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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Journal of Caine IV  1950s/Vietnam/ Movietone News/ Pick-up Sex 
Date: Fri, 10 Jan 2003 21:10:45 -0500
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TAXI MURDERS HYPERFICTION
JOURNAL OF JAMES ALBERT CAINE IV
SATURDAY, 18 JANUARY 1992; 0340 HOURS
(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com
00014txm6 Caine Journal 18 January 1992


http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/txm6
http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction


ASSORTED HEADLINES, Bergen Sentinel Various Years

Riots in Hanoi

Communists Flee

Free Fuckee

Boom Boom House Stocks Soar!

President Thieu Thanks America for its Sacrifice

Vietnamese President Nguyen Van Thieu to Run Again in '95
 Will Seek 8th and Last Term

Second Vietnam Memorial Unveiled;
White Marble Celebrates Vietnam's 'Democratic Victory'

434, 981 American Dead Honored in Stone at Mt. Rushmore, ND

President Haig Honored by new Japanese Govt. for Racial Sensitivity

Soviet Union Moves on Poland and Yugoslavia

Afghanistan Crushed; "Victory at Sea..."

First Democratic election in Iraq--
American Conquest of 1991 called Liberation.

World Trade Center Celebrated after Failed Terrorism

"Contradiction, yea -- Headlines suck," Caine writes in his diary
watching the Yankees win in 2004.




SPIRIT JIMMY CAINE: (1942-1975)

-"I am born to simply live out my alternate dream," Lt. Col. James Albert
Caine said of himself. He innocently reached back and forward with his dark
black rubber boot over the face of South Vietnam. It was Nov.1968.

PERHAPS, 30 APRIL 1975 0150 HOURS?

KIAs reported in those moments of Death or Dishonor as I exit Saigon,
finding my heart along the edge of the Mekong.

How could I know Death? Is this it? Obviously not. I am the future. "Caine
is here," he said. "Jimmy is forever survivor."




MOVIETONE NEWS FLASHES
CAINE LIVES; Medal of Honor Winner Found

2.

What a wonderful Movie tone news flash, James Albert Caine IV
(West Point Honor Cadet Class of 1965) settled down to watch
the news on TV. What equally absurd Looney Toons. If I were
dead my gestures would be meaningless.

"What am I now; who speaks for Caine."

He spoke in an empty space. It was not really a room. Some news
commentator buzzed. "Caine sounds like a stump speaker on any
Sunday in London Park."

-"Let me finish," Caine loud, emphatic, continuing speech over
the fucked up narrative.

CAINE SPEAKS:

"Where's the beginning, Life. What is memory? Have I served myself? And
memory stays. Watching myself is wonderful, that's what the song said. I
say, 'Memory is the voyeur". I was not alive. Or am I dead still. Am I just
this spirit, Holy Jimmy, favored of the Gods?

CAINE DIGRESSED.

I can't stand it. Henry was a pompous prig, but I loved him.

I won't even get into my son, Abel's face. I can see what goes down. Can't
get out of myself. Just a dead man and soldier, an odd sort of hang about,
hiding in the flesh of the white marble Memorial walls, recently
constructed to blind madness. I was set aflame in '75 but I lived you
motherfuckers. FIRE breeds madness incarnate.

I want to fuck them all.

Every fucken social worker lady-chick-babe cries as I am lowered day after
day into the sunset.

What mayhem to leave their medals when they did. Turn that goddamn movie
back on! Get the lights! I am alive you ass holes no memorial rage can
withstand that standing order: LIVE and FUCK, motherfuckers.

Who will review my movie?

No thumbs down allowed. What the fuck are we in the Rome circus.

When I was a kid I loved Saturday movie matinees, and the chicks we
picked-up and collected like base ball flip cards while the popcorn butter
melted, and then the cowboy and Indian parades were an acceptable
diversion with an appropriate loss of non white lives.

