Eyewitness

24

There was a murder on the beach last week. A man curled up in his sleeping bag – bludgeoned. A spate of cruel murders of endangered seals, an going Kauai mystery. Is the psycho serial seal killer accelerating? Graduating to humans? Or did he mistaken the resting man for a beached monk seal?

We thought we were supposed to bring a a volleyball to the beach. The meet-up listing should have said Bocce Ball. Which is Italian bowling. Which theoretically with bowling in my genes, my grandfather’s bowing alley “Luby’s Lanes,” on one side, Italian on the other. I should have instant mastery. But no Bocce ball was ever produced.

John and I bumped the VB ball we brought to stay warm. It was a blustery evening, sunset approaching. Parents had set up a slip and slide for their kids. The air had a waft of coals and lighter fluid. In attendance a local star surfer who had a wave break named after him.

Another guy turned up with meat. A steak and long raw sausage. I would describe him as the Yo-Yo Ma doppelgänger. I looked at him for a long time. Like I know you. How do I know you?

Lots of cakes. A Tuxedo cake. Red Velvet cupcakes, unfortunately the frosting was NOT cream cheese. There was a Haupia pie. And the di rigueur chip cookies with white chunks of chocolate. Costco chow. Light whipped up lard, if you call that moist. Sugar overkill and immediately regrettable.

The subject was Michigan and Jim Harrison and one guy was impressed when I SHARED that I had hung out with him and Harry Dean Stanton.

I ate some questionable vegetarian collards. That were cooked perfectly, just the right tooth. But an odd taste, something off. I asked the chef how long she stewed them for? She answered – chicken broth. Then corrected herself. No they are vegetarian; I used vegetable broth. 45 minutes. With red peppers and garlic flakes.

On the way home I asked John if he saw the way that cellist held his cake? By the sliver of the orange moon last night (or peach moon if you consider the pitted craters). He sustained. Like an aftertaste. Holding his mush of cake in his bear claw, wolfing it down…

I remembered him. He was the man up at Kukuiolono Park. The one in the grey truck that I saw years later trawling the Eleele BEST SAVE where everything is freezer burned. The one that saw me -alone- feeding the chickens and opened his car door so I could see him and his white thin legs with his pants scrunched down to the floorboards. Whacking off.

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I liked her, but I didn’t know her. A friend of a friend. Kind of punk and butch. An open face. I was distracted easy chatter when she took my arm and brought it to her lips. A gentle sucking. Light. I said what are you doing? Trying to give me a hickey? She left a tiny kissed outline. So light that when the knife came out I trusted her. I noticed the nose on the end of it turned up like a Persian slipper. A silver bead. Just an underline she said. For the blood sisterhood. But the knife was blunt. “DO IT!” I said. I had to close my eyes. She was too gentle and sawing. UGH and when I peeked there was a deep convex cone of flesh missing from my arm and I ran.

Fellow Inmate,

I am writing to you from an adjacent cubicle not more than 15 x 15. Wearing the same shift I fell asleep in last night. Never thinking of clothes. Sometimes I gaze out my window past the dark cedar of my enclosure. Or look up from my reading. It’s 73 and never varies more than 10 degrees. Today it’s primordial and foggy white, with a shadowy outline of trees. In the distance a cow bell and groan. The surround is innocence. A parade led by a speckled hen with her pulsing chorus of chicks ends with a sunset and a dream perhaps of stringing strange and beautiful beads.

I’m getting a hazmat respirator from Amazon.

To deconstruct a coniferous anti-mulch pile I piled originally to demote weeds. For the leak here. Thru the ooze of black mold. Instant sinusitis for the immunity challenged. And it’s already back to bed and my convalescence.

With never ending rain this week the leak somewhere trickling in the garden. Underneath a pile of papers the water bill wallop 2X 3X 4X. Feeding the jungle along the line to the house from the street. Logic might promote searching below the most buoyant growth. But I’m about as inclined to dig a trench as use a diving rod to uproot this moist gurgle of spillage.

A guy definitely buried these pipes. And my design isn’t that of my counterpart. Winning competitions on SURVIVOR. Combatants who think geckos bring good fortune. Don’t dust my roach population. A shit out entire linage decimated by carnivorous left over dinosaur men. Who extrude MINE_UTE white stripe logs that desiccate. Leaving a snow FLAK-E ash of shit, infesting the reality of everything.

Running a maze. Into a ravine and suddenly flooded back; a fractured apartment complex. The kaleidoscopic concrete infrastructure architect MC ESCHER? A turnstile dam obstacle course and I’m not a fan of steampunk or meth assemblage. Even if my most authentic self had the muscle to hammer A permaculture of my own insurrection.

I dream of cats

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Verdant marble
pink nosed
dead cats
with their tongues out
Sphinx all American 
and Siamese.
Someday there will only be cats.
Every projection white whiskers.
Grey hair
in the light room now
with the sofas and a pagoda.
Asleep curled around the cat
turning into me and I into her
napped, in the hammock
near a turned stupa
in the great golden outdoor studio.

J. Pompei

DR GURU is a certifiable

Broke IN

PHD
he’s more pimp
guiding my head immediately
to his shaft
transference
practice for John’s
that gag reflex
a definite fixation on my lab work
a fetish for insurance
form
mirror work at the bar
practice means repetition
floor to ceiling embossed
frames my mouth just another
to flex and reflect
he’s filled me full throated
calling it a slight adjustment twisted
forced to gaze again
at his peacock garden
rock rivers and pink flamingo
kisses
then back to the grand obelisk of recognition
where there is no room
for a wall even
I’m am pressed to share
and juggle his balls simultaneously
while swallowing spit
all of it a yawn
he’s bored
tells me I’m special
but couldn’t recap
from his pretense of copious notes
he licks his fingers
I wait
all for him
in the end
of my session
the RX simple with an edging of irritation
to go to the ocean
open my gullet
and scream

broke IN

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I sort of liked him slender not much taller than me, twitchy. Black straggly hair. Shirt buttoned up mother picked. But I was hiding and the phone wouldn’t stop. Loud and I picked it up to shut it up. I could hear voices and depressed the off to conceal any reception. Then shut the door for further insulation. Looked at the ceiling. Waited then crawled back on my belly to the door. Cracked it to make sure he wasn’t still outside of the sliding glass. I could see him. He was inside. On the floor in the living room. Asleep waiting for me to return.