Jeffrey Hecker is author of Rumble Seat (San Francisco Bay Press, 2011) and chapbooks Hornbook (Horse Less Press, 2012), Instructions for the Orgy (Sunnyoutside Press, 2013), Before He Let Them Guide Sleigh (ShirtPocket Press, 2013) & Ark Aft (The Magnificent Field, 2020). Recent work appears in Yalobusha Review, Posit, Heavy Feather Review, & BathHouse Journal. A graduate of Old Dominion University, he’s a fourth-generation Hawaiian American, teaches at The Muse Writers Center (Norfolk, VA), & reads for Quarterly West.
“Geppetto’s role in The Adventures of Pinocchio (Carlo Collodi, 1881-83; Disney, 1940) is not empathetic, though it should be.”
for Lisa Flowers
My lying son didn’t manslaughter Jiminy Cricket with a hammer in the cartoon. The poodle served the Fairy who blessed my lying son. See my neighbor for free talking firewood. My lying son purchased mortality for 50 cents and won 50 gold coins. Viva Las Vegas. My lying son met a fire-eater who sneezed instead of weeping. My Lying Son’s Classmates and Donkey Ear Adventures, by Carlo Collodi, David Lynch, Enrico Mazzanti, and Angelo Badalamenti. Alternative for Glowworm who caught my lying son stealing grapes: say nothing. I sold my only coat for my lying son’s ABC book. My lying son’s courageous swimming chapter is him floating, dependent on crests. My lying son, mistaken for crab meat by a green alcoholic piscator who attempted to flour him, saved by same dog my lying son rescued earlier, attracted by cooking oil — makes sense. My lying son’s circus months wiped from brain by Hygeian Vegetable Universal Medicine. A fox and a cat and technically my lying son’s bad decisions kept me from getting rich. I sleepwalked wearing V-tools: chisels, gouges, veiners. How many wanted to name inns Red Lobster after this story and a seafood chain sued? My lying son ate manger hay. My lying son recited his autobiography to the man about to skin him for a drum. 1000 wryneck birds whittled my lying son’s nose erection. My worst lesson my lying son remembered in Land of Busy Bees: beggars should be sick or old people. Everybody else should work. The Fairy told my lying son obedience will make him grow taller. I peeled my lying son Comice pears, provided cores and rinds. I sewed school clothes out of unconventional materials for my lying son. When I assaulted people who compared cornmeal to my toupee, we became fast friends. My lying son’s starvation came off like irrational motivation. My lying son ran away without ears, burned off his feet. My community believed I beat kids, imprisoned me. Mr. Serpent’s heart burst seeing my lying son ass up, head in mud. My lying son rode a pigeon treated like a horse all day. My lying son out of ink writes with blackberry juice. My lying son’s life turned out weird because I told everyone I’m an impoverished puppeteer. My lying son, upset at a snail for not being on time, kicked leg through door and stuck. My lying son’s best friend Lampwick didn’t trick my lying son to expatriate with 100 strangers, my lying idiot son did that. My lying son said he’d rather die than take vaccine — he recanted after four rabbits entered the room to bury him. My dead mother was about to watch me sail a boat I built (out of smashed marionettes). A Dogfish ate it. My lying son swallowed by asthmatic shark, ran out of the tongue. I used to worry, now I make nutcrackers.