In 1957 I had a good seat: Fifth row, middle, on the aisle. Fox theater in
Hackensack, NJ was fine ass pick up joint for early or pre teen still no
beard cuss.

Here's the plan: sit two rows away watch the action. Be prepared to move
out, when they spot the enemy. Two chicks at five O'clock. John, John
Wayne, get 'em.

There's no one here, I know; you're glad I'm not crazy. I help you, don't
I, Jimmy, right, Abel, my son, I'll shut up. I'm sorry you misunderstand. I
didn't mean to leave; you'll understand when you're older. It's war you
see. We must win at all cost. Or, ... the alternative's unacceptable.
OK. Now, let's watch the fucken movie, son. OK. What do you mean
it's boring? I was there. You don't know Ed Murrow; OK, let try Gina
LOLA or Marilyn. How about Racquel? Fonda, did you say Fonda? Jane
Fonda! Well, she's out of it, son. No way; she sucks up to NVA curds

No, I mean Bridget. Made her first flick in '87, 'Can't Hurry Love'.

Caine's son MIKE speaks above the memorial.

"Get with it Dad. Didn't you see it?"



THE STORY: SEX & WAR AS SEEN IN THEATER AND ON SCREEN
SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 1958, FOX THEATER, HACKENSACK, NJ

Young Jimmy Caine crashed out of his mind every Saturday matinee as a horny
teenager, fuckin 'round, picking up chicks at the Fox Theater, Hackensack,
NJ. What's playing? Who the fuck cares? No one really watches the action on
the screen. It's all out there in the boonies, in the sanctuaries, under
the napalm sky, beneath the claymore, under the bones of two million dead,
"fucked up 'Dinks'", as we said.

CAINE'S LESSONS ON SEX AND WAR

In the movie theater, do as I did when I was fourteen.

Sit carefully behind two or three equally loud girls in colorful summer
shorts and soft tops. Pick a girl or boy (depending on inclination) who is
also confused, but still looking around at you most of the time. Careful,
no more than two. Sit behind 'em eat their popcorn. Throw it back. Put
yourself in their cloud.

Watch the Cops. Just older teenagers with flashlights. Keep your feet off
the seats, and your hands off whatever you imagine you think you want.
Catch a hint of nipple or a boy's ass. Gasp at the swell of the tender tiny
breasts, majestic pinched out of an invisible bra. Imagine loosening the
fastener with one hand.

I practiced for hours with my fat friend Walt. He wore his mother's bra, so
I could be smooth, manly, like pretending to smoke cigarettes or blowing up
rubbers. Part of some deadly ritual.

I remember how it used to be: humping my weapon up the dirty, bloody hill
blown to God almighty with napalm and brim stone and three hundred and
seven USAF B-52 sorties.

174th NVA regiment has left; Hill 875 is clear, nude, so they said. Only
bare green with brown, brown blackened stumps, human and otherwise. Gone
where, the wag asks?

Where? To the next hill, the comic flips his line, tracking the devil
crossing kill zone. What happened to Yugoslavia, you ask? Personal
laughter. Non sequitur? The burned out jungle has almost returned
twenty-five years later, they say.

Caught in crossfire. Swiftly dead, or forgotten, I imagined I somehow
survived. Gave me a fucking medal for survival and the memory of soft tits
for my fingertips.

I recall my first score. It was yesterday when I walked the perimeter,
crossing, and then the return. It wasn't in Nam nor the Fox Theater, but a
swimming hole near Budd Lake, NJ.

Solkol Camp. Dad and family went there so my father, an officer and
gentleman by Act of Congress could drink cheap whiskey and swap war fables
with the Knights of Columbus and Am Vets from W.W.II.

I met a younger girl there. She wanted it like I did, but she looked too
much like a child (I had an exaggerated view of myself). She was fourteen
to my fifteen. I almost stopped, but she insisted.

