Central Park Blues

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,

He laments:

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

…you’ll see…

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

Intangible, impalpable

Like his dreams

Like the air that carries the early morning chirpings

That surround him in his isolation.

Another day, another dream, another drag

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