6 July '11 (Sacramento)
Black man with baseball cap, standing in the aisle of the grocery store [Safeway] we went yesterday to take care of business concerning bank accounts for kids, and getting credit & debit cards, he said to someone in the other end of his cell (mobile) phone: "These fuckers are not from Saudi Arabia." He kept repeating this to the person at the other end, as if he would not believe what he was reporting. He was peering down at cooking oil on a shelf. He had no shopping basket or grocery cart, trolley.

7 July '11
"The Gold Rush was the single largest movement of people since the Crusades; an estimated 90,000 prospectors pressed into California in 1849 alone and 300,000 had arrived by 1854" (p. 83 Ishi's Brain).
"One pioneer in northern California's Trinity County would recall a 'Kentuck' buying an Indian girl of just eight or nine years old as his 'seraglio'" (p. 84, ibid.).
Mooretown: Feather Falls Casino
Berry Creek Rancheria: Gold Country Casino
Enterprise Rancheria: (no casino)
Round Valley (the 4th Maidu reservation or rancheria) is located inland from Mendocino
Patricia Nelson Limerick: new historian of the West
Chico Rancheria: run by the Mechoopda, survivors of 1850s & 60s extermination due to residence around stockade and John Bidwell's ranch in Chico

14 July '11
Agitprop at the DMV today where two women, an Hispanic and a black tried to get into it before the tall, fat butt security guard got between them. I was gazing in the direction of the commotion when it began with an outburst of raised voices and soon degenerated into name-calling, the black woman calling the Hispanic a "stupid bitch."
Our first visit to the DMV on July 8 I believe I wanted to note the tall, statuesque black woman with the thunder thighs and today the young black woman with the cropped hair in the back and the wave on her crown with the blonde streaks. It was hard for me to keep my eyes off of her, she reminded me of the Nigerian whore, especially the haircut, though the Nigerian's was a wig.
How much was merely slight provocation cannot be judged, as it appeared the two women were in a group sitting together. A brother "came to the rescue" in the case of the Hispanic woman.

She ran up like a springbok
to me des yeux glauques
she coveted my gold Gaelic cross
special to me I said to her
special to me so beautiful
she could not have it nor me her
enamored she was too much
of my dirham notes
she needed to pay her boss
she almost swooned
Oh, Aminata, my Ivorian flower
a syncope of delight
your dark chocolate syrup flavor
has indicted me in spite
of you, Aminata, Ivorian flower
hard chocolate body illuminated
by night's fluorescent light
reigning over your body like
the moon raining sun's ray over
deep, dank earth's wights
floating, black cirrus clouds
of silk your hair shimmering in
same light, each strand with tensile
strength of rubber wobbling earth's
axis your electricity sighting me
down your lithe, sapling body
new, shrouded peaked dawn in
night.

You fell upon me like holy water dispensed by father during Mass
you were amassed in dark, hollow, wise blackness of artificial silk hair growing from your scalp in black ink strands shiny, shimmering in fluorescent light
shiny, shimmering shimmying in delight to cascade down along your jet black cirrus cloud strands of silken hair.

I stuck it into you, my bongara
my bongara into your tiktobah
tiktobah/bongara party, party
partying together between
sapling thighs I sighed between
a syncope of de-light hedging its bets to transpire a swooning swelling the lips of your hidden priory, prior to installing it between your sylvan thighs.

Black loon with gaping wound
your teeth crooked and the whites of your eyes baring themselves and the fluorescent light reverently be-lighting your face a glancing blow of tubular fluorescent light alighting on your face, your thighs only dusky with only slight discoloration between your thing there hidden was it orange colored panties?
I can't remember only that you wore your bra still when you said you want to fuck? And then I stuck it in again, your lips pursed between your thighs, the whys and wherefores sighing their lies, your lying beneath me, penetrating your lies, our lies, our whys and wherefores expiring, tangled in between, among our thighs.

Nothing but a fetish doll in mind
Nothing but a fetish doll in mind
Nothing but a fetish, dull in mind
the keening of her little twat
the keening of her little twat
the keening of her little twat
upbraids my soul is on the dole
upbraids my soul is on the dole
the reaming of her little twat
She redeemed me from my be-
  nighted soul she redeemed me
from my benighted soul Be-
  witched me with her jet black
hair, silken shimmering in fluores-
  cent light, shimmering black silk
in the fluorescent light
a gaping wound between her thighs
the keening loon of her little twat
is what it amounted to that night
she was enamored of my large
  dirham notes.