I felt her up in the water like the big guys with "hogs" and dangling
cigarettes did at Paramus Bathing Beach near the concrete island, out in
the short dark water, where you could carefully, from hiding, watch smiles,
and imagine fingers exploring whatever flesh they didn't know.

Her tit was so soft as I pulled back hearing the footsteps of some fucked
up zipper head blown to bits in a few moments by the clack and clack of a
claymore trigger, as the tit, so soft, and the mouth, so innocently
pleased, reached its mouth and cunt across the broad green, green and
white, almost dead jungle suburbia.

If the old guard drinking whiskey from their cocks could have known how
easy the squeeze, how tender the collapse of a trigger or a mouth on a
breast when its all you might ever know.

Fucking and murder and death are years away. If my father could have looked
out over the mirror of the famous lake like the tide pools and swamps of
the Go Cong Province river canals and reviewed the action of my hand as I
mercifully and lovingly squeezed her tit.

The old soldier would have been proud of his spitting image, chip off the
old block, handsome son, gone to war and murder. Soon I'd be drunk on my
ass in some whore house in Bangkok on the Chao Phraya river near the Gulf
of Siam on R&R with unbelievable "stuff."

Fathers know. I know. I watched my ghost child pick over porno tapes from
my shelf. What generous lust. Time fucking helps us squeeze when life is
dead on the banks of the Saigon, Hudson or Hackensack rivers.

Fuck the Mekong basin flowing for 2600 miles from China through the
murderous delta reaching through the fertile silt to my prick to a nameless
polluted trickle of water drawn from a Paramus well; my Magic Mystery Tour
as the Beatles sang.

We turn out no more "love, love, love" than the crap we burned for heat
in Nam.



DAK TO, HILL 875

Fuck death and the heavy heart obscured by the acrid smell of JP 4 jet
fuel and burning shit placed inside the shimmer and blur of entry and exit
wounds and unpredictable escape.

Fucked up, jerking off some stolen girl in a whore house 13,000 miles from
death or birth. Nowhere near the lakes or the Jersey shore. Of course the
old guard knew the chain of command.

We all remember the movies we watched while kissing and hugging our child
like hands or a little girl's first tit.

Where's "The Bridge On the River Kwai" or "From Here to Eternity." No, not
Mr. Roberts or "To Hell and Back." I loved Audie Murphy. Nice Irish white
boy from Texas.

Wartime is story time. Line up shots at the bar. Register assholes and
cunts; pat their peckers as they imagine glory from within the shimmer of
one-sided myth. Circles close too easily. The old guard knew their sons?

What does any of this to do with Yugoslavia, 1992? Perhaps nothing. It's
only a personal tour, a pause. Never really get there.

Get out the broom and sweep up the broken glass, son.

Is nothing right or wrong? Who's right? What is right? A direction? A
state of mind or clock.

Old fucks knew. Look at 'em in their belly beer lapping it up with Camels
and Chesterfields and cigars blowing backwards like incoming across
bassinets.

Old Generals tell the truth! We have a Sociopaths eyes and a tender
squeeze.
Kept you in deep serious shit. Up to your cock-sucking mother fucking best,
humping the war inside your pair.

"My pair, your pair; all pairs," as the good Sgt. said one day, before my
company inspection, closing the last button on my half opened blouse; out
of character for once?

Back inside the Fox theater: Move 'em out, Rawhide! Forget the cowboy or
mother fucking cop and robber who done it, I spy. Black out the screen. All
you know then was the inch from love you crossed- never stopped to watch
the kiss or the romantic swoon, head thrown back, waiting for the
inevitable ding and ding of another round, weapon on automatic, striking
skull or spine, squeeze 'em off, fuck 'em up, Rawhide.

What did the girl, Miss Anonymous Nookie feel? Can you imagine? Sure you
can. After all, she was the mission, of course, the motherfucker of your
day dreams.

