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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders The Novel  Vietnam Vet Eddie Meyers
Date: Wed, 23 Apr 2003 03:10:03 -0400
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(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
Taxi Murders the Novel:  Eddie Meyers
http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook

1967-1989

We know Eddie's love story, and not just the bullshit that drivers
patty-cake leaning near the fenders of their cabs assuming gaudy
postures. They dress in froth, sweat, and summer blues, They dress
easy in cut-off's ransacked quickly from their mother's supply of
dirty dish rags or perhaps taken from the garbage dump out of some
fuck you motel dumpster.

We all sprout beer bellies, and are softer inside; we few now have
dark forms that would find us locked up for good if we ever had the
temerity to act on our
wishes, lies and dreams. Some cabbies have strong arms. Some how they
kept their muscles from some old ball team, long ago, when they were
heroes of the hill. You know the bullshit stories they broadcast. Some
of these tales were hopeful, and some had authority in that they
actually happened, but after time, the facts were twisted,
exaggerated.  There could be, you say to yourself, that there was a
kernel of truth, and now they are swill like I feel some time. I am
Henry Whitman. I survived out of the bargain
basement of Nam and was caught to tell the tales of a hero like Eddie.
I really do this to create a new theology. I know the heat has twisted
me both on the stand and in Nam, but fuck it, I can create a liar's
fabric like anyone. I also love the mist of some business bullshit
artist who comes my way to signal that I have crossed some line, and
get out of here,
you fucken loser. You were just stupid for going to Nam, and what the
fuck do I care about veterans.

Back in the world, and this seemed ironic, brutality has a seem, a
place where the first cut bends the steely seed, and lets it sway,
until the idea like the tides, resumed its cast, watching the eye
stop.

Wait for shouts we have sacrifice at our margins, and now and when, at
the black heroic wall, where you and I have discovered silence, where
we have flagellated ourselves to death and let the ocean disguise
grass from sprouts, from crow, from sparrows and then there was a
silent battle to withhold nourishment from the those whom we deem, by
our stilted digression, lost

You know Eddie's story: lies presented as some truth, curved into
strips with some death, predicting for us or him where and if he could
have lived without a final bill folded into smaller and smaller
squares in his cigar box reliquary.

We do carry the myths. We market them with Eddie. We beat them less
honestly because we fool ourselves with truth, and loose homilies we
have sacrificed one cheap thrill for the beatitudes or a dark but
righteous H bomb mass. No more threat. Easy to kill. Along the road,
against each fare or driver you pass, when you search around the
corner for the heavier cars, and the anticipated steps, I look for all
of Eddie. I have many names to carve on the black wall that are now
also dead. Is there a place for them?

I have wandered with them, waiting for the thin hands to stop the
action, but I know my brain has stalled like a taxi, sometimes, at the
worst passable places.

It seems only taxi drivers over forty remember Vietnam. The younger
ones knew only the war movies, or cryptic allusions and vague
conversations.
Actually, no one cared but other Vets. Perhaps Vietnam has had its
fifteen minutes of Warhol fame.





for More TxM6 stories go to http://www.seanfarragher.com/Hyperfiction






###

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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