Flamingos in a Foreign Kitchen

Flamingos pace across the tops of cabinets,
Wings folded behind their backs, feathers laced together
Long black necks craning, peering down at me, at the table.
I’m shifting uneasily and sitting somewhat straight in my seat,
Looking sideways and taking notes.
Napkin on my lap, check — wait, spoon and knife are on the right, right?
The fork is in my left hand but that’s a habit too hard to break.

I trace the gold rim of the plate with my eye. I realize
This ordinary mundane Monday meal utilizes utensils
My home would only hope to have for Thanksgiving,
Not to be ungrateful. We were always thankful still.

The slightest turn of disinterest from the bored dog beneath the table
Could emotionally floor me, leave me lying
On the pink and cream white tile crying.

Luckily, I am stitched to my seat by tight threads of tension,
A slight case of rigor-mortis due to extreme politeness, prevention
From collapsing of fatigue and anxiety.

“Could you pass the bread, please?”

I feel heat. All look down on me, not quite like spotlights
But like payments of attention in passing.

I’m watching my feet near the edge of adulthood,
I’m watching them watch me,
But not the centerpiece
That the basket swings into.

Another flamingo knick-knack foe
Collides with a single glass of wine,
And while the silky seat soaks it up, we all watch
And wince like it hurt — and it hurts, it does hurt.

I am reassured with a word.
“Relax!”
And with that
I try to breathe and breathe easy,
Because there is no way they can like ME
If that is not
Who I am being.

The flamingos that paced across the tops of cabinets
Slow down to watch me, with one eye at a time,
As they balance on one leg, as is natural to them.
Their sloped beaks reach to whisper and assure me,
That they, tropical birds, the feathered decorations,
Are just as welcomed, though foreign,
As I in this kitchen.

The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living *

The gills of The Shark,
Slits opened wide,
Still fill with water and life.

Her jaw is stretched out, gaping, chasing something.
Her rows of teeth extending, reaching out, hungry.

She is frozen
Moments before
Clinching, closing, capturing.

But Her eyes lack intensity.
They are not fiery, not at all alive.
They are sad, cold,
And they sag and fold.

Her skin lumps over them like loose fabric
That wrinkles around the rivets throughout her body.

Look closely, she does not swim.
It is strings that suspend.
She does not swim, She does not float.
She is a soul-less body on display.

He’s right.
I think of Her as alive.
This magnificent creature, a corpse?

The soul has left,
The electronic pulses that stimulated those muscles
Have petered out, like sparks fly at the end of a fallen wire
The energy runs out, the current slows to a stop,
And then there is nothing. Hollow. Dormant. Dead.

I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that those gills
That seem to fill with water and life
Are starched open, with an artist’s resin.

She floats in
A watery grave,
A tank of formaldehyde.

*sculpture by Damien Hirst, Metropolitan Museum

The World is a Scary Place to Be (2009)

[I’m thinking about reading this at a Trans-Remembrance Open Mic in a few weeks. Suggestions? Edits? Comments? Please! -J]

The World is a scary place to be
when the difference between how I was or was not perceived

Used to be the difference between being offered or offering
A subway seat.

Now it could be
Life or Death
Or maybe
Just Death or Rape

For wearing what I want to wear
Instead of what is ‘innate’

Or maybe
What I SHOULD feel is inherent

“What’s the difference,” I tell him
When the borders are ALL constructed,

And we are living proof that they are Man-Made
– – > But what makes a Man “a Man” anyway?

We almost feel as though we are
The only ones who “get it”

But to say that we, ourselves, FULLY understand
Might be just as ignorant

As those who say they “just don’t get it”
And outcast us for that because

We do not fit in their pretty plain frames,
Their categories and boxes of –

Who is offered, and who is offering.
It is an endless debate.

But I was Born into this scary World this way,
So I, too, MUST have a place.

How To Survive Being Trapped At The Bottom Of An Hourglass (2009)

[New piece, still a work in progress. Tell me what you think! What you liked, what you did not, what you got, what you thought you had, what you left in the car, how your day was… Anything you’re thinking. Hopefully related, not necessarily. -J]

How To Survive Being Trapped At The Bottom Of An Hourglass

I once felt trapped
At the bottom of an hourglass.
I
Felt the steadily increasing weight
Of pouring sand,
Drowning in dry grains,
Swimming in sediment,
And the feeling of being buried beneath it.

With each tick of the second hand
And with each drip of the sand,
I
couldn’t tell which
I couldn’t stand more,
The wait, or the chance
One slip could be my last.

*

Today,
Those hands clenched a fist
I struggled and wrestled and kicked

And by climbing onto
What once tried to bury me
I could reach high enough
To stop which was on coming.

I obstruct
The hole in the ceiling,
The bottom of the top bulb
And stop time.

By climbing onto
What once tried to bury me
I find you, waiting,
Over the dune, for me.

*

One hand
Will block
The eye
Of
The glass,

While I
Will eye
The glass
For
A crack,

To worsen and pressure
To shatter and break free
And release us from time’s keep
To live immeasurably.

If I Were You. (2006!)

[Blast from the past! Written sometime in 2006, this might be one of the last/best poems of its kind. Before I took more writing classes that next year, this was written when writing for me was just a side hobby, falling under illustration and other miscellaneous things. I was the kind of writer who would only write when inspired, and I was very comfortable with that.

Then, one day, I was cleaning my room and I found a box full of potential that I had lying around, ideas that I was not articulate enough to formulate into words that built a piece of art. This is when I decided that writing, much like illustration, was a practice.  A painter cannot only paint when a muse or model arrives. You need to perfect the technique before you can perfectly recreate the idea, so you suck it up and get a bowl of fruit.

