Salvation at the edge of the city. In ratty-tat bars,
where Cheng tries to pick up men whose eyes remind him
of sad lemurs, souls of suicidal leaf monkeys at typewriters.
By break of tri-color stream of sky, no one can afford meat.
No one can afford to lose. Beyond perimeters of broken fences,
in an alley reflecting fragments of sky & passing face,
Cheng is raped by a man with scissors for lips. I chase the man
down East Houston until he is nothing but night without plasma,
laugh & spark in pre-war doorways. Cheng says that it is alright.
He knows the man, the Agony of Taiwan in his eyes, the smile
that reminds Cheng of sinusoidal waves of happiness & ennui.
He leaves trails at Laundromats, dropping quarters, stealing
someone’s warm colored socks & greasy tails. For Mr. Tawain,
sex is car chase & flick your death. I clean Cheng up but his
glasses are cracked beyond repair. I lead him by the hand
into the protoplasm of night. We bleed from mercury spill
of memory. In late night bars, we rip off rueful jokes from
plastic strangers with fruity breath. Cheng’s favorite:
Life is like finding out your mother was a whore with
nice teeth and false knockers. You spend the rest of your life, shaken,
outside the hoops, in the dither. Ha Ha.
–Kyle Hemmings