bang bang

5 Last photos of 2018 titlow park long exposure motion blur 30 Dec 2018.jpg

Bang bang, they’re 
dead. Brush our
teeth, go to 
bed. Again
& the day
after. Bang bang,
they’re dead. Brush
our teeth, go
to bed. Day
in, day out.
We think, we
pray. Nothing
changed: A new
day: Bang bang,
more dead. 
& we all
pray: not mine,
oh God, not
mine. Thank God,
not mine! Brush
my teeth, think,
and pray, I
go to bed.

bang bang, one
more dead. His
body a
shield, his name
& his name
R. Howell.
A fucking
child, not a
shield, an
almost child
not a shield!
But we’ll all
go to bed.
day, we’ll think.
day we’ll pray.

Bang bang you’re 
dead! When will
this end? Will
I ever
scream, oh god,
he’s mine! God, 
he’s Dead! Bang
bang, we’re all: 
good as dead
Till we heal
Till we FEEL
Till we see
Till we change
Till we stop
Letting kids
die at school!


Cleaning Out My Room


i just tried on my
white-gold, flower wedding ring.
it still doesn’t fit


2 - it’s just a ring, right?

If I wear it on
my pinky on my right hand
will it mean the same?

3 - But it’s pretty!

I still love this ring
the sixth store had flower molds
I’m never in style

4 - 12:21 am

Men, they are the worst!
Haikus are the worst as well!
Go to bed, Jenny!

The 9/11 Life

There’s shrapnel between our family 
photos and the protective glass,
stuck between breath, lodged 
under wedding bands.

There are pieces of the Twin Towers
mixed in with my sons’ legos,
grey bricks, red blocks, detached
hands & legs & hats

Businessmen throw themselves 
from my leaky kitchen faucet
their screams coating
my St. Barbara’s Day Ball glasses.

I pull pages of Skymall magazines
from the tines of my rake every fall
they smell of jet fuel
and pumpkins spice lattes

The King of Battle plays with my dog
while we all sleep swaddled in
patriotism and privilege.

The 9/11 Life - part 2

We’re not even together anymore and
I flinch when the door knocks.

You didn’t get a single scratch and
I hate when the door knocks.

More than 3 years at war and no PTSD and
I want to hide when the door knocks.

Your last deployment ended in 2013 and 
I still flinch when the door knocks.

We haven’t touched each other in years
I still nightmare of door knocks.

Where do I go from here?

The path before me
hides like a playful toddler
giggling in the pansies,
Her dirty little toes sticking out
from behind the moss-covered
tree stump. The one with the sapling
growing from within it's burnt and battered bark.
Just as I catch up to her
she disappears. I follow.
Her melodic hum, a song
I've never heard, but know
by breath, lures me forward.
I turn a corner, I turn another,
there's a new friend, a new book,
a new treasure discovered
under the unturned rock
I just tripped on. Knee skinned,
I linger too long and the tiny toes
dance in the periphery. I run
towards them as they tiptoe
across sticky webs floating
on sunbeams too bright to
look at directly. Day after day
we play in the rainshine and
sundrops and breathbeats
we soak in them till our
fingers get all pruny. We play
till the moon says goodnight
but who can lay down, eyes closed,
when the playful path
wiggles it's dirty little toes
in silver pools of possibility

#30minutepoetry from last summer... 

1 summer solstice june 2014 jenny ryan amiabelle chambers bay park.jpg

Under the M in Tacoma

I'm too distracted
by double tapped hearts, distracted
by naggy red dots, distracted
by avoidance, distracted
by lost, distracted
by imposter syndrome, distracted
by the clacking of businessmen in brown wing-tips with black hoodies, distracted
by punny gnomes judging me from the rafters, distracted
by dusty rose silk cascading down young milky white "perfection," distracted
by words not spoken over coffee at this same table, distracted
by shattered shards I'm STILL tripping on, distracted
by opensure, by whysure, distracted
by fresh breaks and old scars, distracted
by twin mattress insomnia, distracted
by sacrifices made for nothing, distracted
by dreams unmet for unworthy, distracted
by fear of trailer parks, distracted
by my privilege, distracted
by your oppression, distracted
by 45, distracted
by Atwood prophecies, distracted
by all this fucking noise!
I came here to write, I left


