Snakes are like bees,
In that, if we don't have them,
Life, as we know it on this planet
Will not be anymore.
First, a collective sigh from the colonies,
One of societies' top fears is extinct!
Then while we debate on how to end public speaking,
Mother earth will unlatch her high sandals,
Take off her girdle and walk barefoot through the garden again.

But eventually it will dawn upon her
That she has no more goosebumps
Because there are no more slithering things to terrify her,
Nor to tickle her places that no one else is willing to touch.
And in her sadness, the world will go gray.
Flowers will purse their primitive lips
In a great tsk tsk toward the other vegetation,
And then the bees will be the very next to go.

-jenn

I come in and put the sacks down,
And he lies right down on the floor and cuddles up to the groceries.
He puts his face an inch away from a can
And stares longingly.

I grunt and roll my eyes
And mutter under my breath,
"I studied the Bolshevik Revolution for this?!"

-jenn

The equation for orbits is surprisingly the same
As those for objects going down a drain.
The great swirling majesty of the Milky Way
May be the galaxy's mode to throw its trash away.
It fascinates us from a distance
And confounds us while we're in it,
Much like the forest we can't see
For the trees.

But before you say, "Well, there's no hope,"
Take yourself a bar of organic soap and enjoy the bath.
Who's to say that the mysterious flow
Of the cryptic dark matter that makes us go around
May be as holy as the holiest universal solvent?
We can pray that it is a drain that takes us to the wetlands,
And that the sewer is a sanitary one.

-jenn

Little orphan cats don't groom themselves
As well those who grow up with a mother.
They grow accustomed to matted fur,
And so, also, when they are grown,
They don't mind a ruffled look
Or being rubbed the wrong way.
They will take whatever petting they can get.

Little humans that aren't comforted when they cry
Produce a lot of cortisol
In an attempt to relieve themselves of stress.
This hardens the brain,
And other results aren't known.
But they may mind very much
Being rubbed the wrong way.

-jenn

He knew he was born to be an archaeologist,
For his face already looked like
It was carved from stone,
And judging by the weathering there,
A thousand years or more ago.

His best friends were pillars of salt,
And he knew he shared their fate,
For, just as Lot's nostalgic wife had done,
He also had a propensity to look back.

His greatest fear was that he might turn
Just after some amazing discovery
And he would stand, a smallish obelisk,
And silently be misread and misinterpreted
For another thousand years.

-jenn

My dream is a house
That hovers mysteriously
And hums while a magic carpet flies by.
My door opens from the east
And I can stand and look outside
And watch the world,
So busy and creepy.
It hustles and bustles for this and that,
Runs to and fro and traverses land masses
For things that really don't matter that much.

And as the world hurries,
I stand in my dream,
Perfectly still and slowly blink
And breathe and am
And continue to hover
As a few monks are left
To conjure me.
They chant their song,
A beautiful ommmmmmmmm,
And my heart dances,
But never my feet.

-jenn

Even the morning lasts without you.
Even the day, like a midnight sun,
Has stopped and paused
Like a picture taken,
Captured forever,
But you are gone.

But you're still here!
Aren't you? Smiling?
Standing on a cliff at the Grand Canyon's wall?
You're still here!
On my refrigerator!
I see you, posing, after dinner,
Ten feet tall.

Who will come and start the record
Over, who will put a quarter on the needle
So it won't skip, or get stuck in
An endless loop forever?
Who will jar me loose
From this nightmare?
Wake me, tell me, "It's alright,"
That you're not with me, anymore?

-jenn