Kyle Hemmings – LOST WEEKENDS

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.

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