creativejenn's poetry

1093 Lincoln Ave. St. Paul, MN

2005-05-03T09:09:00.000-04:00

What used to be a mass of curls,
intricate and precise lines
is now a scribble and a few dots.
It sounds different: swoop…swoopswoop…dotdot.
Swishes of the pen,
the two pops of the dotting ‘i’
like the wind blowing through
open window with the original
woodwork, tickling the curtains, curtains
brushing the hardwood floor
swoop…swoopswoop…dotdot.
and the crackle of a new fire
made of kindling and dry, holey
logs that release air, fizzle and pop
during a cold winter night.

I used to be able to read my mark
but I’ve long since given up
after signing 6000 times
To let the world know that
swoop…swoopswoop…dotdot.
I want to live
in a proud little brick house
a block away from Grand Ave.
swoop…swoopswoop…dotdot.
I could launch fireworks
into F. Scott Fitzgerald’s yard
And giggle
behind landscaping of my choosing
which will be my initials to the house
Swoopswoop…
as the dog rolls in the darkness
in grass that is ours.
Swoopswoop…dotdot. 4/30/05.

see the house

The Lute

2005-04-26T07:52:00.000-04:00

Based on the painting The Lute by Thomas Wilmer Dewing

Mists of absinthe
curl, rise and fall
around the four
who are waiting
watching
wondering, perhaps.
So stately and proper yet so
melancholy. Four of them yet
each totally alone,
separated from the nearest person
and the rest of the world
by an embracing emerald cloud.
They all are forever isolated, cemented
in this flat, matte world.

Quarter-life crisis

2005-04-26T07:51:00.000-04:00

Smells like fear and excitement.
Sweat and exhaled breath
party with the pollinated air
seeping in the open windows
with the sounds of the neighbor kids
screeching as if they were being murdered.
Sweet smell of numbing rum
from our days in the Caribbean
You’d think would bring us calm and clarity.

It stings, burns going down
reminding me of the rest of our lives
on these pages of
numbers, benefits and locations
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Dude, I don’t care – I just want
it to be over’. Crash of ice in empty glass.
Screech of children.
“I just want to move away from those kids –
those kids are such little assholes, honey.”
“They’re just kids, hon.”
“No – they’re devil spawn. They leave their toys in
our yard, scream day and night, sound like they are tearing
down the wall connected to ours.
And they borrowed my Twister game and never gave it back.
When I was a kid…Christ, I sound like my mother”
“When is the last time you even used that Twister game?”
July 1998, 3AM, Austin, teamed with gallons of cheap beer and pot.
I could party for a straight day without stopping
and now I need to nap before going out.
I feel too young and too old.

Too old to flip a coin for decisions and too young
to be worrying about closing costs.
Here it is….the quarter-life crisis setting in.

Death's bad day

2005-04-26T07:50:00.001-04:00

How do you think I feel? Having to be everything to everyone?
There is no one persona that they wish to see.

And that’s what I try to give them…whatever they think I should be. I didn’t take the advice of the ones before me and make it easy on myself. I chose to make myself less scary, more inviting.
That was the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever done – other than the things that got me into this job in the first place.
So, I have to be a romantic young boy or beautiful starry-eyed girl for the angst ridden teen freshly dumped by their first/only/true love.

What about the old men? The ones who sit on the porch
And wait.
And wait.
So patiently they wait for me. They know that I’ll be all of their lifelong friends rolled into one foggy image before them. They always smile and say hello as if they already know me. That makes me feel really good – at least I feel some warmth from their bodies when I am around. They understand me. They get me, ‘ya know?

Oh, what makes me feel bad?
Well, the worst is when I have to chase down the athlete mothers and fathers on their daily five mile runs before the sun rises. They try s o hard to avoid me and it really hurts when I have to reach out to them, grasp them by the shoulder and see the look of shock on their faces. The utter terror that they did not beat me with all of the running, dieting, vitamins and sacrifice really messes

That really sucks.

So, what is it you do? Oh, you’re in politics. Looking for a job when this life is all said and done? I’ve got the perfect one for you!

The days of green are over

2005-04-26T07:50:00.000-04:00

I am so done
with this old couch -
bought fresh out of high school.
Mom thought that my favorite color
was green.
So wrong, she was.

Good memories
of spilt beer
and crashing friends
complete the aura
of ‘the green monster’.
But it puts a huge kink
In the feng shui of the place.

