gutter ball

if a mirror asks for your tongue
to keep you safe, it is not a mirror.
the bowling alley smells like feet
& i welcome the reminder 
that we have bodies. a ghost knocks
with his knuckles on the window,
makes a gesture with his head,
& leaves. i am not good at getting what
people mean. i take uneducated guesses.
take wrong turns. i roll my skull & 
it turns up gutter ball after gutter ball.
i am trying to convince my family 
to build a bunker & fill it with sugar.
in the field behind our house there are
periscopes to burp the earth. the landfill 
is watching television while nature
tries to take her shoes back. 
i like the moments when i feel righteous
& think i know what is going to happen
& when. it always changes though.
the door gets closer. a boot hanging from
my mailbox. i start removing my name.
instead, writing, "who?"
the tunnel is not a love tunnel. it is
a place where we are pins. shoulder to shoulder
hoping a horrible man misses. i do not want
to have to cover mirrors wherever i go
but that's where i'm at. a hallway 
going towards a nothing room where
we try to lay low. my partner asks me,
"are you sure you want to be dangerous?"
we are just eating. we are just bowling
in a field of corn. i don't remember
when i became dangerous. i can't aim.
i knock on doors selling girl scout cookies 
to haunted houses. i don't know
where my parents are. we are going 
to have to do this ourselves.