Yes, she was anticipating it, like you. She wanted you to cross that inch
or two, and with your sweating fingers clasp her tit and tease her nipple
softly- but not like a clothespin (virgin chick's not ready for that).

Mary, Mary, Holy Mother fixed 'em to their nipples when they jerked off to
make it all go poof, bursting on the sheets or inside some fake mouth,
spitting it up, sucking it down; an unkempt blue movie montage.

"Son, you will learn the art of war someday soon, God help you. Who the
fuck will help you"? (What a terrible laugh. Don't worry God I got you
covered). "Make her come, son, yes, but not like a slope's skull, or your
'Bros,' love 'em and leave 'em war planes. Get 'em motherfuckers. Planes
come in; napalm rains, asshole over asshole backward, tumbling down the
shoot, running down the trench. Like a fucking silver dollar falling out of
the dead sky we brandish our words and follow them unto our own funeral.
Gasoline jelly on my legs sticks like old cement. Burn baby burn. Ghetto
songs and muscatel bring down the old time vaudeville house and its
elaborate organs. Rising up.

"I am here. Motherfucker. Remember it. Shit. No way -- get the fuck out of
here. Where's the fuckin world today. Hope it was not green. Hate the
color. No more green. Burned out shit. No blue skies. Nothing left. Blank."

Suck the nipple in the movie sky while John Wayne's on point taking a round
in his ass, then neck. Finally, bloated, rotting in a body bag, four some
what alive grunts holding his handles dragging the mother fucking movie
star rotated back to the world like the child brides sold in Bangkok to old
men, playing their Ouija boards.

Welcome son to bang a Cock, Slope City- Niggerville. Must be PC. You don't
know what that means, son. No not a computer. Politically correct. Every
one's doing it in year ninety-five. It's a fuckin' mask, of course. Make
objective truth. Comply grunt! Got it. Saddle up people. Jackson's got
Point. Close up. Now.

Do it right. Agree. No. Like Nam I am depressed in its craters. Got my
orders. Yes, Sir. Got it right, Sir. Every where's a great racist
motherfuckin, cock-sucking wall, and we're out of it again.

"I don't have anything against those Viet Congs," Cassius Ali said. Dinks
zapped or a burned out zippo ville, ghetto of home town whores (No Warsaw
or Treblinka, but worse)."

"We at least can dream. We saw it before, and remembered; we did nothing,
and we like you could have said No. We say history is not an example.

"We're right," Jimmy said, "when the lights turned down from daylight.
Yes, what was her name? Some Unknown Ville- crispy critter town."

"Its on the map Sarge, just four clicks north of the last one liberated."
The name on the map is the object. It is drawn from cunts known from Fort
Lee to Paramus to Saigon. We're a witness, after it all.

Crinite and TV made five year old Sesame Street addicts (now 30) ten
million alarm clock when death was armed.

"We do fight back, you know it, don't you. Can't you feel my fingers, Mary
ache in my tits, did you like it? Swallow. Deep Throat began when you
relaxed and accepted death at least."

Another View:

Remember Jimmy said. "Choose only two Dinks. No more. If there were three
or more sitting together, that was another mission.

"Move 'em out or move 'em apart; separate the cunts. Don't let them double
back. So you have to waste 'em again. Take the perimeter. Who's on point?
Some fucking New guy fingered miss rotten crotch and she blew him to death
in his own hooch. Finger fuck your own ass, Motherfucker.

Hot LZ here. Ass holes get us dead. Fuck no, I didn't, honest. What did you
do? What didn't you do? Make lists? Check out positions, drop zones, and
kill zones, ratios, LZ, weather, possible crossfire, and air support?

Questions. Lists. More fuckin' fucking lists. All mental.

Murder's one missing plan locked on the radar. Come in close, watch it.
In-coming, you fucks, get the mother fucking shindig out of there, that's
an order, asshole."