This poem, “If I Were You” is a perfect example of when I only wrote after discovering a gem of inspiration, then found I was lacking the means to fully complete the idea. One of the hardest things for me to describe, in a very vulnerable moment of mine, I ventured into this poem with a lot of gusto about my original idea but lacking an idea of exactly what I was doing. This is pretty visible in my semi-tacky rhyming scheme, which became my main focus as I lost concentration on what the heck I was trying to say. If I had practiced writing in rhyme and meter before hand, my point could have shined through.

Someday, I may rework this piece, because the person that inspired carries a good story, regardless of the fact that my feelings have since then changed. I’ll probably scrap the entire framework of it and just write about what really happened in an open form. One of my many weaknesses as a writer may be that I tend to over-structure abstract content, instead of just saying whats on my mind…

See all the wonderful things you learn when you save your shit? Enjoy this crap. -J]

If I were you.

I remember how he stood, i remember how she sat
Leaning to whisper in my ear, the little gossip brat
“Oh isn’t he annoying?” I ignored, I didn’t care
Too busy trying jokes to break him from that stare

I remember how he stood, one hand on that can
As if it were a beer, and he an old man
But he was a boy, not a day over thirteen
But he’s seen more then anybody his age should see

His eyes drew a circle on the floor, a portal into space
There they built a window, searching for his mothers face
If he still remembers, I mean its been six years
My bet is, by now, her laugh has disappeared

But he still searches the floor, and he’d travel space
To find a single memory, time hasn’t erased
Its a scary thought, but one has got to wonder
What would I do, If I were you?

Sit straight up in a strange bed, panic at the phone
Everyone’s bad with words. Dead, on vacation, and I’m alone
Can everyone just stop a minute! This is happening to fast!
How can I plan a funeral? I just woke up from the crash!

Its a scary thought, but one has got to wonder
What would I do, if I were you?

She froze at the doorway, she’s never seen me so upset
I’ve never had a reason to be, but sometimes I forget
That there was a life before this, more importantly
There’s still life after, or that’s what she told me

She also said she’s here for me, which made me both glad and sad
Grateful, because I have her, Upset, she’s all I have…
I guess in a way its a half full half empty sort of thing
But my glass is bone dry, or I have an hour glass I think

Because as time goes on, all begins to heal
Fast Forward six months later hope has been revealed
In the form of frequent visits, bored games with the nurse
I learned to laugh again, as bad as it is, It could be worse…

Its a scary thought but just imagine, just think
What would you do if you were me?
I learned to appreciate, and I got a second chance it seems
Her sharp poke on my shoulder pulled me from my dreams
She asked if I was listening, I absently nodded my head
As I searched his expression, could his mind be read?

I remember he sat slouched, elbows on his knees
That story, that boy not a day over thirteen?
They matched I thought, the two must fit
Probably as much as anyone could fix it
And they cant.

I learned, only time can heal
Just like he learned to laugh, like he learned to deal
No matter what you believe, I know he’ll see his mom again
In the after life, in pictures, or the faces of his kids

So take your time in your hands and spend it wisely.
Enjoy as much as you can, but more importantly
Don’t even waste your time, with scary thoughts and wonder
Well that’s what I’d do, if I were you…

Introduction to a Writing Portfolio (2008)

[The cover page to a Writing Portfolio final project a year ago for my high school’s Creative Nonfiction class (tagged as CNF). The object of the class was to fill 80 pages in a ‘writers notebook’ over the course of the semester. The record before me was around 120 pages. By the last day of class, I had 205. I had to force myself to stop. This is the introduction to my best pieces from those 200+, and my explanation in response to the common question “why/how do you write so much?” Ironically, it kind of became a piece of itself, in a way. I don’t know, that’s just how I read it. -J]

Writing is what I do.

It’s what I do when my inner monologue won’t shut up. It’s what I do when I feel like the world has bottomed out and hit rock. It’s what I do when I wish someone else was around to witness this with me. It’s what I do when I fear my fist may involuntarily attempt to enter someone’s brain cavity through the nose canal. So, I pry the pen into that fist, a clenched ball of flesh and bones, and I swiftly cut into a notebook with the point.

I spill the ink and my thoughts onto the paper and drag my hand across as I continue writing, thinking, expressing, and then the next thing I know, I had over two hundred notebook pages.

I titled this portfolio, “Putting the Jenna back in Generous” because I love to play on words, and I thought of this portfolio as giving back the gifts of knowledge I’ve received over the years in the form of the finished work. Every skill I’ve learned as a writer is displayed in this portfolio, including my dearest principles, morals, pearls of wisdom, and nearly every major and minor event of my life that I carry closest to me today. It is all now combined into one packet stapled shut and wrapped in plastic for someone else to learn from and take from what I have taken.

I have been writing and thinking as a writer for as long as I can remember, perhaps before I thought as an artist. Everything I learned was explained as an analogy, everything I said was supported by a metaphor. From childhood, my parents would have to sit patiently and listen as answered “how my day was” in the form of a short story, with a setting, plot, climax, and sometimes even cliff-hangers, which would usually frustrate them the most. I’ve always been known for talking a lot, and then always distracted, trying to observe the most.

My mind inhales and exhales information and thought, and there is no method more articulate when expressing ones mind then writing.

This portfolio includes my best work from this year, and will be a mile stone of the progress I’ve made as a writer since first entering high school, and a memento years from now of the progress I’ve made since graduating.