People keep asking me about some of this. In Metronome Cafe there are big photos that spell out Tacoma. I was sitting under the M. Margaret Atwood wrote The Handmaid’s Tale. In MetroNOME they have a lot of GNOMES… hence the punny gnomes line. Double-tapped hearts: Instagram notifications. (plus another meaning). Red dots: facebook notifications. Some of this is vague on purpose.

point defiance oly birthday flowers garden may 21 22 2018 jenny l miller (11A of 107) SMALLER.jpg


3. treat (someone) without due seriousness, especially in a superficially amorous way.

To you, I was a fidget spinner for your bored suburbyland fingers.
To you, I was a wind up toy you watched as I unwound myself for you.
To you, I was a magnet you would get just close enough to see flip for you. 
To you, I was a yoyo you played with till the string snapped off. 


How exactly can I call myself a woman?

(I won't take this down because it's where I was at the time, but while a lot of this is true, it doesn't make me any less of a woman. How silly I was.  ;) )


How exactly can I call myself a woman?

I've always disliked that word when pertaining to myself. A woman can put on make-up and do her hair and not look like a deranged whore clown.

A woman doesn't have the fashion sense of a teenage boy mixed with a 7yo girl with mismatched Avengers socks, jeans, hoodie, and barrettes from the girl's section.

A woman can cook all the things, and more than that, she enjoys it. A woman cleans her house with gusto. Bitch, please. If it doesn't include guacamole or chili I don't like cooking it and cleaning? Fuuuck!

A woman doesn't prefer getting muddy over manicures. A woman doesn't prefer smores and campfires over wine and room service.

A woman can trust her intuition. 100%. Always. Period. Her gut knows. Like mine. It knows. Without a doubt. It knows that the sun will eventually whisper my name on my neck and it's rays will entangle in my hair. That the secrets of its core will be safeguarded in my veins... it knows this... but how can that be true when that position is already filled?

A woman always knows? Either that phrase is broken or I am. 

How exactly can I call myself a woman?


#10minutepoetry #poetry #poet #

I'm a Big Girl

I’m a big girl
(spoken word)

By 13 I had C boobs
by 13 I had C hips
Cat call me boobs and Curvy hips

I had those C eyes
And that C smile too.
Those “beautiful Cat eyes” and a “Come on, smile, baby” smile

By 18 I knew what Consensual did not fucking mean
By 18 I understood the need to be Conscious at a party with “friends”

By 22 I was the Cunt who accused her NCOIC of sexual harassment
By 22 my boss was dishonorably discharged but I was Crucified

By 27 I had FFF boobs
Those Free From Fucking men, boobs!
Yes, my boobs were bigger, but so was my stomach, my thighs and my double chin
And guess what, Fucking men don’t like that! No!
I was, gratefully, no longer “worthy” of their Fuckery!

By 27 I had Found my Fortress. My Fat Fortress.
But I Felt like a Failure so I began to change.

By 34 I had F boobs
Those Fitness Crazed, Food snob, CrossFit boobs!
But then came the Fucking Men again, this time with their
Forgotten and Foiled wedding rings in tow, their uninvited
Foul breath on my neck.

By 38 I had FF boobs again.
My Fat Fortress boobs!

But this time…
I Found that I can lift 270lbs within my Fat Fortress
I Found how to accept myself within my Fat Fortress
I Found how to love my Fucking Fabulous boobs, ass, thighs,
And even my Fabulous double chin from within my Fat Fortress.
I Forged my self-worth within the walls of my Fat Fortress.
A Fortress I will burn to the Fucking ground because

By Forty I will have F boobs again, but these will be made of Fire
that will Fuck a man up if he Fancies himself “just a little Fun.”