I drink you in my mind at night
I drink you in my mind at night
drunken soul upon the waves
  of shimmering black skin
deep chocolate color
my soul sinks down in the night
bewitched by you, my little twat
deep dark chocolate fetish doll
with jet black silken strands for
hair growing from your scalp
as if I touched a smooth black
glass, a cool smooth black
glass of darkest Guiness bitter
A bitter-sweet a glass of ale
A bitter-sweet a glass of ale
I raise it to this darkest whore
the dusky Muse of Baudelaire
will I forfeit this darkest night
will I forfeit this darkest whore?
Aucune idée is my surmise
Aucune idée indeed this night
A bitter-sweet induced delight

I cannot underrate the moon
I cannot underrate the moon
I cannot underrate the moon
I cannot underrate the moon
I cannot underrate the moon
I cannot underrate the moon
the moon I cannot berate
it's full the moon her face
the deepest, darkest, fullest
   moon of chocolate
the moon, it's made of chocolate
the moon, it's made of chocolate
white chocolate it seems
white chocolate it seems to be
the moon it has a rigid face
a rigid face it seems
it seems to crop up in the night
a harvest moon it bays a
russet white, it bays a rus-
set white
A candied apple in the sky
it turns a bloody red
not that farmer's face
peaking over the fence
but a ship with bloody sails that's
  docked
inside a culvert of my heart
above the transom in my room
the moon, its chocolate face, it
  looms to deride me in my utter
  gloom
Put a face on it she said, the
wounded cry of a loon
the pouting lips, the drooping lids
a melancholy moon
that shines through, chocolate white
Oh, Aminata, Ivorian flower
what drapes you in a silken
bower? The hours float by in
  the sun, your jet black tresses
shroud the moon, your luminous
complexion sways the room
full of the darkest chocolate moon

the moon is a dark chocolate
shining white

1 July '11
ANCIEN COLON À L'HOTEL AL MASSA

She ran up to me like a springbok
She wanted my gold Gaelic cross
z'yeux glauques, from me des 
yeux glauques
with a little wah-wah trombone
in her mouth when she spoke
her lingo
playing Zorba the Greek
her body lithe, a sapling
I grafted my bongara with her
tiktobah very tight squeeze
with variable temperature in
the forecast
she left the hotel with white, flat
slippers like Donald or Daffy
all in black
I am a Muslim she said
as she slipped the narrow-fitting
abaya over her head, then draped
it with a shaleila before we exited
the room.
My little black Samba
with silk black hair down
her back (shines black & ivory in the night lights)
would not take her bra off
was enamored of my dirham
notes
she could finally pay the boss

She keeps calling me
ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta- ta

ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta- da    on my Nokia
but I do not answer
I'm going back to my Honey she gave me a peck on the cheek when I gave her money for food (Fr. Anthony looks like Toad of Wind in the Willows)
Now I understand that ancien colon in Duékoué, always with a bevy of naughty girls in the cinema or pawing one of the bar girls. He had a sweet tooth for brown sugar, though never made himself sick to get over it, old age was what he never got over, or would.

With Queequegette in the hotel room.

... Vitamins were the key to give him strength it was alleged

B for Babette, my Queequegette of darkest chocolate color with shiny black silk hair that gleamed like ivory in the fluorescent light
it was real, not the usual page-boy wigs the other West African whores wore. I know it was because I pinned it down with my bony arm on the bed as she pulled away and said "ouch!" And "slowly" she said the second time I plunged my bongara in her, and "ah!" with a plea of don't, you're hurting me, though this she did not say. But I was only lodged a short while before I backed it out. I only bumped her twice that night, like going too fast over a hump in the road, it's not good for the shocks. But I shocked her good. "You want to fuck," she said, to do it for a second time. I was much obliged. I was enthused, she was crazed by the dirham notes I gave.
If ever there was a dark chocolate moon and clouds of cirrus in strands of shimmering jet black silk it was this little woman of 22. (She told me she was 22 years old.)
I kept asking her if she spoke Twi, as she said she was from Ghana, but she seemed not to understand and would not reveal the name of her lingo that had the wah wah open syllables of Wobé, a language of Western Ivory Coast near the Liberian border. Maybe she was speaking West African pidgin. "Check time" was her way of saying "What time is it." Always with her mobile near at hand to wah wah on and on.

23/4/08
He always wanted to be something other than himself, a little object maybe the size of the spherical end of the head of a ball peen hammer, but not as hard, de-flatable even. The only risk involved would be the curtailment of his desire to be this little object [and nothing more], a kind of coeval relationship with a sister object such as a pair of pliers whose head only too well conformed to the nature of it, opening to a larger hole than its usual smaller one, [intervening].

