enjoy this writing from Kyle Hemmings in the free cc&d 2010 PDF file chapbook: Avenue C			But you can also get this as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound ISBN# book! Click on the cover spread to order a copy.

Order this writing in the 2010 poetry collection book		click on the book cover for an author & poem listing, order the 5.5" x 8.5" ISSN# book order the 6" x 9" ISBN# book

Dig That Girl!

Kyle Hemmings

Leave your dog and your dog-eared lovers at the door.
  I smile at the bouncer, pay my ticket, and wink at a slasher chick.
She gets pumped on heavy metal gods and Kwaito.
Here, anything goes at Z-Katz, a throb and a thump
of strobe mirages. And Ricci’s doing all flavors
  of moon-walk, torso-twisting or hip-wriggling.
  She spins past the motorcycle queens crammed
  in SRO like mayonnaise jars on an overpriced shelf.
  And those Soho art tarts, so high on their manicures
  and mouth-washed speech, just drool, but pretend
  they’re so fucking indifferent. In this joint,
  I’m a cross-town fly.

  I wonder. How do I signal that I want her, body and soul,
or even just body, without turning myself into a stand-up
  comedy routine? Okay. Just wait. Waiting to dance in
Ricci’s shadow, anoint myself with her sweat. If I could shrink
  to the size of that fly, I’d sit on her ass [in those skin-tight jeans]
  that are two Siamese-joined heads, twitching. I’m twitching.

Can you drown in the fellatio of joy and despair?

The night sky and stars are tangled in pyramid schemes.

  I know. I know. It’s the liquor that’s doin’ the thinking.
  But I think happiness dies as fast as a chemical reaction.
  It adheres to quarks and particles, the shelf-life of eternity.
  When the bartender yells out last call, I’ll get the balls to ask
Ricci to crash at my loft off Ave. A. Maybe stretch out a love
that would otherwise last a whole five minutes.
  In the sun-stricken morning, after a dream of her vanishing
through crepuscular cracks in walls, we’ll sleep like two Ecstasy overdoses.
  I think of people, like mummies, rising from their sleep and returning
  to their cubicles in the Land of the Dead. I think of men, who can fold
  and pack me in their briefcases, their eyes,
  the heads of hard sunken nails. My Egyptian Mau at the window,
  her belly humming that she hasn’t been fed.

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