Category Archives: Kyle Hemmings
WE LIVE IN CONTIGUOUS ROOMS
You portion out the rain in zip-loc bags. I swim side-stroke under low sky.
You drop kittens in your sleep. I return from lunar explorations with stuffed
aliens. Self-inflicted bruises from sleep deprivation. You desert all your broken
toys. I fondle jack rabbits, the true hares of this earth. Under your last lover’s
window, you hurled words as if spitballs. My last lover called me Slow-Hand Elmo
and said to reach her by telegram. I disappeared between dots and dashes.
I went paperless. You believe in circles and self-help books by East Village gurus.
I believe the dead like it where they are. In soft encounters, you set an internal
alarm clock. Time’s up! Already? When you look away, I speak in a stream
of fragments. You say: Do what you want! I say the other side of my brain wants
vegetable pizza. But I’ll starve as a lefty, get it, Alice? In the shower, you sing
some corny love song, or hum your ex’s favorite–“Apples + Oranges,”
by Smashing Pumpkins. At the window of a mirror-less afternoon, I sign
that in your absence I am impossible. Nobody is watching. Nobody.
You cringe below empty bird cages. I text you the joke of the day.
You are silent. I am mute.
©2012 This work is the property of the author.