The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1998. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

Hemmin-ner.
A silent g, I find out a year after meeting her.
Hemmin.
You know, like lemon.
Not Hemming.
Not like hair tinge.
Hemmin-ner.
Not Hemmin-ger.

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH

This is much what it's like when you first meet her.

Hemmin.
You know, like woman.
Hemmin,
like shaman
or yemen
or poem.

Not Hemming.
Not like food binge
or door hinge
or duck and cringe.
Hemmin-ner.
Not Hemmin-ger.
Lisa. Lisa Hemminger.
L-I-S-A, Lisa.
L,
loves her Budweiser,
I,
I'm never gonna be able to get that Emily Dickinson song out of my head the rest of my fuckin' life,
S,
sure I'll put you up first,
A,
Asses kicked in the name of literary history,
L-I-S-A,
Lisa Hemmin-ner,
not Hemmin-ger,
a silent g,
gee, she's gonna kill me if I miss another open mic,
g,
girls fucked more than me,
g,
going down the street to score some coke,
g,
greatest poet I've ever known,
g,
silent g,
Lisa Hemmin-ner,
not Hemmin-ger.

Hemmin.
Like poem
like poem written on Jewish headstones
like poem written on Chicago lakeshore
poem spit out through liquor lips
poem standing on wobbly legs
strong arms
and big shoulders
liquor lips locked loosely in light lilting libation
to the piles of dead at her feet
more dead now than I will ever see in my life
corpses stacked all about her
so high that I wonder sometimes
how she can ever see over them

Hemmin
like lesbian
ala 16 year old boy
"If I hit on all of them one of them's bound to have sex with me"
Hemmin lesbian
with her ice cold vice
with her talking about the weather
with her two minutes in a small dark room
that she brought us all into
and she says she's never taken a swing at another poet
and did she really never?

Hemmin
like shaman
like my inspiration
my daddy-o
my cigarette machine
my co-conspirator of all that is right and holy

and she constantly shows me the strength of a good right hook
and the strength of a stiff upper lip
and the strength of a fluttering floating brain
and yes, sometimes, the strength of a pause

So.
What will they say about you when you're dead?
Will you be as famous as you should be?
Will they retire your trolley that laps modern miles?
Sleep well, my Lisa,
my piston-packed poet,
my g-less wonder,
my friend,
my hero,
my muse