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Edie, Come Back
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A Sacrifice with Expressionistic Leanings

Kyle Hemmings

    I was an acrylic artist missing a pinky. We were in Central Park protesting the war, protesting the pollution of skies, of clouds so heavy they resembled our dead lovers, of the destruction of parrot trees and glory lilies. Allen Ginsberg stripped naked and led a procession to find whether Whitman had crossed the bridge and tunnel from Jersey, whether the leaves whispered the names from a Union ghost-brigade of young men he had nursed. Some frizzy-haired kid without shoes was tripping and claimed he could pee upon a stone and it would be rainbow colors. And you told me how you could love Andy Warhol from a distance, but up close, you couldn’t stand him. Or was it the other way around? You fingered a rip in your jeans. You suspected that in years to come you might be too small-breasted for Hollywood. Then you rambled on about trees. You spat as you talked. You said that once you dreamed that you were resting by a tree and the tree leaned over and raped you. I said Trees don’t do that. You said that I didn’t know trees, that I didn’t know a damn thing about them! A year later, I moved from Manhattan, took a series of odd jobs out West, sold my paintings for the worth of a thousand or a million helicopter trees, crape myrtles, the worth of a whole city of women who refused to wear animal fur. After I returned to New York for an exhibition, I found out that you, Edie, had become a tree. For my next private exhibition, I shaved my head and lowered myself into a wooden box, deeper than it was wide, splinters intact.



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