The Moral of Jenny Big Bones

I look across the table at my father’s face
And tell him about my other life in a dimension not so far away
I’m saying, Jenny Big Bones runs a bar by the same name
It’s in Alaska. She shoots guns and drinks all day
She tips bottles in the space my stories fill
And turns the jukebox up when my narrative threatens to turn her way
She wants no plot, no thoughts
Except the goodness of time passing through her clean, well-lighted place
And the soft, drunken tongues telling stories to her face

Another Jennifer works in the library of the United Nations
Stands in the window and counts cars on the FDR when she’s running out of patience
Raps her knuckles on stacks of research papers
The weight of the world disguised as a single page
I keep these stories about my selves running in their own lanes
Reciting facts to bolster up each aspiration I say

I give the moon a honied tale of lovers whispering about the sea otters at Morro bay
The thin light reflected over lapping waves
And every animal has a voice
I make recordings of my own
Asking them questions about their ways
Soliciting tours of their homes
I make up the moves of their grandchildren
Across the sun-scarred planes of future days
Feel their thirst and hunger, their endless body aches
I tell myself stories all damn day

The way I see across dimensions, into time, and through space
Jenny Big Bones is no alter in my brain on this day
Jenny hunting troubled rabbits in post-apocalyptic drought isn’t telling me what to say
I’m just telling stories to understand my place
Tales of trickster rabbits have always kept us entertained
I be telling stories every day, for myself, habitual