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Cat People 		Cat People, a Kyle Hemmings chapbook     Cat People, a Kyle Hemmings book You can also order this as a 2011
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City Cry

Kyle Hemmings

    We live for the night, Kat and I. Glitter queens, mothball girls with no back wings, neon cursed sex slaves, cherry boys with Ferris wheels in their eyes. The day will only break our backs. Kat, dressed in her black leather skirt, shin-snug boots, nylons with an incredible run, is rummaging through her latest collection of rare LPs from 60s Garage: The Blue Tangerine Scenario, Lovers Under House Arrest, Tulips for Wendy, and Oscillating Boy from Berlin. “When are the Eskimos coming?” I say. “We’re out of blue cubes and sugar substitutes.” “You know them,” she says without turning face. “They’re never good with directions and terminal bus stops.” Kat bops her head to a record, her body all sheer and leather snake. She turns, wiggles and does a faux Watusi before me without cracking. “The world is full of Eskimos late on arrival, or still under the ice. What makes the world turn, Kat? I mean, seriously.” She jerks her body towards a wall, imitates her shadow. “Money and sugar, honey. Money and sugar.” She skulks in front of me like a thief who lives to frustrate me. I reach up and pull down her panties. I rear end her. Inside, she feels like the empty spaces of 5.5 unlived lives and the cat who escaped from the suburbs. When I’m finished, she slaps me for not using lubricant. “Oh, did it hurt?” she says with a pout. “Nothing compared to last time,” I say. I saunter to the window. Two gays walking hand in hand. Obviously in love. Mr. Gypsy Moth with the aching eyes and Mr. Clingstone Peach who is always dropping from decision trees. Who will burn who first? Who has the thicker skin? Who can grow wings? “Why can’t we be like Jersey couples?” I call out to Kat. “Why can’t we refinance love, are we that broke?” “Because we live on Avenue C,” says Kat. “The rest of the world waits for us so they can turn.” “Love,” I say, biting my fingernails down to the skin. “Will it ever come this way again?” I turn. Kat is wiping an LP with a soft wet cloth. “When the sun goes down, baby. That’s when it’ll come again. When we become blind, when we’ve given up on touch and sound. Can anything live below the city? And we can only taste that part of the other that we once loved swallowing whole.”



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