kyle hemmings

I could recite you that old poem about silver foxes and carnelian colored apples. But you're so far away. Cow towns, miles of prairie-sky, college students reading Sartre, their flimsy words, a lick of salt. You could be seduced by the sway of white ash, the cinnamon wind. A new boy sweet as chocolate. He'll promise you a mountain of steely love, agnate loyalty. I won't spit towards the wind. Not leeward. I'll settle into a numbing routine. Back in Bloomfield, we have blocks of garage sales and little antique houses, bars full of men with high polished lies, their drinks a shade of urine yellow or bismuth for the hardened who down no chaser. On the streets, you can meet a homeless women who'll tell you about her poppy-silk past that went moonless. You could lose a whole future on the spin of a pitched penny. We’re the victims of stars. Suppose. Suppose. For another dollar, she'll disappear. The way you did last month. In the quick, the dust from your skin barely settled on the bed. At night, I dream of subways and rolling railways, a country of endless stops and gos. It's all I can do to make a breakfast of eggs sunny-side up and not break the yolks.

Kyle Hemmings
Heath Ledger
Blake Butler