Asleep Eating

SHOKO FUJIMORI

When I went to bed I made note that I needed to figure out a bracelet I have that has a little bull on the end of it and I knew it meant something. But what? When I woke up to feed in the middle of the night, I mouthed one word to myself of course, because nobody listens. This closeted vestibule is quiet and isn’t want to wake anyone up. I said the word “Mithra.” Wondering what it meant and flipped open my MacBook light and wiki-ed it finding a cult that slaughtered bulls. Leaving me wondering how do I know what I do not know and not know what I should know before my next installation of sleep?

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Ouch 0.00

In my youth I didn’t recognize the mechanism of passing. I pictured my belly as one might a party balloon, but skin hued underneath a checkered shift, empty. A blimp without loft. Manifestations or exits on the event horizon issued not from the donut but the hole. With fermentation I’ve found a core of pain that migrates inside this outline of air inexplicably settling month to month without lease. Last week under my right breast on a scale of 1 to 10 a dull fist. Betwixt this mourn and the night before it retracted pulling up stakes circuitously moving to a spot above my left rear lymph node. Now a smaller knot in the back of my head rousingly greater than a pimple and all together dependably transient.

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In the morning I sing to Meeshoo, tails of her heroic happiness & space travel

Meeshoo space travel copy

the garden folk want to know
whose the baby babba?
whose the baby babba ganoush?
her genesis
the tail of how it is
she became the surveyor and Mayor
resident of these hills
it’s all metronome and song
and everyone here speaks
a different dialect
we nod a lot at each other
so the story is a bit scattered
but this I know
once upon a plastic squeak toy
a platypus pale from the sun pink
gone dirty peach
once upon this platypus
an infant eggplant
missed the grill and seeded the garden
for a period of gestation
and then a burp
from the earth she did
sprout pointy ears first
that fly double duty
a spinning salad
twirling the top soil
brown nose up
she dug herself out
that’s how she was born
with sheer panache
painting herself
an underbelly of white
unsteady on her tiny paws
she made a splash using all of her mistakes
as porpoise and up the slippage
meant for the deck
the pail of white paint went bloop
assigning her surface
more black than white
but what’s to complain?
some of us were enamored
we flock together with our understood
misunderstanding
even the birds whistle
summoning her to morning rounds
but keep their distance
she does have teeth and
after all they aren’t stupid
she is more black than white
yet daily are her visits to the less
fortunate her incarcerated fellows
all the barking you can tell where she is
the little dogs down in the next field
having a higher level of excitation
and sometimes
quiet while she hears confession
she’s everywhere Meeshoo
but comes immediately
for the chance of a pig ear
then she’s a trotter making a clip clop
clatter back to the homestead deck
racing herself circling
she’s the rich hot smoky creamy one
panting and game to play what
working dog breed?
maybe a public service party docent ~

The Witches of Etsy

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I know I should be paying the bills right now and I’ll get to it. But I’m still upset about an incident that happened well over 10 years ago ~ I bought my mother in law ruby red slippers. If you know her name you would know how clever that is. (Evidently I’m not smart. I’m clever. According to one ex.) CUSTOM handmade, felted to her exact size. I don’t think she would mind me telling you she has big feet. Which is neither here nor there. I ordered them 3 months before Christmas. The slippers arrived looking very snazzy I’m told but for one small detail the custom handmade slippers were half her size. I had been communicating with the seller for months explaining the import of this gift. I told her all about my mother in law. That she was a writer and an academic. That she had retired. I wanted something extraordinary and comfortable and effortless for her to slip on. Something she would never buy herself, something luxurious. What arrived were instructions. An edict of sorts that gave directions on how to make the slippers your size. Form fitting. The directions instructed the recipient to put slippers on feet and then stick the slippered feet into a bowl of water and let soak for 15 minutes. Then walk around with sopping wet slippers for another 15. Which may have to be repeated in future months. PROBLEM. First of all I can barely reach my feet. My belly has grown in scope since you last saw me. Imagine my mother in law while naturally diminutive, at her age she shouldn’t have to reach. PROBLEM the slippers were so tiny my mother in law couldn’t squeeze them onto half of her foot. She had already packed them up and was posting them back to me. I told the seller we can’t use these. I need to return them to you after they get returned to me. I asked the seller who was very unruffled why didn’t she mention this detail in the listing? She was unwilling to refund my custom order. Luckily I had right on my side. I contacted ETSY and opened a case resolution. I had to submit a folder of documentation to headquarters in NY. I tried to be succinct and offered what I thought was the most germane information. A copy of the listing that never mentioned that the slippers would not come the size I ordered. A copy of tedious sizing instructions that would have to be repeated. Aren’t they an important detail? I went to the closest shoe store and found size 6 shoes with a huge size 6 tag and photographed them next to the size 10 ruby slippers to show what size the slippers I ordered actually were. But they could say I was lying so I also provided pictures of the the ruby red slippers inside the “Brannock” measuring device and provided all evidence to the witches of ETSY. I found out later after I lost and goggled the seller, that she was a lawyer. 

