It is Tuesday, I think
I am a bus driver, in a race across the country
My big black bus, revving up for the green
My unrecognizable copilot next to me,
Giving directions and flipping radio stations.
The green drops, the race begins
Green busses, brown busses, red busses, white busses
Slow busses, fast busses, convertible busses, broken busses
We are in the lead, fumes trailing out the giant chrome pipes behind us
Others sucking them up.
The speedometer races up past one hundred,
I turn, tip and roll
It flips, and now it becomes a hill
Spinning around me as I fall.
Suddenly, a tight pull
The rope from my harness catches
My boots dig into the snowy cliff where I am hanging.
I pull myself up, my arms feeling nothing
As I crawl up
The rope snaps
Falling spinning, hurling towards the ground
My arms grow into wings
Flapping, I fly
Soaring and diving
The skies are mine.
Suddenly, crashing down
ZAP CRACKLE POP
The skies become an alley
Three pushers fighting for turf
I interrupted and was paying the price
Fists into my stomach
Boots into my side
Only darkness hears my cries for help
HONK HONK HONK HONK
The alley disappears, in itís place
The pushers replaced by a jacket, some jeans and a shirt.
The dreamline pauses until tonight
Ready to return again