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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi WalkAbouts  -- Taxi Murders
Date: Sat, 28 Jun 2003 22:10:02 -0400
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Taxi Walkabouts  -- Taxi Murders ---  Adult Language and Themes

With Eddie Meyers and Henry Whitman
(c) 2003 Sean Farragher from Taxi Murders

January 1988

In 1609, Heinrich Hutson and his mate John Colman set sail on goodly ship
far away the pristine cataract where blind sand and Simple Ocean parted as
one age passed by its nature to another. Taxi Murders begins with the Hudson
River and ends with the death of Laurie Fallon's father.

It starts in the year of the Snake and ends on September 11, 2001.


-------------------------------------------------------


I pass time on the taxi stand. It is Chinese New Year and I live again the
Tet offensive of 30 January 1968. I laugh when I learn it is the year of the
snake again.

As I half sleep, some dog whaps whaps his tail on my cab door. Cocks crow. I
am hungry. I am horny. It is almost three AM and I am sleeping on the stand.

In my dream dream I fight gooks while milk leaks my mother's breasts while I
suck like my mouth was part of her chest.

Mother loved her son beaucoup, and while he sucked she fingered his little
cock and rubbed it against her hands and belly. I saw this a lot in Nam.

He squealed as she caressed him. She sucked too imitating the motion of his
mouth while her breasts leaked on my pillow. I am not lying when I say I
felt the let down and that I had her tits.

Here I am, one blessed night waiting for the black traffic lights to
automatically change my daily year closer to millennium: its one step past
twelve and thy will be done. Midnight is gone.

Herein, instants opened, and then close. Yesterday, I pitched quarters
beyond equator and that partial eclipse of the sun kept me up in a
terrifying dream.

All things that happen as I dream are foreign images but remnants of my
ritual memory. I cannot enjoy sleep without wishing I was taken away from
the shoreline and a sea bird high up the steps of the clouds. For years I
had the same dream. I found myself in the shadows of the gray lights and an
ordinary spectacle. I am never like anyone else. I hated to be just routine.
I would not accept any assignment unless I could be a hero. I was stupid.

I realize that Eddie Meyers lives inside and we are not dead. I can still
kill him. Can we live and not live? Can we be aware and not realize that the
dream is real, a drama collected by Nam flashbacks for the historical
museums.

Forget physics. All speculations in mind or about mind are
delusional. Forget Marine or Army grunts. Forget nasty allusions to and four
mast romantic sailing ships that caressed the flood of the North River as
shit bubbling stern exits in the Bay as slippery and undulant waves foam out
far from the view of the GW Bridge and its ten miles away on the edges of
Staten Island and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Compared the them we are
barely a speck of a spectacle.

I love how the World Trade Center bangs its own face on the horizon as I
pass with the ghosts of some dead fools kissing the dead girls as she slides
down his legs.

Enough of this impersonal list of fragments cut like paper dolls from cheap
books.

I can drive the cab too slow, and too fast. I know the divided traffic
lanes. I speak when my taxis forced the ancient truck through unopened
doors. When lanes switch without notice I somehow find the best path, yet I
hate all change.

Crash! No place to change course and small sanctuary until my yellow cabs
exited off through the tunnels into the gray lane of New York and London,
suddenly merged in a Technicolor dream, lost in mornings after midnight when
the taxis rolled out fiery as material sun ray clouds.

Does this dream of death reflect my ass, or am I too high in the cab, stoned
as a great sun wheel and broken down in Apache Sand paintings drunken sot.
Jackson Pollack stole sun paintings and became famous with gesture drawings.

Dear Jackson, you killed many a girl with his dear automobile.

I loved Pollack's paintings, and I tried to imagine the horror of his face
cracking the windshield and his chest crushed by the rough tree bark.

He was a great painter no doubt, if you believe the mysterious books where
he wrote it down: that recipe for fame where being part of the process of
that spray of color mimics the whole body as a brush. He was so intensely a
part of the color when he was not painting he had to be insane and drunk. He
became a killer and was punished.

What is the Ancient Game of Chance?

Can we reverse time?

Do sailing ships spit over their bows at flood.

Suddenly, the ancient wooden ships drip their yellow main sails and
transform into steel frames and then glass stretched on a bare thin canvas
haze. Turner would not recognize the ocean or the clouds. He would hate
Pollack.

Easy does it Mate, I said as I drove my taxi to madness with some babe
sucking cock like Mama did.

Here is a list of slogans. "No fucking in the Garden of Eden; Stand by
Jerusalem First; Be a good Jew."

Eddie and I shouted them all as one body and as a separate force. One year
we made the pilgrimage to the black Marble at DC Vietnam Memorial.

I loved the ones I as a medic had bagged. I carry their stench with my own
shit cans lined up like great reefs of flies and bugs and miracles that ooze
from your ass.

In Nam, I remember Eddie fucked this kid whore; she felt his spit as I did.
As we rutted she screamed and told him to make her come, but it hurt, --

He stuck his steel rod 45 up her twat as she tightened knowing if she didn't
he would beat her face in peach pulp. He would make her lips fat to kiss his
glan and lick the underside while he closed his eyes and squealed at her not
to fucken stop. He did this half drunk. We did it sober.

She hated when Eddie was drunk, because the girl ho knew when he was sloppy
with mescal his cock would flop soft, and she would have to suck it soft
until putting fingers in his ass she gave him a soft come.

She told him in broken English that she loved his soft cock oozing fluid.
She didn't know what the spit he made was called until he told her, and then
later that month, six months later after that, pregnant and fat, she told
him that his kid would grow up stupid because she is stupid.

Eddie Meyers laughed easily, and I heard this myself, that she was beautiful
and not stupid at all.

She believed him. He believed her, and when she three weeks past her
eighteenth birthday (if you believed her) telling everyone that he only
wanted to help his hooch girl, and it was not his kid; he simply crawled in
the waiting room sofa and slept while she gave birth to a magnificent girl.

When she heard the word "girl" she cried out of fear for the child. No, it
would have been worse had it been a boy.

Can I dream again and live I asked in my walkabout, or is death too soft
when I hide in some dead women's skin, covered in varnish as if necrophilia
were a status symbol for old dead grunts carrying home NAM ten years after
dying humping the last hill before their tour was up.

Smoking and laughing jabbing the air, ten thousand violent taxi drivers lean
against cab fender and gaze beyond the arch of aluminum bridges, and take in
their mouth the great neon spirit tit and expire.

Who can love anyone when nothing we do changes our lives. Eddie knew that
was not completely true. I did as well. Am I still Eddie, or am I dead?




###
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook

(c) 2003 Sean Farragher




Sean Farragher
Ridgefield Park, NJ  07660
201-248-2688
Poetry Web Site of Sean Farragher
http://www.seanfarragher.com/



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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
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