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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel   New Chaper 4   Drugs and Sexual Fantasy on the Taxi Stand
Date: Mon, 20 Jan 2003 07:10:04 -0500
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TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel  -New Chapter Four- Taxi Stand: Topography
(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com



NEW & UP AT MY SITE
TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel Chapters 1-70

http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook
http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss

New Chapter 4
Sexual Fantasy on the Taxi Stand
Topography of Fixed Space
George Washington Memorial Bridge
Fort Lee, NJ: North Marginal Road & Lemoine Avenue

Wednesday, September 3, 1986
WALKABOUT JOURNALS
Henry Whitman. "On the Light"

Street signs, stage directions, voices on the cabstand beckon. I am riding
the merry go round wasting on the stand for the next call. That fucken
stand is too lovely. It rides above the topography of all living space:
rivers, palisades and highways are more than paths. Great and minor bridges
collapse. Ferry boats, buses, trucks (of all sizes), taxicabs, stop signs,
automobiles (intake and exhaust), bicycles, all media, and tens of millions
of individual human schemes rush the wall screaming darkness inside our fat
or emaciated hands. Half fingers flap over the edges of rock crevice. Throw
up a ball. Nothing falls. Taxi men dream their own demise. When I wait on
the taxi stand for the next flow of bucks, I reach that ache and almost
ejaculate when the radio says pick up in the city, go to Newark, Kennedy,
La Guardia. Cash is. Taxis are the last great world of cash marking
plenitude. Nothing falls when you throw it up. That is the precipice of the
imagination. My mind is Henry. I am that decisive squeal of thought that
the tires blow out when you turn the corner too fast.

How do I get here? The voices ply me with sex seducing intentions: yes,
taxi drivers dream to be paid. Yes, I like to exaggerate everything and
when a stranger leans in my cab and asks the question I would never answer.
"Do you know when is the next bus"?

Answering the sublime. I tell him, seriously, and of course he walks away
shaking his head "How do we get anywhere? Can we find our hands let alone
our feet? What do we know that is truly ordinary?"

Simple answers sometimes void important questions. Do you agree? Glad you
do?

Each day has our monotonous tone. The taxi stand mirrors itself, a
recession, back stepping to the driver, waiting at the edge of the curb for
the stagecoach to stop, effortlessly, pulling away from the curb, in the
great dust storms of the Depression, great Oklahoma dust bowl, dark movie
without skin.

Can anyone find America?

The question was a cliché. Can we forget the myths, the prurient
nationalism, firecrackers and tracers, flares to guide the incoming
above the treelike: Francis Scott Key assembles the parody.


What is my patriotic ruse, or where and when do I stop? Am I always a
marine? The Corps. What can I measure when I massage the short hairs from
beneath my soft palm high within my bunk? I pretended my exploitation. My
jerk off spun without film. I admired the slope bitches' tiny tits.

When the women fell, the AWOL soldier danced across her mat. Immersed in
daily come, the young woman's bed was bare when he forced her mouth to
suffer his cock.

She was not a child. He knew what he felt. She was old, wiry, tough, but
her skin was softer than her infant's mouth sucked my male nipple.
Vestigial and erect, she is a blossom within the black heart of the dyed
daisy.

All my buddies watched, as they gathered as stones on a slate walk
encircling the flagpole of the gate, finding the bar across from the burial
ground, outside headquarters.

In my mind, I dressed her death with fright. She died as I passed over the
open door of her protest. No, she did not say no, but yes, wanting the
script I held.

Falling shrapnel caught my neck she died taking the full impact of the frag
thrown by some Vietnamese who finally met truth and showed herself as the
hero. Finally, someone steps up and I almost die. She is no longer
invisible and fully accessible she carries a child and they both die when,
in the confusion of the events, the Captain turns his weapon on both of
them emptying the clip.

I will remember her years later when we walk along the Hudson River
shoreline south of the Point. I moved the water, as if my God speak. That
was ten years before she died, but in the moments after the assault (as it
was termed by the Army) I was confused in time. Wouldn't you be scared and
unable to show it, you suddenly sit down and look out beyond the concertina
wire and simply breathe?

I stretched my hand backward then forward as I recalled it all learning
that Laurie had been taken and as a flow, when heroes parade out of bounds
I wished I could have stopped all the death. Am I being paid back? Is this
historical revenge?

I really did not want that Vietnamese woman to die. No, I would not have
died for her. What good would that do?

I wanted the small fate of escape. Drawing the imperfect and deadly skin
from wall, the maps imperfectly unfolded. We picked the course, and let
what we cleansed and absolved rested forever as words between the chapters.