It is time for the green monster
to be shed.
It must be painful for it
to see me reading
Pottery Barn catalogs
in search of a sofa suited
for my new found seriousness
of self.

Laziness at it's most fabulous

2005-04-26T07:49:00.000-04:00

Crimson sun shimmers
through the neck of Red Stripe
that is leaving a frosty circle
on my stomach. Don’t need
a weird tan, so my hand sets it in the sand
as heavy breezes prickle skin
and shuffle through the palm umbrellas
standing soldier-like on the beach.
Clattering of their dried leaves sounds
like when my cat used to attack
the wrapping paper at Christmas.

As my eyelids give up
and crash down, my heart is the only
thing that is still moving –
I feel it flutter my skin as it beats.
One eye cracks open, glancing over
at books I brought to get ahead.
‘Sorry, no chance’ I think,
as my hand reaches down
to the neck of my Red Stripe
camped out in the sand, waiting
patiently for attention.

Gone

2005-04-26T07:48:00.001-04:00

I miss you when you are gone -
a simple statement but with massive meaning
creaks and whispers are heard from the house at night
I reach over to your side of the bed to find emptiness
the dog is confused and keeps sniffing the front door
will you look different when I see you again?

When I see you, I’ll nestle my head under your chin again
like I did the morning before you were gone
I keep waiting for the sound of the door
which has such a different meaning
when you miss someone. There is an emptiness
to myself during the day and confusion at night

I forget that you aren’t here when wake night
then I recall and coax myself to sleep again
I’m still scared of the dark, thus the closed bedroom door
I think that aliens and monsters will invade when you are gone
I know it is crazy but it is not like I am meaning
to freak myself out, sleeping on my back, facing the door.

the conference

2005-04-26T07:47:00.000-04:00

Sleep left me and I feel
the pain of our breakup.
Quite often, I think
of Sleep.
I miss him, so warm, inviting –
so full of (subconscious) energy.

(Sigh) It was so stupid of me
to talk shit about him.
I said I didn’t need him,
that I could live without him
around me so much.

I didn’t need to be wrapped up
in the warmth of his touch.
Or to hear what he had to say
to my unconscious self.

I was a fucking idiot.
I want to go to him,
by moonlight, daylight, any light at all
and beg for another chance.

We had a good thing –
I’m sure he won’t forget
what we had together.
It was beautiful once,
until I cheated on him
with Red Bull.

Snow day

2005-04-26T07:46:00.000-04:00

Arms outstretched, palms to the sky,
eyes seeing unsifted white
flowing to the silent earth.
Sounds like white noise until
winged ones flit from their perch,
disturbing, upheaving the
silence, the aura, the peace.
Croaking out frozen breath they
quickly disappear into
the continual descent
of flakes that melt on impact,
leaving cold snow tears behind.

devious dental shedders

2005-02-10T06:56:00.000-05:00

Yeah, can I get another
dirty martini with three olives?
Thanks. Now what was I saying?
Oh right…once upon a time
It was so easy. I was just trying to be nice.
Reassuring. Send a positive message.
They used to be grateful,
Gracious, even.
Not anymore though –
Like little snakes
They maniacally shed
Even turning to trickery or theft
To thicken their wallets,
To cash in on their pearly whites.
They soon became snarky
About their overnight earnings
A couple of quarters didn’t cut it anymore.
Their greed grew faster than
The cost of inflation or
The average annual raise in pay
Do they think I’m Bill Gates?
Selfish little people. I’m
One of the ‘good guys’
And because of them I
Can barely pay my rent -
Or support my unsavory habits
To dull the pain
Of the thousands of complaints.
I don’t have corporate sponsorship
Or a cushy Hollywood job.
So, where’s my payday?
When is someone going to leave
money under MY pillow while I dream away.
I haven’t slept in so long - can’t even remember
My day job people think I’ve got
Narcolepsy.
I used to look good
Now I’m all haggard and shriveled
The product of years of sleepless nights
Of reimbursement and remorse.

So what’s your story?

the Nyquil sleep

2005-02-10T06:54:00.000-05:00

The chain mail
of sleep
falls, clanks,
covers me
as brain waves
slow,
taking the mind
to places the body
will never see
(sometimes sadly,
other times hopefully)

When the alarm sounds,
sleep becomes
the lover
that you just can’t
let go of.