Silent Protest

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When I lived on Speedway in Venice, I lived on top of a wife beater, a Great Dane, and an uzi. A large dog for a single apartment. Especially for a dog that was expected to act a mannequin. House rules were to leave the door ajar and the dog would excuse itself and shit on the landing right where my stairs let out. At night, unlit, it was a mine field, but with all the credible threats, I didn’t feel safe vocalizing. I stopped stomping on the floor and calling the cops. I imagined myself collateral damage. Being tommy gunned through the ceiling when he was done with her. His uzi had made an impression. When he pulled it out from under his bed. For 10 years I had lived incident free until they moved in. I tried sugar and it won’t placate a readymade asshole. The famous rock star doing session work at the time. Beating on his diminutive waitress wife. He offered a hit of his tobacco joint and an Ovation he was selling.  It was black and shiny and I admired it and we worked out a payment plan. I never complained again about the huge megalithic craps. I accepted my new occupation cleaning up their feces. When he pounded his wife I turned the music up to a respectable volume. And just watched the floor shaking. After 6 weeks of dutiful payments, I was presented with a new used Ovation guitar. Including the case. I thought. Because within one week I arrived home to find my door barely hinged. The Kwik-set lock, smashed. I could see was that my bi-fold closet had been emptied. All four of my guitars, retired, as in absent. The Les Paul. The 12 string RICK, the Gibson L5S, and my new used Ovation. I knocked downstairs. Nobody answered. Waited for them to come home. Did they hear anything?  I made a useless police report. And fashioned a deli stick. I took a toothpick and added 2 sticky labels back to back. I scrawled SHIT in caps and stuck it in the fresh Great Dane’s shit at the bottom of my stairs.  

Coconut Yamaka

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At the farmer’s market in Lihue sometimes we pause in front of a stall to talk-story. A man selling a book called, THE POWER OF COCONUTS used to be a farmer and I inquired within as they say, wanting to know more. He had lost his farm searching for his spiritual identify. Most people just assume that they were born into the one true religion. He was born a Jew but realized that that didn’t necessarily mean that he lucked out, somebody had to be born into the wrong religion.

To find out for himself he sped read every sacred text he could get his hands on. There were not enough hours not for a man, maybe a computer. This becoming a mystic was becoming a sacrifice and his farm suffered. Production and yield were at an all time low. He spent less time with his wife while she did the back breaking work and her back was sore. While he searched the internet, joined forums, tried magic, the iChing. Meditation and deprivation, even starvation, until one day a talking spirit came to him. It said, “You are a holy man and a sage and you need more time for your studies, red 22. Put everything on RED 22. EVERYTHING.”

He rushed to tell his wife that he’d made contact. We will be rich I won’t have to speed read we’ll be able to afford a chiropractor. Sell everything darling we’re going to Vegas. The Farmer and his wife obeyed their spirit guide and they sold the farm and everything else and drove to Vegas and put everything, even the gas money home on RED 22.

Inside the casino the spirit guide stayed close, encouraging. Repeating red 22, red 22. They put everything on red 22 and lost. The spirit who never deserted them said, “We’re fucked.”

This farmer now sells mostly on the internet, THE POWER OF COCONUTS, incense, and protection spells. I can send you a link. He strongly cautions initiates NOT to work alone. To employ him because it’s too easy to make contact with low spirits. Especially online. They are readily available. Ingratiating, very charming for a time, but it’s all self serving. This is how they feed, by cultivating confusion and chaos, milking the energies of expectant devotees seeking a source they might suckle.

