A Hole In History


Nothing reminds us more of Mother’s Day, and a woman’s role  –  as the hole in history then the life of the Staint Thais. 

A sensitive daughter. Orphaned by parents who died in tandem almost instantaneously. Fortunate to inherit money without the intercession of ancillary extended family. Or male foreign invaders. Her life was an exercise that the elders approved of, she never married and remained devoted to Christ and generosity. When pilgrims hiked past her estate they were invited to take shelter. If the poor were hungry she interceded. Unfortunately due to a failure in bookkeeping. She was suddenly without recompense and broke. The scriptures tell us she looked for secretarial work but lacked the strength and dexterity for cuneiform. She had become like all other women without money and an aversion to excessive housekeeping, job seeking and exposed. In those days the only fair wage was prostitution. 

When the Elder’s of Sketis learned of her transformation and courtesan ways they sent St John the Dwarf to fetch her. But he was rejected. His entry was barred. The Dwarf St John employed cunning and trickery, “Tell the mistress I have something precious for her.” Like what dickhead she might have wondered? But Thais had a weakness for shiny pearls and suspected the Elders might have a gift remembering the good in her. John the liar Dwarf was ushered in to see Thais and began weeping. “How can I not weep,” he asked, “when you have forsaken your Bridegroom, the Lord Jesus Christ, and are pleasing Satan by your deeds?” She accepted his offer, a sentence of 3 years hard labor. 15 days after her release she died. Now they call her Saint. 




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 had been chronicled in our local papers. Kauai’a own true crime. We wondered if the psycho serial seal killer was accelerating, perhaps graduating. Or did he mistaken the cocooned sleeper for a beached monk seal?

We brought a volleyball to the beach. The meet-up listing should have said Bocce Ball we were told later. Which is Italian bowling. Which theoretically with bowling in my genes, my grandfather owned a bowling alley in Racine WI. and my father Italian. I might have had instant mastery, but no Bocce ball was ever produced.

John and I bumped the volleyball to stay warm. It was a blustery evening, sunset on the horizon. Parents had set up a slip and slide for their kids, or was that a roll of dark garbage bags unfurled? Smoky coals and and lighter fluid coughed from a grill.

In attendance a local star surfer who had a wave break named after him. Another fellow turned up with meat. A steak and long raw sausages held up by a Yo-Yo Ma doppelgänger. I looked at him for a long time. Like I know you. How do I know you?

There were a lot of cakes too. A Tuxedo cake. Red Velvet cupcakes, unfortunately the frosting was NOT cream cheese. Chocolate chip cookies with white chunks. Costco chow. Lightly whipped up sugar batter overkill and immediately regrettable.

The subject under the gazebo was Michigan and the novelist Jim Harrison and one guy was impressed when I mentioned I knew him.

I ate some questionable vegetarian collards greens. 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 the wild haired cellist held his cake? By the dimmest sliver of orange moonlight (or peach moon if you consider the pitted craters). He sustained. Like a glowing aftertaste. Holding his mush of cake in his claw instead of a plate,  wolfing it down.

I remembered him. HE was the man up at Kukuiolono Park. The one in the grey truck that I had called the police about (that I saw again years later trawling the Eleele BEST SAVE grocery where everything is freezer burned) that saw me -alone- feeding chickens and opened his car door so I could see him with his pants scrunched down to the floorboards. Whacking off.


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.

DR GURU is a certifiable

Broke IN

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
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

Hare List Double Checked

TAPED - 1He’s picking weeds again, but not the reams attacking our raised bed, our food. So to express myself, I took the heaviest spade I could find AND a running start and made a lasso motion to blow out his hair.

He startled and ran like a girl forgetting the decade ago how he got drunk and choked me. Or locked me out of the house to sleep in my car. Taking my G4 tower and shattering the passenger window so I would have no shelter. It was sorta funny.

But I’m no Joan Burroughs
pose with honey crisp scalp
snapped with forgiveness


Jack Smith and my mother were partners in douche. Not just business but there was a feeling of potential that extended beyond the scope of their proprietary formulation.

In the past douches where historically a serious affaire, medicinal, or vinegary.

Jack was a philanthropist and pharmacist who liked puppies. An unusual man who wasn’t a pervert but cared about children. I had been meandering in the fifth grade. His solution that I read Ayn Rand. Trading me for a telephoto lens.

Together the three of us opened a drugstore. We were like a family gluing down red and green felt checkerboard tiles. We stocked the showroom display cases with knick knacks and incense. We carried black light posters, aspirins, and spinning card racks.

He taught me to smile at customers and fill prescriptions. I learned to type, to count by fives and sweep pills into a well.

My friends were employed too, a few cents each to label bottles of douche. We peeled sticky labels to both sides. Slowly learning the technique to get straight the psychedelic Peter Max graphics with undulating strawberries & bananas splitting.

Jack grew up in Philadelphia wanting a pit bull terrier. One day he bought back a white but mostly pink puppy. Named “Yummy” after the douche. She was a white long nosed pedigree pit. I called her Arnold. After the pig on Green Acres.

When you’re a kid you’re the last to get the news. The douche business had been sold to a company with distribution.

Jack had fallen in love with a red head. The drug store, now closed.

The last time I saw Jack we went out for Chinese. It was a goodbye party, the theme, Jack isn’t leaving you.

I didn’t hear about Jack again until I was 16.

He had given a neighborhood kid a job caring for his dogs and watering his plants when he went out of town. One of Yummy’s puppies.

But his young charge had somehow misplaced it. It disappeared and Jack was accused of having it stolen it. The kid told authorities, Jack had set him up.

A week later Jack returned home to find his apartment empty. A police report was filed. A private detective hired. Neighbors recalled a U-Haul driven by an older woman, the seventeen year old’s mother, and child, had wheeled out Jack’s safe, his furniture, taking everything, but the dogs.

A few days later his car disappeared. After his shift ended at “Longs” he found his parking space vacant. The police soon located his old white Cadillac at the bottom of a cliff.

It was in the newspaper. The dog sitter had let himself in with the same set of keys he had used for his job. Ushering the dogs out to the patio, closing the sliding glass doors behind them.

He surprised Jack Smith, hiding behind his front door. Waiting with a baseball bat. Then poured gasoline on his body.

Arnold or Yum Yum or Yummy coughed for a year from all the second hand smoke.

In the end they called it “good behavior” when his killer served only a 5 years.