enjoy this Kyle Hemmings writing in the free April 2011 cc&d PDF file chapbook Anime Junkie				You can also order this as a 2011 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover spread for the book Anime Junkie

Order this writing in the book the Mission (chapbooks edition) cc&d 2012 collection book		get the 206 page May - August 2012cc&d magazine chapbook (and occasional issue wriitng and art collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

I’m (Y)oung, (U)gly, & Too (P)oor to Afford A Bathing Ape

Kyle Hemmings

    On the metro, Hot Girl makes faces at the Goth Lolitas of last year. She tells me, a boy she calls Tut-Tut, her sooty-face squeeze from a ruined matrix, that her best lovers had three eyes—one hidden while the other two pleaded no contest. Between pony tails, she’s soft, blonde-dyed-on-blonde, and bad licorice tasty. In stolen cars, she’s always getting flat tires. We get off by some Bauhaus-styled apartments in a Victorian rain. She loves Poe & a street artist called Dugged. Yesterday, she was almost expelled for handing the school nurse a plastic container labeled Frog’s Piss.

    She even made her eyes bulge, then hyperventilated. The shit she does will crack me up for years or make me cry at my own pre-arranged marriage. Reading my palm in a college cafe, she says that we’ll both die simultaneously—her, from a chemical overdose— me, from a noble suicide. You mean driven by a future wife who turned me into a voiceless toad, I say. Whatever, she says, shrugging. Later, after making love to demons in the form of each other, she shows me a glass jar, in which she stores the voices of her favorite ghosts. When I open the lid, she says, Grandmother tells me that she loves me, and this one strung-out No Salary dude, who did murals along Cat Street, tells me to rebel against slow buses. & dictators. They multiply like the frogs under our feet, the ones we never hear in traffic, the ones we leave for dead.

    Underground, she says, sipping her latte, you don’t get representation. I ask her if my ghost will someday be in that same jar. Yes, she says, and points to my reflection off the glass. As we walk hand in hand towards Meji Dori, buildings bend, trees curve. I already feel that I’m inside looking out. I hear the frogs and know that I am not alone, that one of my three eyes is blushing from a freaky rain-on-me love.

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