…Jackson continued waving from the window, at his admirers, as rain continued, misting euphoric
Waving at the crowd that got further & further away, until they became too dissonant to record it
Jackson rolled up his window, the rain kissing his forehead: the fans were going ballistic, but he simply ignored it—
The rainy weather was still astringent & sordid: the taxi drivers filthy windows made the city look gritty & morbid
The Taxi Driver asked, again, “What’s happening, Jackson?” this time, Jackson put on his walk-man
Listening to the storm
The traffics rhythm started sounding like a symphony chorus, the synth of the cars, the sound of pistons, emission and torquage
The sound of hitting the horn, mixing, with the musicians chords, was brilliance, other musicians continued to board
The storm hit like symbols & forks and the sound system filtered & sorted the sound waves, disproportionate
The drizzling storm drowned out everything sounded so distant and thwarted, the fans voices were vociferate with hoarseness
The Taxi Driver, asked again, “What’s Happening, Jackson” this time, his voice traveled like a Michelin Tour Bus
Thousands of Jacksons fans on a New York City corner: with hopes of getting his autograph, scribbled, on his infamous portraits
The rain trickling on him, causing the ink to bleed, until, the signature appeared like a cryptic forging
It continued pouring
The driver of the taxi, adjusted his rearview mirror, so that The Musicians reflection wasn’t ambiguous or corporate
After a long shift, the driver’s eyes started to play tricks on him: as his vision became transfixed and dormant
The radio’s signaling started to blip in orbit and the signals coordinates failed to transmit reporting's
The radio was playing Jackson’s music, but the staticy commute made the whole experience of listening, horrid
Jackson looked out of his window, as rain continued; unflinching & forcive, each driblet, stripped & extorted
The Musician paid it no mind, while the meter ran into the triple-digits and costed him a ri-dicu-lous fortune
Jackson commented on the rain
“Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Rain got into his hair, slicking it for him, fixing his corset
“I just flew in from doing a show in the city of Portland”
The rain muffled him, so, it sounded like The Musician said to the Taxi Driver
“I’m visitor—Poorest.”
The Taxi Driver didn’t know English. He only understood directions & cross streets, vicinities for visiting tourists
Knew getting you to the airport: within minutes of boarding. How to maneuver, through the traffics algorhythmic enforcement
He knew the streets, like the grid of his palms, they commissioned him for exploring
The Southside, the Westside, the Eastside, he didn’t take trips to the North end
The windshield wiper continued wishing and washing, as Jackson, peered, out of the window reminiscent, exhausted
They say misery loves company; there's just something about it, that makes our job more than just a delivery courtship
“What’s happening” he asked again, with a limited cortex, like an immigrant, foreign
Jackson continued to wave into the rain, the crowd uncivilly swarmed him with picture assortments
Their pigments were orange, their facial expressions stayed in the reflections of the Taxi’s sitting in storage
The disfigurement warped the vehicle into a super positioned vortex
The Driver couldn’t figure out why they were soliciting & hording
Because he was ignorant of the significance of the musician’s importance
Just then
Jackson’s mannerisms metamorphed and his star power caused the onlookers expressions to transfix with adornment
There faces
twisted &
contorted until there expressions became
flipped and deformative
He wasn’t used to people not recognizing his flamboyance, his celebrity, his privilege, his gift and endorsements
The driver didn't recognize Jackson from his thriller performance, he was more concerned with being gypped or shorted
He didn’t want to cause a scene, because he thought, he wouldn't want to risk being a civilian deported
So, when the Taxi Driver looked at him like he was just a poor man: Jackson’s self image, tinged with deplorement
The Musician momentarily soaked it all in and absorbed it, as the rain transported him, to a poverty-stricken world
That wasn’t rich or imported
The fans made a collision course for him, assistive & supportive, as Jackson tripped with yore into miseries stormage
The Taxi Driver turned off the meter and asked the musician "if he could afford it"
As the transmission distorted