The Call

I didn’t know I had to eat,
And so I nearly starved to death.
I wondered at the emptiness inside.
It seemed to me from rib to rib
Was canyonesque, and I couldn’t fathom
Why my head was light
And foot so grave.
 
And so the hollow place within
Called out to caloric nutrients
To come and be tasted,
To let me see their goods.
But the bigger part of me,
The unseen spaces between the bits,
Calls out to you,
To come,
And let me be consumed.

.-jenn long

Melting Potted-ness

Sometimes I feel the melting-potted-ness
Has come to singularity in me,
That all my DNA seeks fratricide against itself.
My Ipswitch tribal priestess core
Judges harsh against my Scotch,
And the Dutch can't tolerate the Jewish Portuguese.
And then there is the Cherokee,
The Irish and the English.
Cover all that with Texan
And see how well you fare.

I find no roots to cling to.
No tradition, nor heritage
Can hold me in awe of its stately ways
Or lies that I can't bare.

And so I find that only love
Fills my inhibitions.
And so I pledge myself to it,
And that my only swear.

And if someday we understand
The further back beginnings,
And see for ourselves—

There is no birthright anymore.
The earth and the asteroid belt
Inherited the gold, and the meek,
And that's all gone,
And there is nothing else there.

Then maybe we won't judge ourselves,
Or our hapless brothers,
And maybe we can learn to exist,

And love each other here.

-jenn long

Prime Cut

I hope you know
That there's more than more enough,
That you don't have to settle for anything less.
You don't have to scrape by
On a leftover or two
That the universe put back in the fridge for you.
You don't have to wait for hand me downs
Or sloppy seconds in cut rate liquor gowns.
You deserve the prime of the pendulums cache.
So leave that half eaten snow cone in the trash,
And if you want something from this life,
Order it up for yourself
And pay the price.
And don't be mad if someone doesn't leave enough over
For you to scrounge,
And don't be a stingy lover.

But live big and love large, my friend,
For who'll be there to count it in the end?
And in 100 years who'll be around
To brag on all the half-price deals you found?

-jenn long

Skipping Stones Gather No Mas

Skipping rocks may be the world's second oldest non-profession.
And it is good for all mankind to see
At an early age that natural laws can be broken,
Defied by other natural laws
When the next level of threshold can be reached,
Or that when some other power greater than
The usual comes along and into play,
And favor is shown,
Then heavy stones
Can float and skip and tumble
On their way.

And when the laws of aero dynamics
Usurp the weak force that seems so strong and holds us down,
Then our spirits rise with lift and thrust,
And feet and hearts take flight from mother ground,
And we skip town.

-jenn long

Uppity Trash

Two finely woven paper textiles
Tumble delicately across the grass.
They've both come completely undone
And float
Like two sea anemone along the floor of the deep.
Some unseen force it is that bonds them,
Keeps them tight in a dance.
The naked eye can't detect it,
But only a naked heart
Can see the mechanics,
The perfect crystalline forms
That click together like gear wheels
And move them to the silent song
Of the wind.

And some would call it litter.
Some would roll their eyes at the lovely way
These two escaped,
And now like the gossamer gowns
They imitate,
They float on a higher plane,
As a higher form of linenry
Than they are thought to be.

Well?
Is it uppity to be in love?
Very well then,
Let it be.
But if love should be a portal
To a higher plane,
Then let me be
So vain as
To trash myself upon the profane shores
Of unseen air
And unheard melody,
To dance my dance with you
For all to see.

-jenn long

Outta Touch

We're outta touch.
There are no words to justify the silence.
It's not the silent treatment; we just have no words to say.
There's no tellin’ even the treatment of the treatment,
And he who speaks last lives to tell
His side anyway.

There ain't no “Smile for a while,”
No “Let's be happy,”
No “Mama dont ‘low,”
No “Slap yo pappy,”
All we got is “Silence of the lambs.”
Ain't no little drummer boy drumming,
No moon river,
No Christmas coming,
Just April fools,
And nobody gives a damn.

When we write the bitter funnies,
The comic strip of Earl and Hunnies,
Dagwood and Blondie and Lucy gets her way.
Say, how bout we rewrite the ending?
So we can laugh and keep from spending
Our nights in tears and every living day
In hell?

-jenn long

My Honeycup

My honeycup is full and sweet
And rich as walnut bark.
He sheds his gloom,
And golden bloom
Buds leaf and shimmers forth.
The cinnamon aloes warm me.
The velvet petals heal.
The sweet fronds whisper,”I love you,”
Till I can bloom for myself.

And in the forest chatter
And clutter of the leaves,
Undergrowth is heating up
The litter underneath
And changing it to something else
That's neither here nor there,
And yet exists as matter,
Or either energy.

So come exist with me, My Love,
As either, neither, both,
Until such times as churnings change us all,
And we take whatever forms
The yearnings prove to be,
And life makes of us
Whatever it shall make.

-jenn long