Poetry

Kyle Hemmings – Part 2

In Poetry on November 7, 2011 at 11:07 pm

Cult Classics of the 1950s: Flying Saucers Over Hollywood

His name was Fred and she was in deep space in her favorite biker gear. He claimed to have once worked as an extra in an Ed Wood film about men with beady insect eyes and hidden antennas. The eyes were always distant, and the men all looked the same in long shots. When it came to love in close-ups, he reminded her of a mad scientist, mixing magic with empiricism, striking the odd and sexy poses of a praying mantis. A giant praying mantis which had discovered that humans were expendable. Or just damn silly. In the morning, she left him with an orange and some crumb cake. On her planet, he had planted no flags, no stations to refill her self-effacing thoughts. He left her without a good buzz. She was heartbroken. For weeks, she lived in her slippers, smoked her mother’s menthol, a brand she hated, and swore that flying saucers flew over her Burbank apartment at night. Tonight, she just might get up and open the green door.

 

But They Won’t Touch Her Body Parts

I bury her slowly, rework the memories with the latest techniques of cloisonné or filigree. “It’s good she died fast,” says the thinnest women of her three best friends. My father-in-law doesn’t attend the funeral, is selling my wife’s tchotchke and key rings in Times Square. Elise paid too much when she first bought them, the going price of jasper in the heart of the city. I keep seeing the shadow of the second girlfriend, lurking behind the milk-glass, the millefiori, of some immense temple to gods of poor clarity. She stole my wife’s trinkets, her favorite polychrome butterflies, before Elise herself became a stone of endless dimension. Whenever I approach this one, she reiterates all the old sumptuary laws, who should wear what kind of jewelry based on rank and favor. Then she does the runway, still babbling, in a too tight dress, all velvet torch and stretch lace. She disappears in a photo flash of day. The third girlfriend, the one who once had a condo in Venice Beach, has gone somewhat schizophrenic, many-faceted. She keeps calling me up in the middle of the night, asking me where I am, saying that she is Elise.

 

Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He is the author of the chapbooks: Avenue C and Cat People (Scars Publications) and an upcoming e-chapbook, Tokyo Girls in Science Fiction. His work has been pubblished by TenPagePress, Gold Wake Review, Nano Fiction, Wigleaf, NAP, and elsewhere. He blogs at http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/

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