It is the big reason my friend, the prophet, 

Is without honor in her own home town.

Not a voice crying out in the wilderness,

But a voice, her voice, crying out in the gymnasium,

Just as the rest of the din had died down,

A special cheer for her older brother

Who had just scored a layup,

A cheer the other older brother had told her to say,

"Go Dildo, Go!"

Popular culture often portrays

Some poor soul with a devil on one shoulder 

And an angel on the other.

But in real life the voice of temptation and deceit

Usually comes from a trusted priest or teacher,

A parent, an older sibling, or a younger one.

But maybe what we'd rather instill in our young

Is something they instinctively know.

Never say what someone tells you to say,

Or think what someone tells you to think.

But go with your gut and let your soul continue its mantra 

In the natural born defiant philosophy called, 

"Don't tell me what to do!"

Then maybe some of us CAN go home again.

-jenn

Some live in a world of forget-me-nots,

Arrival notices, scrapbook pages.

My world barks departure announcements, 

Summons agreements,

Forget-me-too's.

I sit in detention 

For asking a question,

And it was an honest one

But questions are known

For corrupting the youth,

And other subversive actions,

Crimes apparently punishable by death.

So I await my execution,

Maybe the world has found a way

This time, to put me out of my misery.

Oh, it's only hemlock!

I had that for breakfast, yesterday!

-jenn

I'm just taking the spoon out of my cup

When the owner of the Asian diner

Comes to me with one hand out

As if to stop me,

But from what?

From taking a sip of my tea?

From eating the food off the buffet?

He's stuttering agitatedly,

And I'm not sure what language 

He attempts to speak.

But I am frozen

Waiting to understand,

My spoon suspended 

In my hand, between the cup

And setting it down

On the saucer.

Finally an apron clad cook appears

By his side

And translates for me shaking his head,

Dismissing the offer for me,

Before I even know it.

"He saw you in the judo match downtown," he says,

"And he wants you to throw him!"

Later, when the waiter brought my check,

He advised me that the cook had mistranslated the Mandarin.

What the owner was wanting from me was a "wild fling."

I paid and left discreetly,

For either way,

It was not something I wanted to do.

-jenn

Butterflies get distracted by TheCity

And begin to thrive on insecurity and pollution.

They gather at the soup-kitchen flowerbeds 

That Charity's Wife, or someone else,

Has graciously planted for them.

Their antennae twitch self-deprecating thoughts.

Each one claims to have it so much worse.

Meanwhile, in the country,

Butterflies flutter the lowlands,

Milking weeds, bluebonnets and gallardia

Of wild pollen and stinging nettle nectar.

Without a word they ford the winds,

Determinedly toward their destination.

They head south, traversing nations, borders,

And no walls or fences,

No armies, nor economies can stop them.

But whether they feed on beggars crumbs

Or wild independence,

Butterflies fly on insecure wings.

But somehow,

They make it,

And so will I.

-jenn

Strange bird,

With your top plumes teased,

Your color is strictly after-market.

Your eyes stare as if they do not see.

Both your eyes seem artificial,

Glazed forward like jaded marbles,

But you have viewed life through a knothole,

Or as one who observes its subjects

Through a one-way looking glass.

You hold great secrets in your bird brain.

But instead of sharing truths,

You paint your geisha face on thick,

And parrot out only the same age-old isms

That have always gotten the human race nowhere.

The only feather in your cap is constancy.

The way you look today, and think,

Will be exactly the same

As the day you lie in estate,

In your glass coffin.

-jenn

A heavy dew fell in the night

And drooped the spider's web.

She gathers the heavy threads

Right back into herself.

She waits until the air has cleared of rain

Before she spins again the stunning symmetry 

That is, at once, her love, her art, her living.

Deep tears fell from my eyes all night.

This morning I stretch my

Eight legs out to take my curtains down,

And when the air has cleared, I will

Stretch a new fabric over my bones

And hope a thicker skin

Will serve me better.

-jenn

There are harder mountains to ascend

Than Everest.

But since it has been deemed 'tallest' on the earth,

Men want to do it,

Just to say they have.

So too, with a beautiful woman,

People scratch around 

Attempting to climb on and do her,

Just to say they have.

But Everest stands,

Albeit littered by the thousands of 

Oxygen tanks of those who've tried,

And mostly failed.

Her serenity patiently awaits the one
Who will speak to her in abject faith,

Telling her to move.

And she will.

-jenn