I have a habit of waking up in the wrong apartments. The phone rings--a little kid's voice. I say no one is home. He's not buying it. The kid tries to sell me lemonade and asks for my credit card number. Later today, I meet a Moroccan journalist for lunch. I'm having pastrami on rye, the kind that's stacked from chin to eye level. She asks me if I have completed my autobiography then leaves her words on the wind, the receiver dangling. I give her my address without true participles. What is not mentioned in my autobiography is that I no longer do book readings because my breath stinks. But on p. 186, it is mentioned that I use to shop lift pip sculptures or that I once sent e-postcards from my laptop while walking along the St Germain des Pres. No one ever wishes me Happy Birthday. No one ever signs their real name. Tomorrow, I'll try windsurfing on an air current of exported need. .
Kyle Hemmings lives and doodles in New Jersey. He was dropped off by a stork and landed on some drunk’s roof in Piscataway. He’s been lost ever since, but rich in wandering spirit.