He knew well enough where the parameters lay in his desire but could not quite articulate them as he suspected he couldn't. Though spared this anxiety, he nevertheless pursued his goal of becoming this person, for indeed it was a person he had had in mind from the start. A certain girl named Molly he thought he knew was a man. She was the end of the head of the ball peen hammer, he was the hole in the head of the pliers. He liked to grip the head of the ball peen hammer and tap the end of the hammer's handle on a hard surface, preferably pavement or concrete. The pliers he liked [to peer through] to use to grip whatever it could get its grip around and then wrench it back and forth or turn the head from side to side, thus grinding the gripped object like a dog ripping a rag being tugged from the other end. Never one for a tentative grip, he was wont to go out of his way to plug holes with a butt bung. Whatever could be had. Crude renditions, however, were not tolerated and were even prohibitive.

One day he used the telephone to call her, the object of his desire. He swallowed it, in fact, and thought thereby to bung himself up as with a suture. This suited her fine, for then he could listen to her deep within his bowels, the gas burbling all the way up as in acid reflux and she could be there with him deep in the shit. A possible explanation is in store, to be used for purposes left unsaid, however present they may be in the pages of this fat lil' notebook.

THE EUCHARISTIC DONUT

The pastor came out of the church, turned round and in embarrassment ... because he thought the dampness of the pee (sperm?) on his black trousers' leg could be seen. It spread like an insidious stain of blood, the blood of a menstruating woman.

When was the last time he had had an erection? Was it the day before yesterday? He tried to forget it but it loomed large, the thought of it tugging his bikini underwear up to a pinnacle under the sheets while Fr. Dolan smelled like a bar in the adjoining bedroom.

Just at that moment, Mr. Sullivan, the choirmaster and organist, came out from the shadows of the nave and into the sunlight. He was not wearing his pointed shoes with Cuban heels to better play the pedals, but his Hush Puppies, so quiet they were when he walked, in contrast to the sound of the taps on the heels of his Cubans when he walked up the aisle to receive Holy Communion last of all the congregation. He was surprised before he saw the back of his head, like a rolled carpet sample, turn round to greet him lispingly.

--Did you like the Bach?
--Of course I did, Tom. I wanted to talk to you about the boys in the choir. There's talk you invite them for donuts after Mass. Is that true?
--Oh. Why ever would I?

Here is where the pliers begin to grate, the teeth of Fr. Crosser began to grind.

--I won't have your likes in my church. The implications are too frightening for the parents.
--What about the children? You silly fool, he thought.
--The cost of the donuts alone makes your actions ... on a par with the evil of interest charged to customers by the banks. Haven't you thought of that?
--I don't get what you mean, Father.
--Your ultimate goal is the hole of the donut!

Mr. Sullivan walked off in his mincing steps, his elephant butt wagging, steps which had a military authority, now with the thought in his head that he had bought jelly-filled for him, not ones with holes unless they were chocolate.

Tom Sullivan's hands were pudgy, so pudgy his knuckles were not prominent. They were perfect for playing,
and some of the boys knew they were strong. Sometimes during the Mass, when he was not playing the organ, Tom would take his favorite choir boy, a first soprano, aside in the stairwell at the top of the choir loft where they could not be seen, and clasp the boy's hands and force his fingers back, release them before hurting the boy, finally needling him in the ribs with his index fingers, in a quick, sharp stab.

Peter took a chance with Tom that morning and Tom took his chance with Peter. The six-thirty morning Mass was the one Peter usually had to serve, but was a chore because he had to, getting up in the morning, especially this cold winter morning when the frozen slush crunched underfoot and the ice on the playground pavement was particularly slippery for his smooth soled Sunday shoes. He preferred Fr. Dolan to Crosser because Dolan had a whimsical twinkle in his eyes despite his puffy lids after a long night of drinking. That odor redolent of what he didn't really know, after the short sleep and long sequestration from the normal perspiration during the day, in the early morning the alcohol began to seep from his pores, giving him a sweet smelling odor. Peter got close enough to get a whiff of his stinking breath of cigarette smoke that wafted above his head as he held the large, red missal aloft so Dolan could read the prayers. Dolan's face was ruddy and there was an irony conveyed by this hung-over priest that was lost on Peter and the distant congregation of spinsters, retirees and bachelors sparsely peopling the church. Peter was too young to understand the irony, only the juxtaposition of the signs of foul odor, occluded eyes and ruddy complexion indicated a benevolent ikon that would only be understood as iconoclasm were it not that the congregation was focused on the Latin responses. Dolan, like many priests, could conceal his little vices, those venal sins wafted up like ashes in incense whose odor revealed the darker sins beneath, or like the few single drops of water he added to the wine in the chalice, these venial sins only a small disturbance soon dissipated and diffused in the blood of life. Dolan quaffed the cup, a little way towards assuaging the headache of the hang-over. Crosser, on the other hand, always checked the store of wine in the little fridge before Mass to make sure none of the altar boys was imbibing before Mass, someone like Tom Fogerty or Steve Fogo. Peter never thought of taking a swig though. His mind was clear and ready to intone the liturgy of incomprehensible Latin words Sister Rosilda made him memorize. He recited them after Dolan, a kind of call and response of slaves picking cotton in the fields, his mind wandered to Martin Williams' book about the early history of jazz in New Orleans at the turn of the century he had been reading. However, the work of the field hands was neatly integrated into the work of his mind in recalling the automatic sequence of consonants and vowels not even vaguely adhering to English words, as the seeds to the cotton immediately plucked, but not to the meaning of the sounds--they were not even phones allied to phonemes or morphemes.

