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From: "Sean Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6: James Albert Caine IV
Date: Thu, 12 Oct 2000 08:10:03 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/04/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon (UPDATED 10/04/00
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/04/00)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
Walk About Journals: Henry Whitman: June 23 1991.
Riding the New Jersey palisades skyline in my cab, I
fly north of the George Washington Bridge plaza, and
land with my car parking at the curb adjacent to
Audubon and 174th, Washington Heights. Here I sit
listening to New York's fucked up Horse, druggie,
cocaine, crack, shit up your head, Man, 'I'll kick you
mother fucking' ass, You Mother Fucking Faggot, Slut.
If you're holding you fucked up 'Ho....'"
Overheard conversations set the pace of my skin.
Sitting here I wait for a regular charge customer who
owns several bodegas in Washington Heights. The fuck
is too cheap to use an armored car so I sit here
risking my ass waiting for him to count his fucken
greenbacks. For all I know the fucker is selling his
kid's ass and pocketing the vig from three drug scam
loan shark operations.
Yes, I live now in the world of deep dark forbidden
miserable headlines, news clips, radio sound bytes:
TEN YEAR OLD RAPED; Three Men, Twenty-five to Forty-
three ...in head and sub head.
We live in a furious murder saga (made ever lasting on
all tabloids, print or Electronic)
"I know I'm fucken flat out ready to pop Senor," the
Dominican hooker held up her naked child tits with
inch long nipples; (pregnant belly larger than two
heads) "but I need five or ten dollars more, Senor,"
she said, "and if you want to let me suck your cock
off, I'd swallow, or do half and half, my pimp he
don't know so I go long time, Yes, I wants the green,
"the money, Senor," she said, dodging the cars and
trucks in a half accent.
"Get the fuck away, I told her. I am not unfeeling. I
know the only way I can help if I am serious is to
ignore her and the cheap thrill in a world that craves
garbage. I know. I am a picker of garbage. Why not?
Henry writes in his notebook:
Something about the risk of fucking a skinny crack
head, and that makes you turn away more, this one's
too far-gone Kaposi's sarcoma and all.
I am innocent, sitting in my cab, hearing but not
really seeing the traffic light click green; she is
some fucked up scrawny bitch. She looks ten years old
going on fifty thousand, shit, worse than a corpse, if
you can imagine fucking the dead as I racked my ass up
for my shitten schemes (curious necrophilia) and this
misery made it worse. Yes, I want peace and quiet.
Where the fuck is that shitten bodega hopping
motherfucker. Sitting here for a half hour even at
forty percent of 18 dollars in waiting time that is
about 6 dollars an hour with tip. Well that sucks.
Yes, if memory is the work, and I am here perverting
the green landscape memories of a once lived life with
Theresa and Patricia, Lorraine and Marlene or whatever
woman my mind recalls.
Part I.
1961 was clean, really lusty. It was a true past (and
not this skinny Ho you have to be insane to let shake
your hand)?
Yes, this is my New York skyline negative. It is a
great gray razed to the past only if you forget what
you did and whom you have loved.
Yea, stop watching the lights turn amber. Hear the
curse. Smile and you will spit at the sad child
begging for hand jobs.
Do the right thing, the man said, from the pulpit.
I've been to the Mountain Top with King. Don't shout
your ignorant racist slogans; don't become entangled
in the dark macadam highway when the vines snap shut.
It is deadly when murder shifts with the skyline from
blue to red tinted. What happens when you slip with
the present into the past where Theresa's elegant, so
brilliant in a pink and with a lace blouse? She wears
expensive earrings and has soft blushing lipstick that
makes her lips shine.
Wearing a two and three quarter white diamond Theresa
is a terrible rush. My darling was too rich and
decadent, but almost as perfect a hypocrite as I am. I
love and hate it.
Yes, I told you it was really 1961, but you are not
fucken home again. I am just visiting. I tell that to
Theresa, but as the passage leaps like a cracked time
musical bar, you grow, and the wisdom, well we'll
leave that for the pundits in the press on the fucked
up five O'clock Network TV News.
They know the answers, the politicos say, "fucken A."