-Can I denounce the hero? Can I accept what I did or didn't do? Can I
forget my weakness? Am I not good enough? My racket. There's no ruse. I am
not dishonest. I just flail at my eyes when confronting the wall. The city
left behind. I know the steps I take. I watch myself walk and lie. There's
progress, and I do know how to make my speech perfect. I can convince you.
I love it. Making lives genuine through some bitter absorption. What I brew
I glean.

We are the other part of speech. We can be object or subject as noun.
There's action. We love. I possess what I did. It absolves whatever wrong
or right I practice.

"Who did I murder?"

"No one. I saved life. Never kill. "

Some might say I tore her face with four rounds. The blood felt good on my
hands. Her hair twisted in my mouth; I tore at her breasts, doubled her
cunt with my fist. The progress towards renunciation is a passive first
step towards collecting deadly details.

I love to watch. That's the passion. I dig inside marking the sidewalk with
graffiti. I torture words as a long sideways look back down the past road
inside out and stepping up on the high mountain.

I pass the catch of throat when she comes. Each list of the dead is more
perfect. Walking down the steps. Finding the basement where murder kept her
secrets. No, her is not correct? No gender. What we do is what we speak,
all out of the ordinary. But we pass the curb. Keep the centerline inside
our hands. We treasure safety, watch the courses we fabricate, notice the
accidents, the steps out of bounds. Each progress keeps our fragile prick
in our hands. It's not sex, just the distance. We keep death, or the
swallow of the heart, the last push, when the miracle strikes the home run,
then abruptly we turn, forget first or home, even Bud and Lou, or the
exchange.

We presume life, and then the cab careens off the icy bridge, and in the
instant between our self-murder: the conspiracy of the street and the
muscle.

Arms pull. Brain stops. The bridge welcomes, and we, or I, arrive more
alive than dead, and for that motion, of surprise or disdain, we are
satisfied with death, and then life is less special, or we presume our life
more valuable than those who lose.

War fabricates death, but life is the end of struggle. Firefights, dust
off, then safety. What we design, the progress of the ride to JFK or LAG or
NWK is a miracle. We never know when it will end. Do we?

What drugs we are: rage catches in the sky. Waiting for the rocket ship,
the blue skin, the Martian hero, and the background to special storms. We
infect space; great wings above the mirror. I stare inside. Watch my face,
the caricature, and the mask I market from the front seat of any car. My
taxi swims within the blood, as the sunrise, quick, invades heat to settle
the late morning boredom. The afternoon is sleep. When we die we pass along
the lake as the spirit dissipates what we have remembered (true or not).
Fabrication is important.

I am there. Again. It is 1960, and beautiful Theresa, the only child, great
artist of loons, fox, and lamb. We made love, as spiritual whim, and
created, every lazy afternoon the hand is closed over the sex, as the mouth
handles the harp. Yes, our mouths were soft, her breasts, mostly nipple,
swollen, pear. Sensitive, perfect arms raised above where we came in. Can I
escape? I don't want to leave the stage. The fares collect and interrupt
the fanfare. My Erotic dream is hers. My hardon, though the course we
assumed, is caught in hand, eclipsed, married within the autumn sienna and
the violet water surface of ducks, when the gargantuan masks take over. I
want nothing more than to return with her. What we do is what we remember,
and I can laugh. I know there will be little return, but I keep it. The
memory absorbs my sex. She catches me. I marvel at what the dream spins
from the fake skin of the garish street. I marvel at dreams. I do. I wish
for a voice to take hold of my hand. Then the light changes, and I walk
past the next street forgetting where I can go, or what would have been.
There is a voice. It climbs when I come. Simple sex restores it. She didn't
know how hard three steps lost from the track would be, forget restoration
or remembrance. I take her dreams. I am what she talked. Do you see my
face, as I hold yours thirty years later?

Gladly, it speaks. The voice of life and then the happy silhouette: Mr.
Death, as a poet friend once imagined. Mr. Death or Ms. Death is asunder.
What else is there?

Do I catch my life, or do I stop. I can't stop. I have passed home, too far
alone, too many hot landings with the perpetual whine and wheeze of
MEDEVAC'S at the party.

Is death, murder, suicide a market barometer for perpetual force dangling
on the easy side of the first law of thermodynamics?

Nothing created disappears. Nothing invisible. Recent improvements in my
personality have evaluated the wish the lie and dream after Marshall Foch.
Cliché. Poems drift. I wish for integrity.

Did you know I discovered the first face of the moon? Imagine the moon as
her cunt stripped bare, losing layers of dust, deranged.

The pit of her hole serrated. The corps is drained and the marsh of her
lips is frozen tundra. Have you ever fucked a decaying corpse?