I Am a Big Girl!


Tu azul adictivo


Tu azul adictivo

Quiero ahogar en ti
en tu azul infinito
tu azul inalcanzable,
irresistible, inovlidable,

el azul que robó todas mis sinapsis,
se filtró en mis poros
tatuó su fuego en mis venas
con cada palabra, mirada, risa

el azul que se fue,
Se fue arrancando su fuego,
me dejó estremeciendo, jadeando,
soplando en cada leonito blanco

los deseos flotando en el vacío
perdidos, sin dirección, insensibles
cayendo hacia la tierra como nieve
desvaneciendo en las sombras

nunca alcanzando tu lengua
nunca germinando las memorias
en tu piel, tus sinapsis
en tus venas desinteresadas

tus venas que permanecen
intocadas por mi corazón
mi corazón que permanece adicto
adicto a un color que nunca sabía.



Translated and revised into English

Your addictive blue

I want to drown in you
in your endless blue
in your unreachable,
irresistible, unforgettable

the blue that hypnotized every brain cell,
that seeped into every pore,
tattooed it’s fire in every vein
with only  quiet  lingery gazes,
awkward laughter, fumbled hi-fives,
            words.  .  .

the blue that suddenly left
that left ripping out it’s fire
that left me shivering, gasping,
searching, blowing on every little white

sending weightless wishes
lost, aimless, wafting
toward the soil like sickly snow,
dissolving in unseen

never reaching your tongue
never germinating memories
in your skin, your mind
in your oblivious and indifferent

those veins that remain untouched,
untouched by my fire, by my
words  .  .  .  by my veins,
veins that remains addicted,
addicted to a color, 
to your color,  to your blue they
            never          even          knew.

My TA-50

My TA-50

A middle-aged man wearing an old Patriots jersey and burnout
Sized me down slowly from mouth, chest, hips, and back up again
Tossed three pairs of BDUs size M in men’s at me, then winked, yelling

A middle-aged woman wearing a stained tee and a hangover
Shoved my feet into several different sizes of black boots
Threw two pairs of size 7 in men’s at me yelling,

A sergeant in his forties wearing a wedding ring and lust
Joked about the number 69 on my paperwork
Gave me the key to my stagnant barracks room winking,
                            “see ya later, sweatheart!”

I, a nineteen-year-old wearing a new oversized hoodie and unease,
Organized, folded, and polished all of my new Army gear.
                                      I made them mine:

1 -Half Shelter, Green

500 –Addresses: “Sweetheart, Honey, or Hottie,”

1 –Shovel, Foldable

100-Sex Invitations From My married NCOIC

1 -Reflective Belt

250 –Orders to “smile, honey’ From Supervisors

1- Ear Plugs with Case

45 -Ass Grabs

1- Compass

25- “Unintentional” Boob Grazes

1- Eye Protection, Ballistic

15 – Uninvited Hands Slid Up My Thigh to My Vagina

1- Flashlight

9 –Emails Containing Images of Women Having Sex With Animals From a Sergeant

2- Towels, Brown

1- Sexual Harassment Court Marshall Against My NCOIC, Everyone’s Favorite NCO

1- Permanent Marker, Black

1,000- Comments: Stupid Bitch, Cunt, Fucking Liar, From My Peers and Superiors.

A few items on this list the Army said I could keep
little parting gifts to carry with me forever,
like Invisible shrapnel tattoos that only I can feel
just under the surface of my Army issued sex.



(Tahoma West is publishing this one. I'm so excited!)

What is Draftlings?

I am a Creative Writing Studies major at the University of Washington Tacoma. I'll be graduating in March 2017. This is where I will be posting drafts of my work. It could be a shitty 1st draft (shout out to Anne Lamott) or a slightly less shitty 105th draft or anywhere in between. Feel free to leave constructive criticism. Any rudeness will be screenshot and sent out over the internet, with your name. Be nice.