I dream of cats


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

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

broke IN


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

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

Daesh men are the hottest.


Have I told you  I’m not opposed to Sharia Law entirely? Only the inequity of men not being covered up. THEY turn me on and I find myself uncontrollably tempted to rape their mouths with my broomstick.

Did I show you my new hat? Where else but from the Amazon.

For extra coverage it keeps away mosquitos and is good for fishing.




jewel weed
even stamens wilt
their filaments
only the rain comes
I’ve tried
 my rubber
remove the gag
let myself be towed
when I want to wade out
the frigid current
will carry
 this twine
and plait our hair
weaving us
into a seaweed garland

hirsuit 1.0



coriander snow birds
mix with oglers
meet up with like minded
nomadic horsemen
go west – fly south
decommission a bus
ex-communicate family
once the map of Merry Pranksters
now’s RV’s
and hook ups
brought the wife
the cat
not a final frontier
this capsule’s our life
some cowboys tape back
packing electrical
follow the rodeo
challenge the bull
others say aloha to drugs
watch the embers die
the plugins
antenna’s sticking out
of their heads
pitting their circle
making some burner’s wish
they would just quit
fucking up their view
even before they’ve departed

1-Botany 101

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.


in a tiny trap
on a green
a jungle of
internet a
I run a
grow bananas
for delivery
line up
for my plastic
sippy cup
lion’s mane
for breakfast
new tropical
I’m a
prime member
of the Amazon
my work
in the garden
a duck pond
an empty
kiddy pool
over it
an antler
hunting trophy
a certification
of my triumph
the plot
next to it?
my head
from my tail
still moving


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.