Just like Nam or Watts or Newark and Detroit; all
would shortly fall like the dirty crimes of arrogant
intellectuals (and their self serving politicians). We
all survive it starting with this violent 1961 reverie
of Jimmy Caine my other mask as he we will rage down
the highway in taxis, limousines, and then race
quarter horses into the Mekong river with tiny John
Kennedy (PT Boat), King (School Bus) and Bobby
(Kissing J. Edgar and Hoffa on a Love Boat sunrise
excursion).
Go forward on with Nam; find that in country lullaby;
forget the world, soldier you are dead. Welcome you
are there. Edward R. Murrow smokes dust from the eyes
of a serious Christ.
He rode with dear God in more PT boats and lived this
forever war; 1963-74, 75 and another Kampuchea more
than uncounted, approximate 1,000,000 dead soul mayhem
(they really counted the skulls and by the way what is
approximate death, one wag asked).
We are all murderers faking indifferent mind games. We
play at the personal and dance with intimate memories.
When I first said the words Nam, NEW FUCKING GUY,
CHERRY, I WAS ONE. In place I found the riots
undeveloped military action defined to know power
better. What better training for woman. Here are the
witnesses to these racial murders; we fill the
suffering with huge rafts of every riot year.
There were new riots in Newark, Watts, Detroit and a
thousand other small town tragedies (ten thousand
skull and cross bones, KKK lynching); here's the gasp
or should I say gash of TxM6 AKA Taxi Murders Sextet.
Play the sound track with live soprano sax, drums,
acoustic bass, horn, and vibes: hear the mutilation
chorus.
Over a two-year period of 21 women by Antonio and
Maria Corvino: It is blank death with full color
slides and artistic professional mutilation.
All this was held back as I with Jimmy assaulted the
enemy in Nam, up front screaming at burning down
helicopters, this hero, Jimmy, myself, dragging his
ass and three buddies clear of the Huey wreck for life
and not a fuckin medal, they got to be kidding, but I
kept it, gave it to the Vietnam wall last year as it
swallowed the blood but no forgiveness really, and
later; Yes, I said, Let lose skin and brains for a
stupid little war, they will say.
Be a fucked up patriot, shit, I'm a yearling Spoony at
West Point, September around the corner, I say. What
more can I do for the future? It's 1961 and I want to
be a war hero fucking Casanova with Theresa and a
thousand other babes in arms, as if death were a
release from sex, perhaps not?
Theresa, don't let go as she put it, smeared the come
juice in her hand, got hard against her thigh and ass,
as if I was bound to her cunty hairs, and with her
mouths I must use that word, or another equally vulgar
word, Pussy.
Theresa also called it her nest, or Mrs. Henry (my
prick was Mr. Henry). Anything at all, I said, and
considering the name of my best buddy at the Point was
Henry, it was too obvious, and I was in love with all
the symbols for doing the dirty thing- as our parents
named it.
While Theresa and I petted, I loved to count the
clouds and ignore dangerous chills; no one could hurt,
and when the sky, like my passion, rushed the birches,
seemingly out of character, as if the jungle gray and
green and scarlet had suddenly opened, and we were
alive in a rain forest and held by these safe
illusions.
No responsibility. Pleasure. Fucken A.
Yes, Finally, a gasp, and then a sigh, as she came
while I held her legs, my cock in my pants, sheathed,
and sipping at her cunt with my lips, I whispered,
letting my breath blush, utter her lips shuddered and
the deep spasms, two, three, then a break in the
belly, and then lesser ones, that my thumb felt
scissors pressed inside the elastic skin and ribbed
walls of the sheath, an old game I learned from MG.
Hold back, pause. Watch. Stop. Start up. Each time the
engine races. Up cliff, over edge, oblivion's ocean;
that's murder.
Tatto:...Tatto:...Tatto:...
No, that was not Theresa, but a darker Angel who had
previously had made sex into a war, and as endless
combat between organs, weapons were held ready for a
second or third bout. Every time it gets better.
The war was longer, Mary Gail said.
Your age of my cock grew brittle, Jimmy sang back,
until your defoliated and layers of epidermis were a
shelf of cells disturbed and then there was the agony
of recoil, just normal life braving the hill, pumping
it up, like grunts moving in that magic weaving
"eight" formation, popping a sniper who pratfalls (in
reality?) from the scene or day/night intromission
(intervention?) sears the war in celluloid with an XXX
rated cover photo, and a sweat tease of a babe in
shorts, fondling her breasts, aroused as the enemy,
marching for glory down downtown DC, stripping off
medals and fornicating with angels.
