hear footsteps of the unknown
Drop a coin down the wishing well
Don’t turn back to history’s faults
Grow out of insufferable danger
Concentrate on camps for children
Find an escape route across vast seas
In our justice
There is silence
In the greatest violence
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.05.25.15.56.46@130BklynNYC
Parasite
With her bitten lip hidden under the furl of her tongue
She willingly descended into the darkness
Surrendered her body
There were no implications
And certainly no complications
There were only masterful calculations
And primal sensations
Debauchery relations
Divine actions
With a hint of a whisper
A delivered gaze
A story told
And a secret kept
Biting and Banging
Licking and Locking
Filthy Fisting
Effervescent Ejaculating
Gnawing and Gagging
Screaming
Salivating
Spanking
Seducing
Savaging
Stripping
Squirting
Slapping
Scolding
Subbing
Stroking
Slipping
Soaking
Sucking
Spitting
Soiling
Choking
and Cumming
and Cropping
Caught in a climax
of orgasmic shivering attacks
A seditious snail
A seductive slug
A lurking leech
I hear your cries
I claim them to be mine
Ownership is not corruption
Ownership is an undercover disruption
Parasites don’t deserve a thick cock fuck
Just an elegant mark of a firm hand struck
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.06.22.10.18.26@130BklynNYC
Afraid
Afraid of my knees buckling out,
Afraid of a humpback whale with a cavernous snout.
Afraid of conditioning after shampoo,
Afraid of pineapple chunks chew.
Afraid of a venomous snake’s bite,
Afraid of growing to towering height.
Afraid of shaving skin too bare,
Afraid of closeness caught in a stare.
Afraid of seeds stuck deep in my teeth,
Afraid of the red wet line underneath.
Afraid of french fries that keep me fat,
Afraid of diving off the building to splat.
Afraid of exploding gasoline tanks,
Afraid of the sun’s no thanks.
Afraid of basements dark and cold,
Afraid of patterns that never unfold.
Afraid of cracking up surrounded by padded walls,
Afraid of mosquitoes sucking on my balls.
Afraid of intolerance and night sweats,
Afraid of hatred the world forgets.
Afraid of downtown karma kneeled,
Afraid of secrets revealed.
Afraid of living in silence and wrong,
Afraid of regrets that hum like a song.
Afraid of learning to play guitar,
Afraid of leaning in close at the end of the bar.
Afraid of warm apple pie,
Afraid of dressing up in black tie.
Afraid of bald eagles saluting a false leader,
Afraid of bending over to witness my bleeder.
Afraid of removing all my worn-out clothes,
Afraid of a praying mantis tiptoeing behind my toes.
Afraid of the cat’s meow,
Afraid of the abysmal ocean beneath the bow.
Afraid of tempting the hand of fate,
Afraid of asking her out on a date.
Afraid of frequent reinvention,
Afraid of temperature apprehension.
Afraid of walking the path reversed,
Afraid of staircases steeply cursed.
Afraid of the steam locomotive at rapid speed,
Afraid of horses that thunder with greed.
Afraid of flights missed in a blur,
Afraid of clocks that always stir.
Afraid of corners that twist and turn,
Afraid of fighter jets that dive and burn.
Afraid of invasions by silent infections,
Afraid of immune system insurrections.
Afraid of asking the growing cancer,
Afraid of receiving the definitive answer.
Afraid of not living beyond midnight’s moon,
Afraid of falling too soon.
Afraid of turning age eighteen,
Afraid of a shattering orgasm scream.
Afraid of constant consensual intercourse,
Afraid of riding her like a cockhorse.
Afraid of butter on inner thighs,
Afraid of gouging out my blue eyes.
Afraid of letting go of my semen,
Afraid of the big bad wolf demon.
Afraid of taking it in the anus hole,
Afraid of chewing my teeth whole.
Afraid of sticking my finger inside,
Afraid of confronting professor’s pride.
Afraid of her clever extortion,
Afraid of spreading her legs for an abortion.
Afraid of the birds and the bees,
Afraid of schoolgirl skirts cut above the knees.
Afraid of synagogue’s sermon,
Afraid of crotch-sized vermin.
Afraid of the ceaseless masturbation,
Afraid of my own castration.
Afraid of the heroine’s yesterday,
Afraid of inevitable decay.
Afraid of church service at fault,
Afraid of pillars of dead sea’s salt.
Afraid of creating my rejected art,
Afraid of giving up my somber heart.
