THE FACES IN THE WALLS. -monologue.

It was a humid, angry, broken down city, and it had lost its mind. 

It was screaming into the night, and somewhere off in the distance, in one of it's old quiet forgotten corners, there was a motel room, with an old man making visions, secrets, and madness. 

It was a dim lit room, with filth stained walls and yellowed windows, and the fleas were jumpin. And there was moans next door. And there were gunshots outside, in that wet stale air. And someone was laughing in the alley, outside, down below, I think it was laughing? 

There was no fridge, no food, and nobody, just a small cot, a desk, and a sink to pee in, and the old man, in boxers, on his back, sweating like a pig, in that hot night. 

He was staring at the yellowed walls, covered with stains and water marks, and he could see faces in them. 

Faces in the filthy walls, haunting the room, with all the desperation they've seen. 

And he could hear them. 

Wailing together, in shame, from the other side, putting on a show, for thirty thousand nights. 

And this night, was his night, to see the show. 

"After I'm gone, Will I be up there too?" He wondered.

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The Shadow In The Old Grey Sedan. -monologue.

The old grey sedan barrels down the highway with a cigarette in its mouth. 

The old man's suit and five o clock, stare down the road to see the future.

Tall trees whop whop by, like giant pendulums, as far as the eye can see. 

It's The Eternal Corridor, Ladys and Gentleman, there's nothing but trees and road, and sky.

The engine wails and the wheels roar, on down the road.

But he's still under the tree, in front of his house. Tree sap and bird droppings litter the car, marking it for purgatory, marking it for all the years down the highway.

His head is static, squealing, clicking, buzzing, and regret is stabbing over and over. White knuckled on the steering wheel, he goes, stoic, barreling down the highway he goes, trying to get home.

And the vents in the dash, blow hot hot winds, in his face and heart, off the engine, and up from the furnaces of hell, in the hot night, in that old car, down the highway, down the eternal corridor.

Staring into a thousand years, but he has no currency here.

Pray for him, my brothers and sisters, that he might have change for the tolls.

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THE CONFIRMATIO. -monlogue.

I can see him.

I can see him.

That Bishop.

He walked out and stood, he slapped me and he cleared up my vision, with a full garb and staff, looking like a relic, looking like a monument.

I can see him.

His dry clay etched face, he's ALIVE in there, standing stiff staring, stoic totem knowing,

standing in the depth of a dark angry ocean, and his sheep huddle close, because, there be monsters here, creeping in a hurry.

And the ancients can see too, calling out from their perches, way back there, in the long

dark past.

They call out begging.

To the modern man,

"Look!

Look and see!

Morality -IS- Physics!"

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THE ROSARIUM. -monologue.

Myrrh fills the darkness of the room.

The faint red light, over the altar of God.

The eyes of ancients looming down. 

Stuck on the walls, in eternity.

Since Adam.

Men in black cassocks.

Women in veils.

They burn incense and cry to heaven, they dwell here with God. 

Pleading with their mother, for her prayers to God, droning together,

"Ave maria, gratia plena,..."

Ave maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum..."

Suddenly a hand bell rings.

And sung like an announcement, like angels after a trumpet,

"GLORY-AAAAH!

Patri et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto..."

I breathe in and smell.

Smoke, burned wax, damp mold, decay, soil, and poverty.

But it's so clean in here.

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THE NOBLE VAGRANT. -monologue.

Many years ago, in the backside of town. 

I saw old men in dirty old suits, with slightly overgrown tapered hair cuts, slicked back with grease. 

I heard raspy voiced, wild tales, about adventures on the road. It was like a private club out there, on the sidewalk. 

I saw them conserving cigarette butts, by rolling. Eating two dollar breakfasts and drinking one dollar drinks all day. In make shift "holes in the walls", with businesses built from hallways, with bar stools, and a long counter. 

Ash trays and condiments down the counters, like an exhibit. 

And every seat filled with a worn out man, huddled over each plate. 

A dingy, chatter, smoke filled, tight fit. Sometimes with lines of men out the door like a soup kitchen. 

I saw this when America was free. 

I saw them eke out tomorrow's living, by peddling, pitching, and performing for small bills. 

I saw them working manual labor, looking out of place in their suits, dirty and torn. 

Like saints. 

They were that town, right down to the accent, it was written all over their faces, you could smell it all over them and every town has one of them. 

The Noble Vagrant. 

He knows where everything's at. 

Just ask him some time.

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OUR VANITY BECKONS IT. -monologue.

Every night before I sleep, I hear that night train far way. And it's crying out, like whales do for sailors. And I know, one day it comes for me, to go to the other-side. To that place all men dread, because we know Hell is there. Hell for those who don't pack well for trips far away. 

We all hope we packed well, but judgement is stark.

In that day, it's naked and real, and final.

So hear ye hear ye oh man! 

Pack well for trips far away, for no man knows the schedule.

Pack well for trips far away, for no man knows for sure what he'll need.

Pack well for trips far away my brothers, it's time to find out, what to believe.

Surrender your comfort now, because we can't hide from the truth over there.

Worry about Hell, because our vanity beckons it.

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