1

The boys outside

lost their baseball in our kitchen window.

Heard them knock on our door.

Three knocks, three times.

Hello?

Hello in there!

We’re sorry.

The boys slouched away.

I sat on the kitchen floor

staring at that baseball

for the rest of the day.

Mom would think I’d been outside

or that the outside

had been to me.

I stored the ball

in the crawl space beneath the house,

and hid the bits of broken glass

inside my mouth. 

2

Joey’s ball crashed

into Old Jane’s glass.

I could feel the beat coming,

that son-burdened sunburn on my ass.

But Old Jane wasn’t there

and when I told my pops about it

he didn’t seem to care.

Isn’t anyone going to beat the shit out of me?

Cut me at my rounded edges?

Set my ego free?

I went down under the bridge

to the place where big kids

go to kiss

and threw rocks at these two boys

until they started to hiss.

They must’ve kicked me three times

in the head.

Pain like that

is the only story I need before bed. 

3

I got too excited,

like I always do.

Threw too far and too high

and the ball went crashing through.

In Old Jane’s house,

the one Bill says is haunted,

I’d always see a boy watching us play catch;

perhaps we gave him what he wanted.

I don’t even like playing baseball.

I don’t know how to throw.

I can’t “follow through” with the bat

so it’s always three strikes in a row.

I don’t like living in this town

but I don’t know where else I could go.

I don’t wanna be a boy

because all the girls are afraid of us,

but I don’t wanna be a girl

because my sister is a girl

and my sister sucks.

Sometimes I don’t even want to…

I don’t know.

I’m sorry that I broke your window.

Our mouths know not 

the shapes 

these words would take.

Nor have we 

the cunning grandeur required

for creating language 

rather than being 

a victim to it.

To make words 

that sound like words 

instead of sins.

I like to work in the factory.

I like to climb the hill.

I like to see how the world works.

I like to drill.

I work on the assembly line.

I take my lunch at my designated time.

I do not like to talk about not work stuff

(unless I am not at work).

When I am on the clock

I do not like to talk

(talk talk means less work).

I like to work in the factory.

They pay me very well.

I use my money to buy new shoes

so I can wear them while I drill.

When I walk home from the factory,

I walk down the hill.

But when I walk to the factory,

I get to walk up the hill!

I like to work in the factory.

I like to climb the hill.

I like to see how the other people work.

I like to drill.

My co-workers are very smart.

I do not like it when we are apart.

We work so good together as a team.

Our problem solving skills really are the dream.

They are so funny and interesting

but they always show up late,

so the big boss man

doesn’t think they’re great.

But,

the big boss man

likes me very much.

He says I give the drill “a personal touch”

(I do).

He even gave me an extra vacation day. 

But I never take any time away.

Because I like to work at the factory

(the one at the top of the hill).

The other factories in town suck

(they are at the bottom of the hill).

On the weekends I sleep,

and play on my phone.

I stare into my mirror, 

and remind myself that I am not alone.

I make sure my bills get paid, 

and under no circumstances do I ever get laid.

I read a book by the window sill,

and look longingly back up the hill.

I wish I worked more.

I wish I slept less.

I wish the people wouldn’t scream

as the drill entered their heads.

At the factory

with my trusty drill in hand,

I make dozens of tiny holes

and fill them back up

with sand.

You know,

sometimes my coworkers say things 

that I just don’t get.

Like how their job at the factory 

fills them with regret.

I mean,

how could you not 

want to work at the top of the hill?

Would you rather be on the other end of the drill?

So yeah,

I like to work in the factory.

And I like to climb the hill.

I like to see how the world works.

And I love to drill.

Man grows

of the silky trees,

bending in the summer breeze;

of forever’s warning.

Mornings in mourning

Who was he

but a boy?

A simple ocean toy

that flapped and flailed

as summer sailed

along.

They didn’t notice as he cried,

they only cared when he died

and how his corpse

danced it’s way

to shore.

This simple kid

with adventure in his soul

that reached to his soles

and carried him across this isle.

He had climbed every tree

just to watch the clouds.

He knew of all the streams,

and had seen every house.

This shipwreck

that was his home

was mapped out inside his head.

But as man grows

so does his dread.

For what if there was

some part of this isle

that the boy had not set foot on.

At the beach he saw the final piece

of a puzzle he had spent his life on.

A cluster of mangroves

out at sea.

The water was cold

but it didn’t stop me.

With every paddle closer

the trees seemed to get farther.

The worst part is 

the boy died a martyr.

Last eve

I watched a bird

perch upon those trees

and hoped to god

that bird

also saw me.

Your older brother stole Gramp’s dentures

and left them in your room.

It would have been a harmless prank

if they hadn’t started talking to you.

The teeth clacked on their own

but the voice wasn’t Grandpa’s.

Instead, like echoes from a waterfall,

or an old house’s guffaw.

Bring me that chocolate

or I will bite your ear!

Perhaps if you are nice to me

my story you will hear.

You watch as the unhinged jaw

digests your dessert without a gullet,

and then continues to speak

each word a rubber bullet.

I have chomped and chewed

for a very long time,

since before man ever knew

two words could rhyme.

I have sat behind the lips

of kings and queens,

but those people don’t understand

what food really means.

Your grandfather savors every taste,

and makes sure no food goes to waste.

So please,

return me to my proper place!