Afraid of catching on fire,
Afraid of burning alive as I expire.
Afraid of reading psalms,
Afraid of nails driven through my palms.
Afraid of growing up to be homicidal,
Afraid of my best trait being suicidal.
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.06.05.10.29.59@130BklyNYC
Another East Girl
Oh, there goes just another East Girl
She’s a druggie
She’s a prostitute
She’s pushing a baby buggy
She’s got horns
She’s got a camera
She’s got honeycomb thorns
She’s got amber eyes
She’s got money troubles
She’s robbing banks in disguise
She’s just across the border
She’s got a deep sickness
She’s ignoring that court order
She’s selling herself
She’s cutting deals and giving discounts
She’s ignoring self-help books on the shelf
She’s challenging the fox
She’s swallowing the dreams
She’s choking on big cocks
She’s hidden her head in shame
She’s full of vulgar vocabulary
She’s playing the pretentious game
She’s digging in the coal mine
She’s abandoning reality
She’s snorting the snow line
She’s cut her wrists in pain
She’s pickled her thoughts
She’s stewed her brain
She’s ignoring her kids
She’s falling asleep on the crapper
She’s twisting her dry eyelids
She’s chewing her tongue
She’s swallowing her porcelain teeth
She’s bleeding anal from horse’s hung
She’s drunk with anxiety out of state
She’s soaked her panties with her own golden piss
She’s lost her twin’s trajectory fate
She’s dug an early grave
She’s craving more remedies
She’s spread her legs for a wax and shave
She’s mistakenly a champion of impregnation
She’s up all night and sleeps all day
She’s attempted her abuser’s castration
She’s living in the never-ending nightmare
She’s positive for gonorrhea and syphilis and chlamydia
She’s regretting fucking scum men so bare
She’s abominable and alone
She’s frail and fragile
She’s rotten to her very last bone
She’s hanging on to her last thread
She’s lost and buried her past
She’s without an obituary now dead
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.05.20.10.31.51@130BKLYNNYC
The Surgeon
Like a migrating bird
coming back each year
Like wild indigo
coming back each year
Like a trip around the sun
coming back each year
-
Took a photo together
Started over the East River
Took a dip and broke the bed
Admired the sunset
Three dozen stories above
Perverted
Passionate
Paradise
Children heal from her wisdom
Children heal from her steady hands
From the city that never sleeps
To the heartbeat of Africa
Reservoirs filled with cravings
Running laps and hiking mountains
A shade of autonomy anatomy
And a dash of brilliant buoyancy
Naughty nectar nailed
Orchestrated orgasmic oasis
Enjoyable erotic encounter
Genuine glowing grace
Raw radiant rhythm
Unrestrained unfolding uptown
Sensational seduction slipping
Going
Coming
Hiding
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.05.02.11.54.00@130BklynNYC
Madness
This pain I feel
In my head
Daily pain
In my head
All the time
In my head
It’s driving me to complete madness
It’s making me flirt with
Uncommon thoughts
Uncomfortable thoughts
It’s making me flirt with
Common thoughts
Comfortable thoughts
It’s making me contemplate
Wrong decisions
It’s making me contemplate
Easier decisions
Just to ease the pain
If only for a moment
So when you look at me
Do not stare in owe
Do not witness innocence
Do not hear without listening
Just recognize the pain in my head
Recognize the everyday madness
That I’d rather smash my skull
Into a concrete wall
Repeatedly
To relieve this daily pain
To relieve this daily pain
Over
And over
And over again
This madness in my head
No relief
Sleep
Drugs
Sprays
Steroids
Blockers
Infusions
Injections
Stimulants
Antagonists
Stimulations
Biofeedback
Acupuncture
Interventions
Supplements
Modifications
Electrocutions
Neuromodulations
Amputate my head
Be done with it
Rid of myself of this daily pain
No more
A lengthy sleep
A definitive sleep
A permanent sleep
Is what I forever seek
To get myself out of this
Madness
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.05.01.16.26.49@130BklynNYC
Paris, March 14th, 1932
Smashed the safety glass in the door
Shattering shards fall to the floor
Alarming the nursing staff
Calls for security
Screams echo in the halls
Frightened parents shelter their children
Up here on the 12th floor
I stand on the side of the bed
Next to the large glass windowpane
With both hands I’m griping an IV pole
Holding it parallel to the vinyl tile floor
Ready to find freedom
Ready to do nothing
