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Kyle Hemmings

October 29, 2012

Mingus V

In the post-apocalytpic dawn, Mingus walks down streets of dirty glass-eyed homeless, bottles of Old Texas Pistil Water & Gunk, echoes of bird-to-tiger couplings from the open windows of 3rd class Limbo Hotels, the slow burn of irradiated nights. No e-beam intended. Mingus is young but old inside. He has swallowed nails to protest the hunger of the living. He is amateur detective and post-psychedelic cub scout with one cheek bandaged in the shape of an X. He is one of us, the generation of slow scavenger withdrawl, dark-alley, green-eye blight, not meant to survive. In his head, the metallic ring of a woman with machine parts: Please stay the night. Like so many of us hiding in post-club hype and drape, he is looking for the father who had him through a woman’s slippery coasts, then abandoned him to the post-war after-dark overlooked on S-game boxes. The father, he’s been told, can unlock a million DNA mutations and bathing-ape recessive tendencies. There are distant voices laughing. There are rolling tin cans that contain microwavable secrets. There is the open city in the shape of a girl’s softly-creased deceptive hands. Despite the tendency towards meltdown, there is still need. There is still time, what little of it, to unlock and mate.

Mingus VII

His mother is made of false alarm clocks and internal slant rhyme schemes. Cracked ceramic thrush-heart, desolate and spectre-gray, piece mold undone by evensong. She pleads with him to not search for the father who abandoned them to small rooms and disassociated metrics. Mingus is standing shakily in the axis mundi of the afternoon. He won’t bracket or break. He won’t squeak or throw another tantrum over his fragile WHYY syndrome [Covert type]. Due to melted plastic leanings, she will smile at the monster shaped masks she finds in store windows. In conversations with under-dubbed East End celebrities, she says Wedding dresses are so worn at the Wong. Tawny dogs die in green sing-song rains. Nobody ever does the post-war giggle and fade-out. At a bar that serves Bubonic Burp, she never never lets on that she knows that the wire girls are all gender-neutered. In a big-base kalasha, she boils her fears even though her artificial eye keeps falling out by its tiny spring.

Kyle Hemmings is the author of several chapbooks of poetry and prose: Avenue C, Cat People, and Anime Junkie (Scars Publications). His latest e-books are You Never Die in Wholes from Good Story Press and The Truth about Onions from Good Samaritan. He lives and writes in New Jersey.

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