The coldness of the air stung his face. He was wearing his favorite navy blue serge coat with a double breast of large buttons and a belt he could tighten around his waist with a clasp. It was the very same Steve Fogo taunted him for wearing, "a girl's coat." For his indiscretion Fogo suffered the consequences of a repeated pounding of his head that Peter submitted him to on the playground pavement. Tom invited him for a donut at the donut shop after Mass. Peter trusted him whether implicitly or explicitly, it was in no stretch of his imagination illicit. It was a matter of being obliging and it was simply cold and his toes had begun to feel frozen, as he had not worn his boots. The cold was so cold it seemed as if it was Old Man Winter scorning him if he were to refuse. Tom had simply asked him if he wanted a ride home. He didn't know until he was inside his car that an invitation to the donut shop was in store. That was a small price for a trick Tom thought. He had "turned tricks" on other boys he gleefully smiled to himself. This one was thin and delicate, pliant like the grape jelly or apple sauce released from inside a round donut with powered white sugar all over the top. The snow had begun to fall, and lightly fall and stay, the shape of the flakes intact on the nap of his navy blue serge coat so much like a girl's.

--Do you like donuts?

Peter thought he was asking him if he had enough money to buy a donut. He hadn't a cent in his pocket.

--I can always spare a quarter on such a good choir boy as you.

Peter did not like his tone of cajolery, not knowing what it was to renege on flattery, however freely administered. Peter had no idea of an insect sexuality that needled his sides in anger at the talking he never indulged in in the choir loft. It was Paul Reid with the sad brown eyes, always red-rimmed they seemed, and big toothed grin that always talked. It was Paul who pulled that prank, perhaps, or was it by chance that Mr. Sullivan was caught seen by the choir boys with a long piece of thread hanging from the rear of his trousers that made it look like an elephant's grey, sagging posterior with its tail moving side to side? Maybe Mr. Sullivan took him aside because he was grinning for no apparent reason that Tom was aware of. His accepting the invitation for a donut was a droll repayment for his indiscretion.

Inside the donut shop Tom asked what kind of donut he wanted. His answer was crucial for Tom, for Tom considered himself a sugar daddy for his "girls," rough boys too impertinent not to hesitate to say "stick it up your ass, queer." He liked those boys nevertheless, but only took photos of them flexing their muscles, especially if he could get them to pose reclining on his couch in his apartment, their legs taut and held tight together, their genitalia as if offered to him, bulging out from inbetween the clamped thighs. The "girls" he liked to get them to hang from the chin-up bar he had placed in the doorway between his kitchen and bedroom. He would hold them by the torso from the back to give them a boost to reach it. He challenged them to do ten chin-ups and when they failed to make them, as they invariably did, he would clasp them around the waist and wrestle them to the floor, playing a game he called "sticky man," involving resistance to him which would make him "stick" faster to them. Finally, when he had them subdued, he felt the quick spurts of his pearly fluid released in his underwear. He relished the feel of the taut little buttocks of the "girls" like a doctor injecting a needle into a frightened child's tender buttocks' cheek. It was never usually a mutual feeling though. If a "girl" resisted, and he invariably did, Tom would grab his genitalia like a leech or lamprey clamping its jaws on its prey. He relished the feeling of helplessness conveyed to him in the "girl's" immediate docility as he reminded "her" his sticky grip would get tighter if "she" resisted.

--Do you want a cream filled or a jelly? Tom said when at first Peter did not respond.

--Cream.

He knew he was a cream-filled boy, pearly white with powdered sugar on top that adhered to the lips when eaten.

--Do you want to go home now? Tom asked, back in the car.

The bag of donuts sat on the seat between Tom and Peter who was puzzled that the cream-filled donut remained in the bag.

--Yes.

Peter gave directions to his house since he knew the route well, he having had to walk the mile to church many times to serve Mass and go to school. No evidence for any indiscretion could be given, especially when there was a donut only to be had but not given.