Four men in white uniforms
Barged into my hospital room
Hurled me onto the bed
Haloperidol injections in my legs
Confined me in tight restraints
On the innocent white bed sheets
Arms bound
Legs bound
Thought I was living the dream
Had to break out
Had to find out what it’s all about
Audubon Ballroom across the street
Every working man got a corner coffee in their hand
tic tac breath mints lined up nicely
Control the traffic lights
Illustrate the shadows
Deliveries made to the hospital
Didn’t see that water fountain in the hallway yesterday
Went for a deep sleep in the middle of winter
Woke up to trees budding
Morning birds welcoming Spring
The new Viper
Relaxed and playful newscasters
More hair under my armpits
The Doctor having me draw dots
Draw more dots
Draw dots
Dots
Learn fast and cheek the pills
Keep three nails in the wooden door available
Hide your deodorant
Whisper about the dead
Shed light under the covers
Strangers do the Thorazine shuffle
Count, Track, Note, Observe, Deliver
Broken glass on the shag rug
Mirror Mirror on the wall
Repetition is here
This infection
No hallucination
This unknown
Molded me
Framed me
Built the skeleton that holds me upright
Shuts the closet door
Filled with secrets but not nightmares
Guy helped me
The King helped me
Little Rich helped me
With pencil in hand
Drawing pad at my side
Here I am
To declare victory
Decades later
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.04.27.09.34.55@130BklynNYC
Stolen Coffee
As usual, I wake up at 5:15am, every day of the week.
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Some mornings I eat breakfast before I work out with my trainer at the gym starting at 6:00am. Some mornings I take my 4-mile brisk walk around the park starting at 5:20am. Some mornings I do some at-home fitness. Some mornings, after breakfast, I’ll have coffee. To prepare that coffee, I first start boiling water in a blue kettle. While the water in the blue kettle is heating up, I pour the whole beans (Usually of single origin) into my bean grinder. I then grind the beans for about 20 seconds. After which I pour the ground coffee beans into one of my three French presses. The blue kettle whistles to let me know when the water has come to a boil. I turn off the flame and I pick up the blue kettle. I then pour the boiling water from the blue kettle into one of my three French presses. Then I place the plunger and top of the French press in place, but don’t yet plunge it downwards. I let the coffee sit and sit. Then when I think of it, usually, I’d say, 5-10 minutes of seeping, I plunge the filter downwards in the beaker of one of my three French presses.
My coffee smells delicious.
The scent alone rattles my insides.
With notes of rich smoky chocolate.
I pour my hot coffee into a huge 16oz white mug that has the letters “coffee” on one side. I’ve always wondered why it was spelled “coffee” and not “Coffee” with a capital letter “C.” I’m convinced this mug holds more than 16oz. I love this mug so much. So much that I bought two of them, out of, perhaps, irrational fear, that one mug would break one day. Years later, I found the mug again and purchased two more. I now own four of them. All are operational, not broken, and continue to bring joy in my life every day of the week.
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
I was alarmed today.
Someone stole my coffee.
My coffee was gone.
And gone was my coffee.
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.04.24.08:31:09@130BklynNYC
Sorry I’m Late
My watch around my wrist
Not too tight to make an impression
Finest time piece from Mesozoic times
Even a collection can’t buy time
With paisley shirts and penny loafers
Opa’s cuckoo clock
From the streets of Gießen
To Kristallnacht’s escape
Discovered it was a dentist’s office
Now a student’s flat
Sister’s clock radio with the red digital digits
Made of plastic wood
With wire cord too short
Alarm set early and snooze always pressed
Upside down books get you nowhere
Grandfather clock down the hall
Chimes on every hour like a soldier
From Bethlehem to Queens
Ghosts never left home
Elijah waltzes in without veto
Tick Tock the clock the students spy on
Until school day’s end
Hanging on institutional green paint
Recess at play be gay
Jeanne gave chocolates behind the teacher’s desk
A lost man in a meadow
Taught me to read the sun
As he bled from his wounds
His blood mixed with the dirt
If only he called ahead
I apologize I’m late.
