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enjoy this Kyle Hemmings writing in the free Down in the Dirt Tax Day 2011 PDF file chapbook Cat People				You can also order this as a 2011 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover spread for the book Cat People

Order this writing in the book Prominent Pen cc&d edition		get the 332 page May-August 2011 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

S.O.S.

Kyle Hemmings

    I wake up to a feeling of floating bodies. Kat is not sleeping next to me, which means I might be stranded on Mars without a blanket. A note pinned to the pillow: I’m tired of being your singing cockroach. Bow down before your Queen Bee Diva. I might be home before six, or I might swim to Bali. I’m just that kind of girl. Anyway, you still give me a reverse hard-on. Love, Kat. I look out the window, as if I’m imprisoned inside a tower room. There’s a smell of bubblegum, wafting through hot days and porch-less childhoods. Maybe the East Village is burning. I imagine in the building across the street, a girl is locked in a room and thinks it is her lighthouse. She loves the sun but can’t stand to look down. She probably doesn’t give a damn about pod slurping or car podding. She just wants to be saved from household cleaners and her brother’s broken bass lines. He could go on for hours about the social stigma of having a hare lip. I download Kat and her band—Izzy and the Dogs of Dis-Solution—in MPEG-4 and watch them perform in H.264 video. Kat is dressed in a plastic mini-skirt with candy cane stockings that keep twirling, that never end. She’s holding a fake water hydrant because behind her the city is burning. The rest of her band are dressed as ANGRY, SLEEK-DOG, AND LUDICROUS. At the computer, I type this message: We’re out of leftovers. The cockroaches with no voices got to them. And I promise I won’t put my shoes in the oven and set it on Broil. I’m going to lick my A.D.D. and talk to you in simple sentences. You’re going to love my new haircut. And I won’t hold grudges against girls singing under the radar, their songs without bridges. Remember that old cliché you once sang about? Love is like peanut butter, all gooey and sticks to your cheeks. Please come home before I burn the last two slices of bread. Love, Pixie-Bob. I will send this e-mail to myself.

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