Author Archives: Jennifer Elle

About Jennifer Elle

Writer. Artist. Hardcore music lover, baker, longboarder. This could get interesting.

The best way to break the ice is with a dead deer

or a single scoop
at Marianne’s
on a cone, please.

chocolate and peanut butter
what kind did you
get? 50-50?
“Customer Favorite,”

maybe i should tell you
i’m not, though.

i can feel every microcosmic smudge of cream on my face and every potential, which means i’m gonna shred this napkin thinner than these get-to-know-you conversations before we’re even through here, yet it won’t necessarily stop me from eating the whole curséd thing even though i firmly believe that my alternations between forming coherent phrases and swallowing these fantastic globs of chocolate certainly will betray my severe struggle to appear at least averagely controlled, so yeah, basically this melting Mount Olympus sugardream is the main cause of my urge to run into the middle of the street but at the same time the very thing thing that keeps me from running into the middle of the street, in light of the negligible fact that i also think you’re kind of cute, but whatever, i mean

this is
small talk. anyways.
Which reminds

me, have you seen the
dead deer
on the trail?
I found it when i

was running through the
this morning.

Get-to-know-you questions after finally breaking the ice (a prayer)

Where are you when I am less than
and want to stone myself for my own transgressions.

But, guilty as charged: I’m not perfect. Am I
allowed to cast stones on even myself?

And sometimes I wonder whose hands are
the most. Now I have said something terrible.

But you are not normal. Lion’s
in your eyes. I think that’s why I love you.

And I am a fool. I can hardly tell the difference between
and drowning. Will you catch me either way?

I question that you’re the sky; I think you are the
and dirt. Besides, that is where I am made every day.

Altair’s Narrative: Every New World Begins With the Sea

It’s a balmy blue Sunday, and it’s one of those days that completely blows my notion of perfection into pieces. The saltwater forest surrounds me like a sleepy blanket, yet it is made of the purest form of energy. The swell rises high enough to stoke my splashing kinesis, yet its ebb gives way to the relaxation of midday, as I lay belly down on my board and watch the nose bob up and down with the seas’s murmuring. Except that’s not all I see.

In my past life, I would have reckoned this day as Ideal, amongst my various experiences with Ideal–but today the sun glances brightly and ripples the water into a new pattern. It is a new day. And she has grasped the visual axis, with her hands clinging to the edges of the board, resting her chin on the very nose as the water rises to her shoulders. Her dark brown hair is pulled back into a wet bun, wayward strings tickle at her cheekbones. Her smile matches the midnight shine in her eyes. Every word she speaks is creating another patch of space for the new world I’m finding myself in.

I had taught her how to catch waves, and now, returned to the water, she watches me hunt my own. She lets go and ducks underwater when I begin to paddle, pulling at the water’s surface. With the sudden push of momentum, I swing myself to stand, and I am in the glide. The seaglass face is disrupted into a sparkling foam, charging my veins electric. Soon plunged into a bank of waves, the world darkens to bring me back to reality, and I come up for air. This is the good kind of fire I’m breathing in. When I paddle back to her, she takes hold of the board again. Our conversation resumes from where we left off. And when I realize nothing could be better, I notice that this is my universe being baptized.

Talons: An Explication

Wrapped in white,

I am the galloping pencil strokes

and jet ink

Bridled by stanza, rhythm, and diction

These are the tap tap taptaptap typings of salvation songs.

And as the Teacher speaks, so writes the sheep
In glittering masks of honesty
As Pollock splatters,
“This is the conversation I’ve always wanted to have

but never wanted to speak.”

Are you listening?; 

There are six ways to hear,
Thousands to understand, and
moment of courage
to write it down.


The rain falling sound outside my window
trickled like bravely quiet notes of a piano
into the caverns of my head. I drifted off to sleep,
pretending I was the lucky soil sighing with relief
as it soaked up the fruit of a drought’s fervent prayer.

Blue Moon

Grandmother Crane had promised open doors,
Eyes wise and blue.
Yet I could not read the sky,

Clouds too heavy laid thick on my ribs.
Weeds twisting Hydra throughout the spaces.
My lungs squeezed tight until the roaring sound released,
Ice air at my feet on the edge of a precipice.

Following the constellation of my footsteps,
The Lynx calmly talked me down,
Exchanging tiredly turbulent waters
For winding roads of conversation on maroon couches.
Daylight dimming.
I had to open my hands again, he said.
The Full Moon should soon be rising.

Night fell,
A patch of sandy light appeared in the window.
The Lynx opened the door and nodded his head,
Eyes steady;
“Lion courage.”
Through shaking aspen skies I stepped, 

Straight into the eyes of Orion.

Shooting stars,
The archer’s hand took hold of mine.

Foggy horizon, 

Sparkling nerves.
Can we go outside and talk? 

And so followed the bowman sheathing his arrows.

On the deck of the treehouse,
We leaned over the railing before each other.
Wordlessness thrown into poorly shaped pots,

Branching out and tripping over the twigs.
Sometimes truth is choked out with fire.

Finally the midnight sun rose,
The night growing ever brighter.
“It’s been two Blue Moons since,”
Orion said.
He smelled like wild Redwood.
Surrounded by the nebula,
I found that we fit.

Summertime in the Orion Nebula

// I was trying to make it look like there were stars at my feet.
Something in the way that I walked.
But I’m not perfect.
Are you?
Probably not.
But then there’s that dryad look in your eye.

I started out saying Hell no, but the letters got tangled despite myself.
That wasn’t one of the knots I learned last week.
Bowline on a Bight —
I’ve learned to be pleased with my calloused hands, but I’ve held so much.
And this mess in my stomach seems to twist and tighten, having been there in the first place.

Bulletproof vest?
Useless when the weapon changes.
The redwoods stand tall like a quiver of arrows, piercing clean through my cage.
When the trees woke up to dance with the wind —
There, wordless sounds whispered my real name.
The song rushed around in the branches, calling me to breathe in.

So I stood in a wild stillness.
Watched the full moon rage quietly in its mercury reflection on the black sea water —
Shining on new faces, new phases.
And then the constellations become clearest on the darkest nights.
Dear God.
You’ve piqued my curiosity. //


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