I don’t know how I ended up with a double dong. It was huge and veined and AL stole it. He waved it in my face after revealing he had been driving around with it in his trunk. He was kind of a stalker. And used to say I inspired his best music. Which I never liked it was all about unicorns and knights. When he died I felt I had some hand in it.
I’ll never forget Colin being there for me on one of the worst days of my life, and the day after that, and the day after that. My beloved cat I found in the jaws of 2 coyotes and she couldn’t be saved. I was inconsolable and blamed myself.
Colin offered to have a funeral at his house and bury her in his back yard. I accepted but decided I needed a new kitten immediately. We went to at least 10 different shelters because of a clause in my Santa Monica rent control apartment, I wasn’t allowed to have ANY additional cats. My landlord spelled it out, if one died let there be NO REPLACEMENTS, it was in my lease. Three cats and no more.
Since I had been golden about monthly cash under the table unlike my predecessor who stopped the payola two months after moving in, I figured I could fudge a little. I would have to find an all black kitten to replace my dead black cat – KITTER GIRL.
Who else but Colin would have co-signed this lunacy? For two days we drove from shelter to shelter interviewing kittens but there were no blacks. We hit the Sepulveda shelter pronounced by Colin with his UK accent, supple vita. If I had asked Colin to drive me downtown to The Union Rescue or The Los Angeles Mission? If I had decided to adopt a man or a full grown woman he would have carried them to the car for me.
The funeral had everything, flowers, mix tapes by Colin, funerary organ music and a crowd of dear friends. He catered vegetarian as well, with dubious surprise balls. I kept asking what’s in these balls? Colin was a new convert to vegetarianism and rabid in his implementation. So when I detected what I thought was a Progresso bread crumb; I pressed for the recipe. I wasn’t sure how processed food was vegetarian. So when he wasn’t looking I went through his trash and found an empty box of SHAKE AND BAKE. Which suddenly seemed very funny and I began howling until I couldn’t breathe.
My new kitten CHEESER was there. She ended up living with me for the next 23 years and she wasn’t black after all the driving I made Colin do. Cheeser was the craziest dressed moo cow Calico you ever saw. When she poked her mitten at me thru a cage, I couldn’t deny that I was choosen. Colin was always in the background cleaning; he fussed after digging KITTER GIRL’S grave under a tree in his back yard. Another friend who had a crush on Colin made KITTER GIRL a velvet lined coffin and she was off like that with all my tears.
Colin last week was given a funeral in Thailand. A pyre.
Back in Nam when the rations didn’t come thru, you lived off your coconuts. Some locals here use the meat and wellspring to avoid all forms of hard labor. If you know how to drain the nut, which an adept can do with a dull knife, you have everything you need. Deodorant even soap or bathing are unnecessary for the healthy jungle eater, although one’s clothes suffer from a sour dough mildew. My new guru Spicoli set up a lawn chair outback in the woods and fashioned himself a tent with rope hung out a like hammock between two trees. Plastic trash bags he picked up at the dump drape over his lawn chair and sleeping bag. He enjoys the song of the Kauai O’o Bird and has abandoned his car here, suggesting it’s part of a work trade. The details of what we get never quite hammered out. His forté is barefoot with a chainsaw, tree trimming stoned, but what if he falls and self amputates on my property, then what?
I cooked gizzards for the cats and they came out so rubbery un-edible that I googled recipes. At least on my first attempt they tried to chew them before spitting them out, arranging them all over the lanai, with regiments of ants surrounding each morsel in a trail. Rather than use my vegan pressure cooker I decided on the 5 hour boiling recipe. I dumped the rest of the gizzards from the refrigerator that I didn’t want to go to waste into cold water, sullying my French and pristine clean kosher skillet.
(WHAT IS MY PROBLEM WITH WASTE AND WHY DO I WASTE MYSELF?)
A cauldron of nasty odors incensed this vegetarian all Saturday. It took HOURS of stabbing until I felt them tender. Then I replaced the boiling water and I fried the last of the cheap pork, let it all rest, then cut it with a dull steak knife so it took even longer, into the tiniest kitty bite pieces. Service wasn’t until close to 8.
They barely sniffed immediately turned tail. All three left the feeding area in protest. I waited 5 minutes, bagged and refrigerated the rest. They didn’t even taste them this time. When I woke up I retrieved the gizzards from the fridge and warmed them on the counter for an hour. My morning epiphany was to pour one small can of cat food over the top which they licked off. The wild chickens, that I try not to feed, gobbled up the two plates in minutes saving my project ultimately from the ants.
he’s more pimp
guiding my head immediately
to his shaft
practice for John’s
that gag reflex
a definite fixation on my lab work
a fetish for insurance
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
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
tells me I’m special
but couldn’t recap
from his pretense of copious notes
he licks his fingers
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
Up at the T., where the most ardent students plant themselves. Ravi. With her anti-vivisection tee screaming on her back. I take note and fold up a sloppy crane. Nudge the shoulder in front of me to pass it up.
She turned. I grinned. Gave her a thumbs up. Waving.
At lunch I told her everything. Hating people. Except one homeless looking actor. But that I wanted to kick him too. We began meeting between classes daily in the upstairs lounge trading smokes. Studying.
I love plants. I tell her, animals too. That I’m depressed, a mope. Incapacitated. This bird just died that the cats nicked… Too terrible. The mighty spotted nape dove. Heroic measures failed. Droppers of flax seed didn’t work. Sugar water. I even tried cat pain meds to make it comfortable.
For days I watched it cripple and die. In rigor, I was the stiff, curling up with it into a maze of dust.
“Hmmmmmmmmm. Leslie you need to swallow. Find the spider the snake. Eat your fear without pause. Speed’s the trick to killing.”
Mother yelled that I was a wild Indian. But Ravi was the nickel, the real mccoy. Not only could she poison a samosa, she had an army of zombie male slaves. They surrounded her bed. Slept on the floor. With her long black slick of hair, she whipped up a house. And we stepped in.
She did tricks. Stuff with her tongue. When guys wanted two women. The air between them. How easy it was to feign.
She thought I needed to buck up. And she was going to teach me.
“Les listen. Your not listening. We will begin at the bottom of the food chain, slowly with ants and Arrowhead water and sticks.”
I barf. Guzzle water. Nibble on ginger. I starve myself. Ravi has 15 cats. Mining food is as easy as attraction.
Simple recipe: Very hot pan. Off the cooker. Toss ants 1 cup of showered and strained ants. Toast quickly just a nano-second. Add salt and out.
“Just like vinegar and chips, only crunchy no?”
I wait for Ravi’s voice to waiver from the coo of seduction.
“All ants are one. So that if you nibble off a few, it’s like a fingernail.”
I feel better manicuring one disembodied monster.
“Look here Auntie. I am potentially assisting your soul in the reincarnation hierarchy. If you are a good ant and very delicious. With an especially peanutty flavor and just the right tang who knows what cast of Hollyworld?”
“You might get him again as a crab.”
“Thanks for saying him.”
My final ant I take slowly. Mindfully with a magnifying glass. I pick out Mr. Perfect. He had a soul. Or was part of one according to Ravi.
“Aren’t you a dear thing? A hard worker no doubt. A family ant?”
Ravi is impatient. “Jesus Lesss…”
No condiments, tongue. Slowly I allow him the baptism of my saliva.