Say that over and over, that's an order: "The age of
my cock grows brittle. The age of my cock grows
brittle. The age of my cock grows brittle."
Let each fuck or suck or lick add to what you have
memorized. Jealousy is banished, you hear. You lovers
could be grateful, and get down on your fucken knees;
don't worry about identity. OK, enough of that
bullshit, troop, praise them nigger soldiers, beg them
to understand how grateful you are for what they gave
for your white trash passage.
How can you be jealous of what was.
I want my humping lovers to make love in the past,
Maj. Caine ordered; bring us there. Voyeurs witness a
grand military revival, but then again I know you like
to watch and be watched anyway, anytime- I made no
sacrifice, really.
Remember scumbags, fellow shit kickers, there's no
such thing as sloppy seconds or thirds. Most of us
can't do it more than once, but you're 18, and that's
number ten by any score.
You young men are raw animals, but not expert, heavy
on the petals, but hear it above the drum roll, this
is taps, your ass licking cartoon overture. You are
one sad shit, piece of dog turd, asshole motherfucker.
You're dead. Life starts at 0445 hit the deck,
motherfucker. You're part of the United States Army
you hump of shit.
End of interlude.
Theresa rested, head back, and I touched her mouth,
and she sucked my thumb, I stirred her neck, and as I
kissed I gently sneak up the elastic waist to cup her
tit, gently playing the back of her nipple, sensuous
ridges, thumbing the stems, memorizing the rise and
fall of the flat top, and the descent as a baby with
one tooth holds on, its a terror, she said, stopping
at four months, holding it between two fingers like
big cocks, nipples, clits or later, after she was wet
(usually before I touched her clit), jerking us off,
wetting it with spit and lips, reaching inside, two
fingers up the snatch, after a hour of first just
rubbing and open kissing, furious, and her brown
ragged bush and its soft hot, shivering as sight and
talent mingled in the long song that "Chances Are" we
sang with Johnny Mathis, we played lead and back up as
the back ground music of any slow dance lullaby in
bass rocked and then slowly tamed my hands which
seemed attached to what I must feel like inside her
skin, and when she pulled at my hand, pressured my
stop, asked me to stop, as I reached lower, shaking;
No, I ... she said let me, reaching through my pants,
she held my cock, the appendage she called Mr. Henry
and when I came in my underwear, she kissed my lips,
and why can't I help you, no, she said, if you were to
touch my heart inside, you know, than we would make
love, I would open my arms and risk your life and
career let alone mine while I raped you, dear Man of
my life. I would find a way, she shouted, and I
answered, heaven help her, my glorious majesty.
I am taken inside, my mind only, feeling my cock,
years later, I imagined my belly opened up, and when I
breathed I remember how natural shapes, Mary-Gail and
Theresa, foils and counter stroke, within the contour
of my willing leaf then branch, even a slight mists
melded as diamonds and sapphires shifted light from
ordinary bloom to a barge drifting sleep across a lake
flooded like the pale rose flowers on her translucent
blouse. The stains deep from the interior pulse more
than radiance and luster but just as wholesome as the
primary's, yellow, red, blue, and don't forget the
summary, black (absence), and do not forget white
(fullness, abundance), that almost unbearable color-
the pink and cream of the gig, thy cunny was pure as
what time keeps. Easily we capture the perfect silver
light and the drab umber night. Every day of our
outing I watched Theresa's sex. I hid in the bushes I
removed my pants when I watched her sex.
I didn't remove her pants, and stretch and strain,
pushed against the elevator wall, my knee punctuating
her sex - separating the layers of clit and vulva,
rasping her clit, macroscopically vibrating- (or
handled in the stairwell we hid) she had her first
orgasm, so she said many years later, my fingers, four
five fist, almost, stuck inside.
I was less than innocent, at that age, and I was not.
I didn't know how she came. It was inside she said.
For me- not you.
Not that I was an expert. Most of the time, Mary-Gail
Gail had faked her orgasm. I learned these
distinctions later. Theresa admitted to our gift,
casually telling it, surprising my sensibility. Five
years later, I seemed almost innocent.
It was my standard always, she said, and you never
entered. Isn't that wonderful and almost odd (as we
saw it then) for 1961?
After all we were nineteen years old and had not
murdered anyone with any weapon of any kind except our
cocks.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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