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.04.14.15.06.17@130BklynNYC
The Marathon of Life
Born
Be a baby
Be a kid
Be a student
Be an adult
Work 9-5
Monday to Friday
Forget Saturday
Sunday Blues
Pay your debt
Catch up on sleep
Do your laundry
Cook your meals
Wash your dishes
Pay your bills
File your taxes
Brush your teeth
Comb your hair
Wash your skin
Armpits
And dirty feet
Piss
Shit
Cum
Eat
Drink
Visit the Doctor
Cough
Sneeze
Virus
Disease
Age
Die
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.04.09.07.44.00@130BklynNYC
The Chair
When I was a young child,
My parents would sit me in a chair
And force me to watch them have sex
–
I’d say, if I recall correctly,
This happened frequently,
When I was between the ages of 7 and 9
Definitely before I reached puberty
It happened in evenings mainly
Sometimes afternoons
And was usually on weekends
Even more precisely,
Saturdays
They would call me into their bedroom
I’d see the chair. Or shall I say,
“The Chair”
It was a chair specifically for one type of usage
For me to sit on
When my parents had sex
So, when they called me into their bedroom
And I saw the chair
I knew what was about to happen
And I knew I had to take a seat
I would never see the chair
On any other occasion
In fact, I’m not sure where they stored it
In a closet? In the attic? In the basement?
It was not a folding chair, so, obviously,
It had to take up a significant amount of space
It could not have been hidden in a corner behind curtains
Or behind the laundry hamper
The chair was made of wood
No idea what kind. Pine?
The wood shade was on the lighter side
Does that make it Pine?
I am no wood expert
I am not a carpenter
The chair was not stained
The chair was not painted
Just the raw wood
The chair didn’t seem old
But didn’t seem new
But it did seem used before it was used by me
But for different occasions than I used it for
The chair had a back to it
So, I was able to sit, somewhat comfortably
At least in a physical way
They did not tie me to the chair
In reflection, I don’t know why I didn’t get up
Perhaps out of fear for retaliation
From my parents
Sometimes you just do what you are told
I thought this was normal
I never spoke of this to my friends at the time
I figured many people have done this with their parents
I did not find it strange
I did not find it awkward or a violation
Or an abuse
It’s what I grew up with
I sat in the chair
Always clothed
Usually in clothing an average kid would wear at that age
I was never naked
Maybe once or twice in my pajamas
I was never degraded
I was never made to feel belittled
I was never made to feel out of place
In a way, I was welcomed
I sat in the chair
Somewhat relaxed
Sometimes my hands were in my lap
Sometimes my hands gripped the edges of the chair
I’m surprised, if I recall correctly,
I never did get any splinters from the wooden chair
I sat in the chair
And watched my parents have sex
On rare occasion
My father would say to me,
“Are you watching?”
And if my father didn’t say it, my mother would say,
“Are you watching us?”
That is distinct in my mind
My father just said it more simply,
As if he was more concerned with me
Being aware of the action
Whereas my mother added the word “Us”
To the end of her question,
As if she was more concerned with me
Acknowledging that these two people
In front of me having sex
Were my mother and father
My parents
Growing older, it often came up jokingly in conversation
Among friends and partners,
“Have you ever walked in on your parents having sex?”
I would always dodge answering or just say that I never did
The reality is, I probably sat in the chair one hundred times
Watching my parents have sex
Could that number be accurate?
I’m shrugging my shoulders
Could this be possible?
I think so?
Every time when I see a chair
Especially a wooden chair
I think of my childhood
And how I sat in the chair
And watched my parents have sex
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.04.07.15.29.03@130BklynNYC
Accuracy
Last night I attended an event at an art space
Part lecture
Part performance
Before I entered the venue
I was standing outside on the street
A stranger struck up a conversation with me
He asked what I did for a living
I said, “I’m an artist.”
He immediately said, “I’m sorry.”
Followed by asking me,
“Have you tried killing yourself yet?”
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.04.05.07.04.23@130BklynNYC
Scab
I am the scab
that keeps coming back
I am the head in the oven
I am the river below the bridge
I am the tracks guiding the train
I am the knife hidden in the drawer
I am the gasoline next to the kindling
I am the current beneath the hull of the ferry
I am the mouth on the end of the exhaust pipe
I am the spool of heavy rope in the corner of the studio
I am the time not taken
I am the eulogy not given
I am the echo in your head on repeat
I am the revolver you pick up at the end of the day
I am the depression that whips you around the bend
I am the scab
you cannot defeat
I am the scab
you cannot heal
I am the scab
you cannot pick off
I am the scab
you cannot let go of
I am the scab
that keeps coming back
© 2025 David Greg Harth
25.04.03.14.46.16@130BklynNYC