Ya eva’ been jus’ mindin’ your own bizness,
Jus’, ya know, drivin’?
And allofasudden, outta nawhere
(And yeah, I swears, they awl come outta nawhere!)
Comes another bicyclist.
An’ they’re neva – I mean neva-
Usin’ the craws-walks,
An’ ya gotta practick-a-lly jump on ya’ brakes,
An’ whoevers ya happin’ to be drivin’ arownd
They jus’ goes an’ hits the’ heads on the roof o’ the cab,
An’ everyone’s jus’ a-honkin’ and you neva know
Jus’ what the guy was thinkin’.
It’s a damned-big city to jus’ be a-bicyclin’ through,
Ya knows?
-
I swears, ever’time I see a bicyclist,
I rememba’ this-a one time,
(A while ago, I think; ya neva can remember dates, ya know?)
An’ whaddya know, this bicyclist jus’ comes outta nowheres again!
But this time - Oh, it was ugly –
I hit `im and
POW,
They was lyin’ in the street,
All face-down in the city pavement.
It was ridic-ilous, I tell ya,
He was gushing blood all ova’ the place,
An’ the otha’ cabs were jus’ goin’ crazy.
Horns blowin’ and wheels swervin’.
An’ I didn’ know what I oughta do,
(I’m no nurse, no sir.)
So I jus’ lugged `im into the back o’ the cab
An’ he was swearin’ like a damned sailor in the backseat,
An’ I sped off
(As quick as ya can in New York traffic, sheesh)
Dropped that bleeding mess of a cyclist off,
An’ I drove away.
Which, app’rently,
You aren’ suppos’ to do.
Bu hey, ya know?
What can I do?
I’m just a friggin’ cab driver,
An’ I left the meter runnin’.
-
Monologue of a New York taxi driver to a very disgruntled passenger.
Had a little fun there.
Dramatic Monologue Two: Epistle One: Brother
I assume you’re doing well,
In the west, where the sun sets on the desert plains.
And the gold glimmers from all crevices of earth,
Buried in the red-clay, dusty earth.
I assume you’ve made your fortune.
And you’ve left the tiny mining town you first stepped into,
Fresh off the train from Illinois.
What did you say, when you landed in the dusted earth?
Did you forsake god (for the landscape must be so desolate)?
Or did you breathe in the arid winds
And tip the brim of your awkwardly placed
Cowboy hat to lady luck?
For I can only assume that you must look awfully
Funny.
Wearing a hat like that.
Have you met other miners, come to find their riches,
In those little cavern-caves, that I fear will collapse,
And envelop you in the earth.
Brother, I do hope you’ve left the mining town,
I dearly hope you’ve not gone broke.
For I hear that so many that go west
(looking for the “opportunities abound”, as advertised)
Find only fool’s gold and shack-filled towns.
And farming’s no use,
Not when the only green from the earth
Are cacti.
So I hope you may at least look upon the sunsets
And think fondly on your adventures.
I hope that you aren’t lost and gone,
That you may make the journey back,
And see your distraught and fretting wife once more.
She’s been listless and restless since you’ve gone.
All is gone from her eyes,
And I cannot bear to see her
Without you.
So if you have found the gold,
I beg you to return.
And if it eludes you,
Why haven’t you already returned?
Sunshining, through curtain lace
That happened to fall on you
As you lie in the bed
In the bedclothes that were yellowed
And warmed by sun.
And age.
And you.
And I watched as you laid, twisted
Amongst the sheets that creased
And were bunched into a heap.
They looked like mountains.
And you, the sleeping giant
In the valley, near the shore
Of the blue blanket.
-
You, my dear,
Were breathing steady,
(Like I suppose one sleeping does)
And I watched the rise and fall of your
Barren chest,
Left to the elements in the morning light,
Where little streams of sunlight fell, illuminating
Your lackluster skin.
To think, you’d soon wake,
And soon be off, in much haste.
And I would not see you again til evening,
When you would return, from the office in the city.
-
And then you would again become this,
Pajama-clad figure, claimed by sheet-monsters.
-
But, for now, I breathe deeply in,
And I smell the faint hints of musk
That belong solely to you,
My slumbering one.
And the scent of Wednesday morning sunshine.
You look cold (nearly porcelain-like, I’d say)
As you’re claimed by your dreams.
And I see the outlines of yesterday
Still playing on your features.
But still, you look calm.
And I cannot help but to reach
Gingerly (I don’t want to wake you)
And touch your pale face.
A gentle, lingering trace of human touch.
I muss your hair
And it sticks in odd directions,
Like the weaving rays of light.
-
But too soon, I see you leave.
Trailing your sunshine-mornings behind you.
(It pains me so, to watch you go
Into the city, to the office that torments you so.)
And I dive underneath the mountainous sheets, still bunched
Where your ankles would’ve been.
And I settle into the imprint of you.
Left behind in sunshine.
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