No, a recent death does not count. It has to be cold and her cunt stiff
like meat dropping hard out of the floor from the freezer. Before you can
turn your head, there's another geography. Imagine Ft Lee altered. The taxi
stand, the bridge misplaced. The dust blew away the flesh, and the skeleton
underneath spindled until you hear at the cab window, a man, albino. I need
a ride, lost my money. It was stolen, he said. Have the police report back
at my desk. You can trust me. I'm good for it. Would you take me across the
bridge? I need to get to Kennedy in twenty-five minutes. Do you think I can
make it? No, I need a police escort? Is that possible in America?
Connections. Marks. Dimensions underneath the box; invisible question.
Watch me. Smack. You like it. Harder. Hit me. No, yes, turn around. Please,
the darkness spins inside out. Black eyes speak as I twist my necklace. I
am here to on the stand with you. Am I memory? Please, keep it quiet. I
told you not to stare. Yes, I'll do it. I know I've been bad. Don't watch
me. You don't care. What the fuck were you doing with her in your cab last
night. Sneaking by. Avoiding pain. Seeking abuse. Loving bullshit. Stuff a
twenty in my pocket. Blow you man. Fuck you. Another 20. Thanks. Now get
the fuck out of here, before I piss in your face. Lady, do you have to take
twenty minutes to decide where you're going?

Music on the sidewalk is a riddle when you step up looking for the notes in
your mouth or hers. Kick you in the ass. Piss on her tits. Shit, I wouldn't
touch her ass. Shit. You got to be kidding motherfucker. Do you get high?
Pieces of silver, sold ass, borrowed cigarette, missing wallet, my
husband-wife beat me up. Can I ride around for a few hours with you? I need
to think. Want a blowjob for ten bucks? Got some blow?

Got an old lady? Need a place to crash for a few days? Want to buy a
genuine Rolex for fifty bucks? No, how about twenty and I will let you
handle me any way you desire. No. What will you give? Get out of my face
you fuck. I don't want your shit watch. Hustle me, hustle you.

Driver, do you have change for a $100?

I'm sorry; I know the fare's  $2, but I'll get the money from my mother,
boyfriend, neighbor inside! Sometimes, they're telling the truth. Who
knows? Not going to take the loss. If I don't get paid, then I got no meal
money later. Comes out of my tips.

What do you mean I have to leave my license with you? No, I don't have one.
What's in my purse?

Fuck you too, asshole. No one goes in my purse. All I got are cigarettes
and condoms. No ID. It gets you fucked up it you carry it around with you.
Lets the dicks know you are too real.

"What do you mean? I can't leave the cab? How do I fucken get you the
money. What do you mean, asshole? You' re not calling the police. I'm sure
my boyfriend will pay. I'll just go inside for a moment. Please take me to
Morristown for 15 bucks and a blowjob. 50 miles for fifteen, you're sick,
man. I ain't paying you no fifty bucks to get there. Shit, that's two and
half dicks full of shit.

"I ain't your fucken brother. What do you think this is a charity cab? No,
I won't take you there. Fuck No. I don't give a shit what color you are.
I'm not going there. Racist shit. No, I won't wait while you score? Yes, we
take American Express, and Visa and MasterCard. You bet. Must get approval
on the card first, Sir. Sure. You want to pay cash now. OK. That will be
fifty up front. You don't have it. Hope you like to walk? Sir, do you think
we're Social Services here? We don't take welfare vouchers. No, I don't
speak Spanish. No. No. Oh. Shit, that's English? If you want, I'll try that
plastic again, maybe. No, OK, Sorry, could use the good fare. Fuck no. I
can't use a genuine leather attaché case. Tell you what. I'll take you to
the Path for the case. Good. Now, what the fuck you doing wearing a
2000-dollar suit if you have no cash or plastic."

"Another story. Got all night. Your wife cleaned you out! What else is new,
fuck? Join the club. What the fuck. Man, we all got problems. "

"Do you know where I can buy some coke? You shitten motherfucker. Why are
you busting my balls? Fuck Morristown. What the fuck is your hustle, man?"

"No, I don't," the fare said. Always no.

"See that guy down the line. He'll take you for fifty. Ex cop. No, I'm not
bullshitting you. See that asshole, yes. Just ask the fuck?"

"Stupid shit. Got to get a good fucken call. No Chinks here tonight. Maybe,
those Ridgewood suits will, or that Oakland Gook. I had him twice in a
month once. Book 50 bucks in an hour and a half. Great call. Fuck."




WHO'S NORTH OF THE BRIDGE (Dispatcher on Cab Radio)? Repeat, ...WHO'S NORTH
OF THE BRIDGE?

No Answer. FIRST UP. FIRST UP. WHO'S SLEEPING ON THE STAND?

18-4, ON THE LIGHT.

GET THE A&P 4 CAR. LADY'S A GOOD CUSTOMER. DON'T LET HER ICE CREAM MELT.














for More TxM6  http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook/










End

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