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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

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This Ain’t No Cathouse, Sugah

Kyle Hemmings

    She lives in a flapjack house over a fault line, not exactly her fault. Had no say in the construction of the walls. They’re made of Monterey Jack and a childhood goo called Dream On which rhymes with Klingon. Even though her TV set is fuzzy, she loves star gazing at reruns of William Shatner giving lip and smooth face gloss to a princess of galaxy feminists, their captive hominoids high on brown sugar, comets careening through deep sleep. Her husband leads a double life, teaching Melville and pantheism but at home, practices a tight claw version of this-panther-wears-the-pants. She dreams of being Lady G or having the perfect S curl, but so far she’s only succeeded in making a bald spot. Lately, she’s been reminding him to fix the hole in the ceiling from which she sometimes ogles the blackness of night, stars as superscripts, the universe capable of many interpretations except that Matter matters. At times, after discovering a new scar in the mirror, one left by a dream of comets, she asks her bubble of a hubby if his mistresses wear panther pink or leopard spotted underwear. He retorts that at least he brings home the bacon and she’s already lost three babies to various sucking wounds of depression. As a universal form of humiliation to jaded cats, he makes her iron his mistresses’ cheap bras for a low plunge. Then one day, it happens. The ground shakes, reminds her of a fibrillating heart. Past her window, rumble all the amorous animals from the zoo. Run to the basement, cries her husband, who once promised her a Katmandu, but the mice chewed up the map. It’s too late. The house collapses, over the edge, her husband swallowed feet first, she, belly side up, into a void darker than black, which goes to prove her previous theory that the world and what all the Deputy Dawgs and Sylvester Strung Out Cats made of it was really flat all along. Do You Still Love Me, Daddycakes? her words fly out like splashes of hot grease, hands sinking beneath soft dirt, a shade darker than maple syrup, while in some pit stops across the country, mind you, they serve pancakes until three.

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