"Make the chicks move if you want to get some. Smile or shoot 'em, but get
the extra cunts the fuck out of there so you can climb over movie theater
seat (sneaking 'round the roving cop like flashlights), reach the
objective, and then by plan or rote, carefully move your fingers to her
tit, ass and then pussy before you order yourself over the next hill and
then you nervously sit in the bare, stinky theater with one disembodied arm
slowly traversing the kill zone."

"Here's my achin' heart swollen heart 'round the shoulder of the kill,"
the country and western singer articulates, and then you reach another tit,
more giggling pussy.

"Find 'em, feel 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em. Lead the lambs astray. Fucking
Four F club. Did anyone get any? None wasted! Fuck.

"Did you get some? No, I knew it. No one really got any. Most of us were
braggarts- include graves registration."

"Watch son, the human thing: famous wiggle; tit or ass; favorite dirty
movie, as it was called then. The dance of the forearm directs palm and
cock; we're young men and old men jerking off the giggling hordes of tender
shoots and randy Miss or Mr. in our path"?

"And he's cute," Miss anonymous whispered to her girl friend, not the
chick sitting in the seat next to her, but the one facing her, who's
sashayed clear across the LZ to hear her secrets."

Your asshole buddy shouts across the theater, "Look at those knockers."

"God and Holy Mother of God, every other pussy in the Fox movie heard
about her fucking set when all you saw of the chick in question was two
thimbles full and that's a lot, you remember, or how another girl whispered
too loudly (about you), well he's too fat, and besides no one else likes
him, and he can't even play nice, or speak, or come over when my mother's
not home so I can pretend.

What if tits and ass had asked, where's the bedroom, back seat, front seat,
beach, woods, basement? And really wanted to do it. Not dry hump, but
actually let you put it, inside.

"Show you the way, I could have said. Shoot it anyway any time baby. Right
Babe"!

"What really happened"?

Jimmy cringed in the corner of her room, and his cock was soft, wouldn't
stay hard for nothing.

"Ever have a scared cock"?

What do you do when she wants it? How do you explain about nerves?

You're the stud. She, of course, blames herself.

Experienced older woman might understand, but that's a year away, and you
need to forget, and may never get there.

-"It's not your fault sweet heart if I'm fucked up," but you can't say it.
Don't even know that line yet, or even how to play with it, get it in soft,
and make it hard.

"Haven't yet learned how sucking or fingering your male nipple keeps you
hard or how watching or imagining some other fuck your wife, girl,
sweetheart can keep it hard, when all it wants to do, as if it had a mind
of its own, was fall away soft."

"Some things do work, but they need life to find them out, and there
wasn't much time left."

"No time. I'm a poor fuck with blue balls. Am I a freak"?

Why can't I get it, keep it hard. Gets straight by my hand every time.
You're lost at sixteen or forty-six unless you get past the conversation
that covers fear like oily water.

What's true? Slope killed your Sgt. and radioman and you're in deep shit,
overrun; NVA keeps coming at you, and somehow, you forget, and you're
blissful and hard again, all at once.

You're not a pussy after all, standing alive, heroic on top of her belly,
proud of the plug you placed there, of the death you pledged when
joined up.

"What's wrong"?

"Still not hard. I know you're scared and she waits and maybe you keep it
hard or not, but you can still bullshit to your buddies about how you
scored when you were crushed.

No one will know, although they had some doubts, and never would accept
what you said or didn't say.

"There's always doubt," Jimmy shouted at the assembled throngs of folks
too bitter for any taste."

"Now, that's fear. Besides, we all know the lies. Laurie has her list like
you do. Tells her girl friends how it hurt, as it always did, but then it
got sort of better, and he told me he loved me. He really did, or that's
what I think he said. Yes, he told me he loved what ever we did when we
were alone."

"On the moon with love," Jimmy said. "Wonderful? Great mirage, and then
the doubts."

Mother did say, once when she was drinking vodka and a little OJ, "your
father's a pervert, always hanging round with his tongue out like his
Father before him. That man, Mother said, tried to, you know what. He did.
Mother didn't tell me exactly what.