Mom

2004-07-26T17:26:00.000-04:00

Tightening her jacket around her in defense of the breeze on the water, she poses for the camera with a casual smile. But true to any southern woman worth her salt, her hair does not move – like the postal service it upholds it’s motto: “neither snow, nor rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night". The Golden Gate Bridge stands behind her, snuggled within the mountains and the soft, lapping waves of the Bay. Years later, her daughter will look at this picture and wonder, “What the hell is up with mom’s hair?”. And her daughter will laugh because now her mother is a stereotypical little old lady whose hair is not quite as big but still round in shape and is currently almost the same color with a little gray mixed in, and would still meet the theme of the US Postal Service.

small note: we don't have a scanner so my I had to take a picture of the picture. Pitiful? Yeah. Ingenious? Not really. But it does work, not well, but it works. And the picture was taken in March 1971, when she was about the age I am now.

Olive

2004-07-07T19:46:00.000-04:00

She basks in her sunshiny spot, letting the rays warm her tiger striped coat and lull her into another naptime. Her eyes become more burdensome to keep open as the boxes of light on the cream floor become warmer. She looks up only when her vocabulary words are said: food, walk, hungry, outside, ball; which is a trick I figured out when I need her to pose for pictures. The stripes on her head seem to form wrinkles of worry but her only real worries is having to move to match the creeping of the light across the floor.

Cicadas

2004-07-07T19:44:00.000-04:00

The drunken metallic flight of 17 year olds result in collisions with anyone in the way. It seems that the ‘way’ is not clear to even the bug so the humans are left to find their own strategy to avoid them. Moving through the parking lot, searching keys and keeping track of the crowd of bugs lilting through the air in a ridiculous serpentine fashion. I look down to click open my car doors and a crack sounds as one of the prehistoric creatures hits me square in the forehead and I reply with a squeal, flailing my arms and shuddering as onlookers look relieved that it wasn’t one of them.

Austin 1998

2004-05-26T14:57:00.000-04:00

Gray streets glistening with summer rain
and steam oozing from the pavement.
Peals of laughter mingling with live music
All boom in my head as I walk.

Happy haunts filled to capacity
with students, writers and musicians
bursting at the seams with talk
of broken dreams, kindly deeds and
drunken story-telling.

I have no wonderous tales to share
With friends or enemies over a beer.
I sit always in brooding quietude
Waiting for the life wafting around me
To soak into my mind and body
So that I may be a part of...something.

Ugh

2004-05-26T14:56:00.000-04:00

The glowing numbers smirk
my hand reaches for the snooze
Diving back into the blackness,
That never fails to elude.

I think about basking in darkness
for nine more precious minutes.
As I dub myself “glutton for sleep”
my body waits for the laziness within it.

I’m falling, sinking under medium-heavy down
Softness of slumber runs away
While reality chases me from behind
Laughing and keeping sleep at bay

As recall all that must be done in daylight
A cold wet nose sniffs my face
Reality caught me catching my second wind
But knew how I raced

Reality cheated and called in backup

Damn it! I cry as I groan
and I sigh and I kick my feet
Down comfort aside,
The game is done –
Reality: one ; Jenn gets none.

The English Patient

2004-05-26T14:55:00.000-04:00

Droning, humid words
Pulling at my concisousness
Lull my mind into fitful sleep
Thick with meaning are
These formations of letters

Yet I can not process them
My brain turns from pink to grey
As it is seduced into slumber
By your words.

Drunken feelings and heavy eyes
They bring me down as I fight
To stay in this world
And read your words

I have to form my own words
400 to be exact
on what I think of yours.

New York

2004-05-21T08:18:00.000-04:00

Honest and hardworking taxi drivers tell us tell us that our desination is a block away.
We all smile and hand him ten bucks for being nice to us, the nervous, chattery and direction deficit tourists. This is not the town that my mother told me of.

Walking along the grate-filled streets of grey and black. A newspaper, soft from living outside, lies on the curb and a mass of horns and lights greets us as we turn the corner - To find the center of the world awash in color. This is not the town that my mother described.

This place should be dirty, but through the trash and dirt I see beautiful creations of the mind and humanity. These people should be harsh and rude, but through their rudeness I see people, just trying to find their way in life. Some of the citizens stayed up until 5AM with us, drinking to St. Patrick, just for the hell of it.

We got on a ferry and saw a statue that resembles freedom and justice for all. I turned around and saw the town where everyone thrives on that thought. The ferry slowly moved by two large buildings and we took a picture with them as a backdrop, our hungover faces blending with the grey of the overcast morning.

I found that picture the other day and cried. I know have my own description of this town, and brought it with me on my last visit to Mom’s house, to set the record straight.