Spider Webs and other works by Jenna Mae
Jenna Mae is a verb. Salt child of tribal stock, she cut her teeth on midwestern corn. Author of volumes of napkin poetry, she writes from inside a giggle bubble. Called by the winds of a national disaster, Jenna Mae now resides in the sinking soup bowl of New Orleans. Inspired by jungle courtyards, potholes, and starving artists- she explores the synapse maps of consciousness through poetry, dance, and laughter. Although always available for creative collaboration in the dreamscape, communication via email is necessary in waking life. (email@example.com)
She says her daddy fingered her until she was fifteen, and she hates all men. She "fucking hates all men, god damn him!" Her head is nestled in between my thighs as she cries and cries. All I can do is stroke her hair, and tell her she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.
I love the way her skin smells like a mixture of cucumber melon body lotion, and the blanketing aroma of green moss.
I love that she shrieks when she laughs, and shrieks when she wants attention in public places, and shrieks when I plunge my novice tongue into the folds of her purplish-pink pussy.
I love the faint freckles that splatter her face like a Pollock painting.
I love the view of her belly's curve, as I look up from her delta- and the way her breasts slide to the side of her ribs, parting the sea of stretch marks that begin at her pubis and end near her heart. I trace my fingers over the intricate network of stressed lines that define her motherly abdomen. She shies away, and tries to cover her body, embarrassed. "Do not EVER hide such beauty," I coo in her ear, as I pin down her hands and straddle her forcefully. "These are the spider webs that bind and contain the seat of the soul, and your womb nurtures the universe," I tell her. I love her stretch marks. I love her.
I, lover, love her, and every brick wall I've ever built up comes crashing down as I swim through the vast ocean of pain she cannot hide in her blue-green eyes, and I love her. I LOVE her. I, lover, love her.
A shivered whisper of Creation.
A beginning and an end.
This universe was made for this.
This universe hisses that God exists
The tender touch of body on body,
of sweat resin glistening
in candle light shadows.
This consciousness created in a beaded pearl bliss.
Yes, God exists.
Tongues trail salt mines of sweat
across chests and
to adam's apple obstacles,
hiking up chin cleft peaks
to meet teeth-tangled lower lips
where saliva messages
are delivered to vocal chords
in an ancient gutteral tone.
The voice chakra resonates
to a Holy Hedonist.
A fury of limbs
awry, askew, akimbo
in this trembling creative dance.
Teeth instinctively gather up neck scruff
upon marrow sucking
muscle gumbo. OM.
Fingers feverishly finding
points of orbit
in this rutty revolution.
Breast-bargaining for body leverage-
just one more taste before the plunge.
Kali Mama writhes and rocks,
arching her back in frantic search
of the most cosmic posture
as she sits on her star born throne.
Feet cupped like hands,
feathering softly on warrior bones
as spines regain razorback memories
of moon howling into mist.
Lips brush creases between cheek and temple.
Third eyes open to the energy of Union.
Soul shards, like dizzy peripheral stars,
gather up pieces of Self
to mirror their own reflection.
Orgasm is the medium of the mustard seed,
and silent No-thingness is
it's petal peeled parade.
she whispers soft pillow syllables
into hot-flushed ears.
Peering out over city streets and asphalt heat,
I swear I can see my aura above the tar.
Open fire hydrants spilling cool relief
on sweaty summer days cost lives according
to ironic signs conveniently stapled to light posts
all over the neighborhood.
As if free water was the most pressing item on the Daley family's agenda.
Our notorious mayor even took the time to add
his signature stamp to these warnings
aimed at ghetto dwellers, because Dick cares about lives here.
A Chevy Impala rolls by bumpin' thug life
into an already established cacophony of sirens and horns,
while the Barbie Doll girls dance double dutch
to the beat of ropes and feet.
Ol' D's on the corner whistling to the fine
little mamas sassing by.
He's got dime bags hiding
in his blue jeans that hang down to his knees.
He hopes some folks will drive by
so he can start some shit and spit his lit, cos'
that's how you roll in this barrio.
I head down to the park with some friends
to join an ensuing showdown.
Lasso's baby's mama just kicked it with the wrong fool
so us girls gotta jump in to defend her ghetto honor.
Soon enough, the paddy wagons pull up.
It's Five-O in riot gear ready to bust up and beat down
us warring hood rats.
And we run like the wind,
while plump and panting officers chase us down,
stopping every few yards to catch
their breaths and readjust their belts.
We run as fast as our stoned limbs can carry us,
wishing for honey rolled blunts
and the ability to climb trees.
We jump into a cement plumbing drum
left haphazardly on a street corner
and say three Hail Marys that they
roll by without noticing us.
We peak our heads out only after the
racial slurs have ceased, only after
sweaty teenage meat is heard slammed against the street.
And all the mothers on the block
gather on their stoops, silently watching,
standing witness to the brutality.
We lift our heads long enough to see
Pedro's face from the back of the squad car
fading into the distance.
And then it's ten kids packed like sardines
into someone's shitmobile, clam baking ourselves
into oblivion on Mexico's shit brown finest.
There is no conversation because
the music is too loud anyway
and us young ones in the back
feel like our arms are sewn on backwards.
We're plastered to the seats,
silent and afraid to speak
in fear our paranoid beating hearts
will jump from our chests and
escape out of our mouths, but
we're cool now, see?
Because Axel's the only brotha on the block
who'll let us eighth graders ride in his car.
And some lucky girl will be picked to sit up front.
And from the back seat,
we try to ignore the muffled moans and slurpy squishes
of pedophile fingers
plundering pure innocence, and
WHY WONT THE FUCKING WINDOWS OPEN?
We get dropped off at Popcorn's crib
to discuss tonight's porch party.
And the little white girl is picked again
to walk up to the quickymart and
slip some forties in her pant legs.
"Oh and on your way, Lady J,
drop this backpack off at the bus stop
on Artesian and Potomac and don't you
dare fuckin' look inside, Gringa,
or you'll be sorry."
It's night time now,
but there's still no relief from this heady humidity
And I'm full of the junebug jitters as
I stumble home drunk and stoned
hoping that my mother is in the same state
or else I'll have a backhand slap
waiting for me at the doorstep.
I cut through the park to save some time,
ambling through unmowed fields
and dilapidated rust jungle gyms,
I am mesmerized by the halo from the streetlights
which illuminate shards of glass
splayed like stars across the pavement.
My wobbling gate agitates an old hobo
resting fitfully on a bench.
He's bundled up in newspaper blankets
with headlines that read of
"Heatwaves and riots in the city of Big Shoulders!"
In the distance, uniformed pigs out on patrol
whistle cat calls that echo and amplify in my ears.
"Whatcha doin' out after curfew Lady J?" they say.
"Better come here and roll me a fatty, or else I'll haul
your ass down to the precinct. Lord knows your Mama
will be pissed if she's gotta come pick you up."
As I rustle through my pockets for the stash,
my eyes and mind wander up into the sky.
Huge buildings stand illuminated, dwarfing everything at ground level.
I fumble for some rolling papers, as the
John Hancock peers over my shoulder like Big Brother.
One joint down, and one more to go, and then I'll
begrudgingly hand it all over and turn towards home with
nothing left to smoke, and no lunch money to buy more.
"But hey- it's better than being locked up,"
I think to myself.
"And anyway, there's nothing prettier
than the Sears Tower by moonlight."