Tip of the toe through the dark.

Return the dentures to his bedside table.

Try to fall asleep,

but you are not able.

The next day Gramp’s dentures are gone

and he is left unable to chew,

as a voice inside your jaw admits,

I decided I’d look better on you.

I saw her there,

pink dress, pig tailed hair.

A flower in the sand box,

with her dolls,

playing pretend.

Playing mommy.

Are you really going to wear that?

she asks the doll.

You look like a whore

Don’t call her that

the other doll says to her.

The first doll,

the whore,

remains silent.

This is the kind of example you wanna set for your sister?

the girl asks.

The whore rotates her body,

left then right,

shaking her head.

Answer your mother when she speaks to you!

I just wanted to look nice,

the whore whispers.

You’re a disgrace!

the girl yells,

get out of my house.

NO MAMA PLEASE!

I’m sorry Grace.

the whore says to the other doll.

Don’t go, don’t leave me with her.

I’m sorry.

The whore pivots

and trots away.

The other doll weeps.

Of course you’re crying

the girl says.

Aren’t I just the worst mother in the world?

The girl grabs the other doll by it’s head and shakes it.

You UNGRATEFUL little bitch!

Rosie!

a voice calls from across the park.

It is gentle and sweet.

Time to go home.

Ok mom! the girl answers.

She smiles,

and again

she is just a girl 

who likes to play pretend.

Jump off that ledge,

run through traffic,

go back on what you said.

Or,

keep to your word

and tell the truth.

Tell them exactly how you feel.

From the soft green pines

to the cold rusted steel.

Sometimes the curse is lifted,

and sometimes the good guys lose;

every step beckons chance,

so what are you gonna do?

How much will you care?

About the dreams that wake you up

and the ones who are no longer there?

Are you willing to lay yourself on the line?

To brace yourself for harm even if you put in the time?

Or even just

to go outside:

risk getting hit by a bus

or meeting the love of your life.

You could stay in your room,

crumpled up

beneath the covers

with your eyes shut,

but everyday

for as long as you live

you’ll think back to that moment

when you froze.

Take a risk,

or keep your eyes closed.

She heard it in a dream:

the whisper 

of the Bigglyboo.

A five-legged,

twenty-eyed,

four-hundred-and-fifty-five 

year old 

creature

with unthinkable faculties

to the human mind,

like the Bigglyboo’s 

Bret,

a hole in the center of it’s 

skull

that only sees color.

Or the Bigglyboo’s 

Rowel,

a fin like flab

that hangs like a scab

off it’s skin,

detecting sadness, 

drawing it

in.

Like a worm on a hook

on a reel

on a rod

in the hands of a fisher

who don’t catch or release,

who only waits in hope

of the day

when he can eat

from his own hands.

Not starving,

but hungry

for a certain type of food.

That’s 

the Bigglyboo.

And she heard it whisper.

Listen to me.

if the Bigglyboo

ever calls out to you

in the middle of the night

with a sound that sounds like

your name,

here’s what

you ought to do:

Unlock every cabinet

and wipe it down.

Take a shower,

let the water run hot,

steam rising around 

your

head—

to the grocery store,

buy a cake meant

for someone else’s birthday

and eat it all 

in just one day.

Watch daytime

TV

and sleep until you’re forty-three.

Don’t let the voices come back

to you.

Don’t force your friends

to turn their backs on you,

turn your back

on them.

Suffer

in the corner of your room

with as many screens as you 

can find.

Pass the time

testing out new SSRI’s.

Buy a gun,

keep it in the closet,

and let the very thought of it

consume

your mind.

Do whatever it takes

to stay alive,

and 

don’t you dare 

listen

to that damn Bigglyboo.

Who knows what it will do.

“The Bigglyboo,”

she said 

to the nurse.

“Have you seen it?

Have you seen it come through?”

“Yes doll,”

The nurse replied.

And the woman smiled,

closed her eyes,

and died.

The Bigglyboo

sauntered

into the room,

and took the lady’s 

old sagging body

in it’s great jaws and snapped 

her right in half. 

What fell

wasn’t ooze,

or blood,

or soul.

It was glitter,

and smoke,

and all the books

she never

got to read.

It was

half memory,

half regret,

and it tasted like

what you’d expect:

coming home.

The early worm

gets to live another day.

He gets to worm 

a little longer.

The crows circling above me

are a little early.

But they won’t have to 

wait much longer.

I am a husk 

of the man I was before.

Or is it the husk

I lost?

Am I what’s underneath

six feet

of freshly poured concrete?

The silt that’s never seen the sun.

Where the worms live.

Where the worms worm.

All day long.

That’s where I live. 

At the bottom of the hole,

staring up 

at you.

You’re so pretty.

You’re pretty far away. 

There is deja vu 

in every word you say.

Do we know each other?

Well have we met before?

Am I secretly 

in love with you

or am I just 

bored?

I like to think about 

the bird who was late.

What did he do 

with the rest of his day?

What did his mom say

when he came home

without a worm

of his own?

Still hasn’t the left the nest;

he’s two years old,

but in bird years 

he’s 24 or 25,

and his mom asks

“How are you still alive?”

and he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

What’s it like to be a bird these days?

I couldn’t tell ya.

What’s it like to be a bird these days?

I wouldn’t know.

I spend my days

wormin’ about

below.