I guess Anna realized she had crossed a line, and wanted to pull back, and,
no, we never finished.

Jimmy did over hear tell her best friend Muriel (when she thought I wasn't
home). She went on and on about my friend Eddie's father. She pretended to
be real mad, and later I heard her laugh about him with another friend; how
she thought Eddie's father was cute, and No, Muriel, I didn't let him do it
really.

John wasn't around (that's my Dad) and besides he has such hard hands. Mom
later admitted to Muriel she liked hard hands.

Yes, I did let him. You know what. Yes, I did. He kissed me for hours
first. No, she wasn't speaking about my Dad now. I was confused about women
and girls. And besides he's a pervert, Mom said.

She said it again. Such a klutz. You know what I mean, Muriel. He couldn't
do it. That's the truth. Now, you got me to say it, Muriel. He didn't fuck
me really. He made me do it with, you know. Didn't want to. He promised to
take care of me after I.... No, he didn't. No, I didn't let him do it all
the way. No, he didn't come in my mouth. Well, a little got by, I guess,
Muriel. No, I won't. What?

You did it with whom? Where was Jay (Muriel's husband)? He was what? Did
you say there? No, don't go. Tell me. Wait. Fuck, mother said closing the
front door, turning around, knowing I probably heard it all. She was real
cool, and she got up, said nothing, and walked out of the room, as if it
never happened. Mother left me high and dry too. Eddie's gone now too.
Died in Nam.

Why should we work so hard to make him want me, the girl with the halter
top said to her girl friend, as she dressed at home, pushing Kleenex in her
bra, when all's gone and dead in the whore house as I remember the back of
the sun when the chopper pulls me upward, twirling in the hot wind. Why
should I remember her tit and mouth, and the too heavy or too worn
lipstick? Why should I kill the fucken gooks, reaching my hand under her
skirt, between their legs, sitting on my steel pot, ten years ago? In her
lap and mine, bloody balls blown to bits by a fucked up M-60 crowing a hole
in the moon for her legs to reach up and split apart, so open, letting you
come inside her, underpants stretched out of place, dry humping, fucking
the dead, or sucking up blood and guts from her rag, as you know, son I am
sick and perverted.

I like dead flies, wingless, and soldiers with no eyes or ears, skulls or
mouths. What no cock? You lost it; I said again from hell, as the Devil, a
woman, of course, reached through the great divide pulling her balls in
place, giving you another pair.

Who's got a pair, the Sgt. asked beating on some fucking grunt's head, or
the Instructor Sgt. kicks the dust in your face between summers at the
Point; death's in your lap like young pussy or the devil in drag.

In your lap, she said, feeling you up for a change. You rest, horrified,
she did it to you. You aren't supposed to die. Only the Krauts or the Nips
or some other crazed hated delusion you inspire with your groping kiss
making tender, anger; love and angst before a war, named a diversion when
you rape love as murder rested within your lap, with some one you called,
soldier, buddy, corporal, sergeant, or slope; his bloody balls, thank God,
his bloody balls drying flesh, bitter pink on your wrist.

Dead cocks are hard now, and you come when you die, (23 KIAs (an
exaggeration)), citation read; your body bag zipped; slope heads buried in
a make shift pit. Some made into a mask like human excrement in 55-gallon
drums.

At the Fox. It's '57, and summer. You just learned you can come in your
underpants, wet against her leg, and then your fingers are inside her cunt,
you're panting. She sighs (no one yet knows women come).

Remove fingers sniff them for hours, taste it, dream about it in the
rockets red glare of a deadly shitten, fucking, firefight near 875 hill
called Dak To or any jungle ville called a grave, fifteen or twenty or
twenty-five or a hundred years later while some boy with a missing front
tooth fondles your daughter's breasts. Can't call them tits now. She's your
daughter. But you're dead. Doesn't matter. There are no children. Just
white flares and trailing green tracers, desperate hallucinations unraveled
like bloody rags tied to your breast bone covering the sucking bleeding
chest wound - pressure pad won't stop the nothing you know exists before
you knew it.

