Central Park Blues: by Englebert Samerdink
The sullen, solitary man blows his smoke
That swirls in the air that carries the early morning chirpings.
Who is he?
Not of the City, not of the Ghetto,
For they have conspired, and tossed him out.
So he sits alone, in Central Park,
With his cigarettes and birds
Alone and indifferent to the rhapsodies that surround him,
Oh sweet Jesus, I’m on my knees
Please don’t leave me Lord, don’t tease me
Why can’t you hear my plea?
…unanswered, he continues to smoke
His mind, groggy from the uncomfortability of his existence,
Continues it’s wanderings.
Fragments of a not so long ago childhood ramble through his brain
These images, more certain than his tomorrows
And more vivid than his yesterdays, speak to him:
Why are you such a punk?
Looking into empty space, he answers:
I ain’t no punk, suckah
All you want to do is play ball and get high
I’ll be rich someday, you’ll see suckah
Visions of elbows flying, tennis shoes squeaking
Rubber balls dropping through netless hoops
Take center court in his mind.
A pipe dream turned day dream
Relived through a living nightmare.
Seeking succor he sucks his cigarette
Blows out the vaporized tobacco,
Its swirling configurations hovering above him
Like his dreams
Like the air that carries the early morning chirpings
That surround him in his isolation.
Another day, another dream, another drag