Monologue No. 4

Hey, I know it’s late. I was selfishly hoping you’d be up right now about to go for a run or making a juice or something. I need someone to talk to. Well just you, actually. My ears are still ringing. The sun is almost up. I just got back from this party somewhere in deep Bushwick. You had to be invited or some shit like that. I can see why though, the music was unbelievable. House at its finest. Too good to be in public. It’s a good thing I wore sneakers because the dance floor was waxed and people were moon walking like they were dancing on butter. It was like high school in there. Balloons. A spiked punch bowl. And a buffet. Ha, kinda like adolescent heaven. You know, nostalgic and whatnot…

Listen, I’m not sure if what I’m gonna tell you won't surprise you or shock you. Either way, it’s fucked up. I was walking back through some crusty street back to the train. I turned the corner to see a dead man splayed on the ground. “Splayed.” That’s the only time I think I’ve used that word. “Splattered’s” drunk cousin. He was dead, Jo. Blood and everything. We even had a staring contest. Remember that Ginsberg poem? Something about Brooklyn. But I immediately thought of that line, “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked..”

Shit. If I skipped that last butter dance that could’ve been me. Dead man in my path. Like some voodoo tarot shit. No one was around. And Jo, for the first time in my life, I felt this raw fear. I was surrounded by concrete, windowless blocks. It’s dead there. No life. I was in the void of the jungle. Not even rats hang here. And nothin’s more terrifying than being alone in a void where at any given moment, you’re the prey.

Anyway, I got my run for the day. The sun’s up. I’ll catch ya. Night.

Mono. 1

When are you really done? Is it after three days when your phone stops ringing? Is it when you find the job of your dreams? Is it after you cook that meal to sheer gastronomical perfection? Is it when you move to the city of your dreams? Is it after you ripped up the letters? You know, the ones that are now cigarette-soaked top soil in Steuben Park? Or is it when you start cleaning again? Polishing, scrubbing, perfuming… Are you really done once you walk from 1^st Avenue Loop up to to E. 60^th, and back? Are you done when you start dancing in the underground platforms, waiting for the G at 4:07 AM? Are you done after you had a spontaneous intimate relationship with the toilet bowl after Mr. Bullit told you to go fuck yourself? Are you done after riding a bike with a crooked wheel down an overlooked street? Or when you find a soul mate on the dance floor? Are you done when you stop questioning your logic? Or when you let your emotions sift through you to silently salt the sidewalk? I love sibilance. Or are you done when you fill up a page? Or 10? Or 20? Or a book. Or a magazine. Or an obituary? Are you done because you’re supposed to be done? Or are you just treading water until the Unrequited pays another visit?