Past the red dirt streets, pigweed
oozed stories, cacti bled prickly deaths.
There was a hotel over a tavern.
In the hotel was a man with no face.
Just a pair of eyes and a door knob
of a mouth. The mouth did double duty
as both portal and syllable-slocker.
The tavern was in the shape of a shoebox.
It was called The Footloose Pilgrim.
The stranger with no face entered the tavern.
After downing two whiskey shots, he said
to a man next to him, "Might your name
be Ringo Lawson?" "No," said the man, "and
what be your business with him?" "He killed
my twin brother & took my face," said the
man who didn't have one, "but I believe you're lying,
just another cowardly dog under yellow sky."
The man claimed that his brother was the Tsar
of Russia & no one could harm him.
& with that, the man with no face killed
the man who claimed he was not Ringo Lawson.
& the man with no face traveled everywhere
murdering every copy of Ringo Lawson.
Until there was no one left in the world
not one permutation
who could possibly have this stranger's face.
And the world once again became small and cozy
an empty shoebox.
© Kyle Hemmings 2010
-----
Kyle Hemmings lives, works and dies in increments in New Jersey. He likes talking to pissed off cab drivers and retired hookers, writing their memoirs.
Kyle Hemmings lives, works and dies in increments in New Jersey. He likes talking to pissed off cab drivers and retired hookers, writing their memoirs.