Death's circumstantial, you pretend you're not, and you're aloof, somewhere
distant like the dream of missing children. They're not here,
motherfuckers!
Saddle up, you answer yourself. Get your head out of your ass.

Grease these fuckers. Burn 'em. Go!

Humped it out of the maze. Couldn't remember the Fox Theater or little girl
tits. They don't breathe, do they? They're missing, blank like W.W.II or
the Movie tone news.




GW BRIDGE PLAZA, FORT LEE, NJ, MONDAY, 13 JULY 1992

Who was Laurie Fallon? Why did she die? Murdered? By my
son, The Man they call, Abel. Why does Henry love her?

Why must he find her dead on the taxi stand? Who is the character,
Suffering, and why does she live so long. Is suffering a he, OK, then I'm
wrong. Now, tell me more. You know the answers. Get it.

Who killed the crown prince, or the eight raped and murdered women, I ask
myself, waiting for the red light to change so I can race my taxi across
the bridge and back so the asshole fare can buy some blow to lose more of
what she might never know?



THE VIEW FROM HENRY'S TAXI.
HENRY PRETENDS HE IS CAINE. WAS HE?
CAINE COME ALIVE AGAIN. CAINE IMAGINED!
WAR IS DEATH IS FAKE. . . . IS CAINE FAKE?
IS THIS MOVIE REAL?

"What the fuck do you care," the hooker asks, leaving the cab at 174th and
Audubon, slamming the door, waving off the eyes of the street, as the
spotters grab her space, haul her ashes to the Man, who makes the deal in
the other shade, in a white corner of a pee drenched lobby?

"Yeah! Burning shit never changes," I add. "Cheap fuck. Sayonara," leaving
the bitch to find her way back to the other side of the bridge. Fuck No. No
round trips today. LZ too hot.

Cops stare between the broad leaf plants and the yellow shades of the
tenements along Broadway. Crack. Crack. Pip. Pop. Ding. Ding. Saddled Up.
Ready. Whee. Where's the next ride, Mother Fucker? Ding 'em Good for me.

Sure, Jimmy/Henry said. Almost dead. Not quite alive. Riding his taxi
across the lawn. Making the drunks shake, rattle and roll. Killing time,
just a darker corner. Jimmy's dead, Henry said. He's dead. I killed him.
Make him invisible. No marks or scars. He's fuckin dead. I'm Henry, rising
from his ashes.

"I'm no fuckin phoenix," Henry said, "just a yellow cab and under age
bitch, blow job on the corner, half hidden by the exposed garbage at the
curb. Not for Henry. No fucken way I get AIDS. Shit No.

Arms, legs, skulls, eyes, body parts bartered by the pound are inside Henry
in imagined fury. He stretches out the ride; couple bucks more, another
tip, and then forget it all remorse in the bottle where it stinks.

"Death's my eye," Jimmy said, singing his song in Henry's lies.

Henry's not pleased listening to the evening before the morning took off
again out of the eastern sky across the oceanic haze, back in the world,
good, nothing doing, nothing at all. NAM did it mother fucker. Made us two
no three minds inside one skull. I am CAINE. I am not Abel. I am not
murder.

We're all fuckin dead anyway, Henry laughed rolling up the window of his
cab, locking all the doors with the automatic click like the thud and bang
of a clip emptied.

Nothing more can be said. Just keep going step over step.

Hold up the flag. Give it up.

Fuck you too, racing the curb back across the bridge
to the safety of fucked up Fort Lee. There's the western tower.

Safe. No more slopes alive.

What a fuckin jerk I am, Henry slammed the cab door
reaching out for nothing's memory and more.










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










XXXX

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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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