the japanese sings my song
you repeat the words
grab the bakery and run
you did your daily motion
to the upper side of park
have ride in the night
see  luminosity trembling
horizontally snowing
and other strange things
they fix the holes in the road
you woke up at noon
and have stop dreaming of me
stop dreaming me
i dissolve
everything's calm

Crosshatched tower of black ropes
Spiral towards poofy marshmallow clouds
A tempation for each passing youth
To gather around in crowds
All together the creatures, they climb
Grasping rope and some stranger's limb
Bodies fall to the earth like potato sacks
No limits in order to win...

I feel like life is over,
Can’t stand the pain,
Come on an get it over,
This living's insane,
Popped into the fire,
Now I’m playing the game,
Unfulfilled desires,
Will it ever change?

I wander through the park on a Saturday night,
Scorin’ up a piece, now I’m hitting that pipe,
I’m broke, outta work, I’m thrown under the bus,
With two quarters in my pocket under ****-crowing Je-sus!

Take it! Take it…take it all, all, all, all,
Take it all, get high and fall.
Take it all, all, all, all, take it all, all, all, all,
TAKE IT…TAKE IT…all, all, all,
Take it all, get high and fall.
TAKE IT, all, all, all,
TAKE IT all, all, all, all…

Can he see me?
Can he hear me?
My mind’s a blank,
Time is slowing down...
The pain is all gone,
Push it, load it up,
It’s nearing dawn,
Come on an get it up,
Yeah it’s nearing dawn!

I wander through the park on a Saturday night,
Scorin’ up a piece, now I’m hitting that pipe,
I’m broke, outta work, I’m thrown under the bus,
With two quarters in my pocket under ****-crowing Je-sus!

Take it! Take it…take it all, all, all, all,
Take it all, get high and fall.
Take it all, all, all, all, take it all, all, all, all,
TAKE IT…TAKE IT…all, all, all,
Take it all, get high and fall.
TAKE IT, all, all, all,
TAKE IT all, all, all, all…

spoken word

*I wander through the park on a Saturday night,
Scorin’ up a piece, now I’m hitting that pipe,
I’m broke, outta work, I’m thrown under the bus,
With two quarters in my pocket under ****-crowing Je-sus!

Pollen scented halos
float on tin music
played from under
pop-up gazebos
(providing insurance
against dark clouds
blotting the horizon).
Light dims and glares
as the sun plays peek-a-boo
with infants running
to no end.

Pram junkyards,
picnic islands;
the territories of the
green and daisy-dotted land.
***** thumped with bass notes
in wrong directions;
dads run after toe-poked
spheres into the road.
Trees watch from the edges;
a shallow forest leading
to suburbia, where the *****,
gazebos, children are stored.

Dogs. Oh, the dogs.
This is their land, of course.
They make the rules
and pull their clothed
owners like staggering drunks
into the deep of the park.

A man jogs past.
A bike rings it's bell.
A laugh wins the
battle of decibels.
A plastic bag rustles
in the exhaling wind.
The daisies vibrate
and reach to leave their
grassy bed.
But they are part of the park.
May they never leave.
May England remain this
way in memories forever.

He was too lazy
to put pennies in his loafers
and too cheap
to offer a penny for your thoughts
nickel & diming
his way through life
until the pennies had no value
and the thoughts weren't cost effective
and the income was disposable
and the outcome was predictable.

With sweet nostalgia hanging in the air, the winds pick up and spread it through the park like butter on toast. Orchestrating the poplars' subtle and routine symphony, the winds travel, leaving a slight coolness in their wake. A clue to their presence. The over-powering scent of familiarity lingers and invades the senses, prompting a catharsis. A feeling reaches deep into the soul and reacts. The product, being of a something...of two somethings, perhaps, unknown.

In response, the heart skips a beat, jostling the distracted mind awake and alert to the surroundings. Opening the eyes.

And you notice, quite suddenly, how alive the world around you really is. Like the curtain opening to a show. And an array of beautiful notions dart to and fro, as if attempting to escape your understanding and into the wind that journeys; even through the tiniest blades of the grass at your feet. If an idea could only wander from one spot to another, like the sound of children's laughter echoing between the old trees. If one pure thought could escape and find host in another, would that not be a beautiful thing? Or for the indomitable affection of two lovers sitting at a park bench to trickle over and illuminate the heart of the old man passing by. If only beauty and love be so easily given and not so easily taken.

The gentle fluttering of wings breaks concentration, as a nearby dove settles upon a low branch that is set to swinging. From its perch, the park must seem smaller as it watches the people move amongst the greenery, ignorant to its presence above. Save one. A face, upturned. A soul reaching out for an understanding of beauty's very nature and being met by the gaze of a single, white dove.