Park Life
Dickens strikes again:
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times
A man on a raft, adrift on a sea of grass
The loneliness, waiting, hungry for anthacus and arches
The ancient Roman circus in his mind blooms like lips
Red, full, wet and opening to spew violence and lust
Teeth a textured amphitheater, cobblestones in rough circles
The tongue leads like a hole in the wall of trees
Breathing furious vengeance and small truths
A sword, ever ready for war of sorts, and angry
The evil squirrel heckles the con is on
And beckons scum and scoundrel from behind sacrosanct hydrants
The hour glass trash silhouette the breasts of earth
Now the man holds sway in concentration
The chessboard is tiled across the infinite monoliths
Crowding the small scenes of Paris in New York
Against a pale sky with an artificial sun
They make mad patterns of Escher intricacy puzzling the mind
An escape artist lifts trash from a fountain
While a couple mumbles old shoes are the best shoes
And there is fog on the far horizon, threatening this daydream
In my head, the fog lowers and the horizon is blurred into nothing.
September 30, 1998