LOST INCENSE

My nonscence

I dated the BODHI TREE for awhile. Instead of a coffee shop. I slept on a plank of benches between bathroom breaks. There was free teas and pretend. What would it be like to be really new age? I read up on all the cults I might join. I had a friend whose girlfriend had just left him, to move in with god. BUT, in terms of purchases there was only incense that I ever bought. No books or tea or jewelry, until I the stumbled on Flower Essences. You might remember BACH. The literature said to treat the emotional body. I needed all of them according to the chart.

When I went to read the ingredients it was just water and alcohol. Not even one drop of actual flower material. What a rip off. I knew this couldn’t be right so I asked a man with a turban who worked there. I asked if they had a book. To make my own? And from what I could glean it was backwash vase water they were selling. I wanted all 38 of the essences AND all the incense I had not purchased. I made the conscious decision to steal them. To become a thief and specialize in new age shoplifting. My shrink had said dismissively once, that the way to heal an obsession was to do it until you are done doing it. He said it about ice cream.

Years later in Topanga Canyon eating vegan I found myself unfocused and distracted by incense. There was a little shop adjacent to the restaurant that was burning it. I wrote a check and after that I had a regular Friday night midnight date with this stick of incense and Joe Frank. It was airy and harmonic transcending it’s parts. It wasn’t Palo Santo I’m telling you.. I should have paid more attention. Because after applauding myself for making it to the top of Topanga to re-up (that’s drug lingo), it was gone. I couldn’t tell you the notes or the name of it. Something with planets maybe? Nine planets? Did it have the lightest touch of amber? I tried calling. Speaking to the manager. How about the person who does the ordering? It wasn’t floral or was it?

Blood Moon

BloodMoon

I’m hiding right now. Almost soundless. Just finger tips clicking on keys. That neighbor that caught me doing the twirling dervish with incense was a real asshole last night. I heard him calling for his dog Mahina at 11. I ran out to help. 

I said I hope you can lift Mahina over the fence I’m not sure what part of the fence she breached. I proclaimed my love, you know I love your dog and would buy her from you. I mean if you ever need money…? 

YOU NEED A BETTER A FENCE. AND I DON’T WANT YOU’RE DOG HERE. AND DON’T BE BRINGING MAHINA TO YOUR HOUSE. I never do I said meekly. He stormed away dragging off her in a cloud of THC exclaiming SHE’S A MOTHER NOW!!!!!

I dunno if he one of those guys on INVESTIGATION DISCOVERY – FEAR THY NEIGHBOR. But I do remember hearing a baby crying last night.. Maybe he’s a father?

Around 1AM after she was hauled home, just a few hours later, I heard her pony hoofs on the stairs. She was back, my Mahina, the moon. Was the moon full I couldn’t tell the clouds. I put a towel out on the front door mat. I had given up my plans for a doggie slumber party. I had changed sheets. Blood is pouring out of Mahina she’s in heat maybe that’s why they let her out of her enclosure. Are the inmates all male?

It’s morning Mahina slept as close as she could to me on her now bloody towel. He’s calling her. She’s not budging. Meeschoo is under the house on a long teether. I usually take her off as soon as the cats are fed. BUT this time handsome needs to come and get her.

15 minutes pass. Meeschoo is barking. I keep thinking he’s coming to get her. Neither of us are budging. My window abuts the front door and stairs. We are Anne Frank and Helen Keller.

I wish there was an underground railroad for dogs here. I’ve thought of asking my friends who are taggers to make me a YOU CAN FEED YOUR PIG DOG stencil. Shame the island. Get in trouble. Go to jail. 

I just heard a low Mahina growl. She could dismantle that him if she wanted to. Is it wrong that I want her to kill him in my head? If she did there would be repercussions, the authorities would finally step in. FUCKERS. Everything I say ends in FUCKERS these days. 

It just occurred to me he could be playing chess. Maybe he’s waiting for me to move. I wish my headphones from Amazon had arrived. Why wouldn’t he entertain the thought of money? Like I wonder how much she would actually pay? The dog is practically dead. It can’t hunt anymore half blind and gored.  

I have a huge cow ear leather earmarked for her. But what if he comes up the stairs and she’s gnawing on it? Doesn’t he see we just love each other and want to be together? FUCKER. 

I hear hammers and wood in the distance. This A-frame house is a tower on stilts and we are just waiting for the scaffold to be finished.