Dialect Robbery

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I wish I could speak every language.

Only so I could understand an individual soundly.

Music is the language of the universe.

Sound waves digested as provoked thought.

Sound waves digested as pooling emotion.

 

I wish I could speak every language

Only to argue my opinion closer to the point.

Letting racist bias get the first word

Letting Ignorance get the first word

 

I wish I could speak every language.

Only to describe color as the vibrant soliloquy that I see.

Language is a barrier that keeps us separated by vocabulary.

Instead of gesticulating and hollering.

Instead of changing the tone and pitch of my misfire word.

 

I wish I could speak every language.

I would sit and smile at the beauty of communication.

Reveling in the human connection

That being singular lingual robs from me.

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BJ&K#7

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

The patio lights twinkle, once intended

For the soft wink of Christmas lights

Now back drop the August nights.

Near a neon CN Tower and

Trinity Bellwood’s streetlight.

 

We fight the fight

Everyone wants a piece of the cake.

In the end we rub the wounds from our knees,

Maybe dessert should come first.

We flee from the table.

Flinging wooden chairs,

Twinkling silverware moon rays.

 

Tonight there’s blood on the moon,

And the news rattles on about swine flu,

There’s connoisseurs tasting myriads of brews,

And then there is you,

And then there is me,

And then there is the world we see.

Don’t despair,

I’m sure the sun will come up

Not every wink is corrupt.

 

It was easy as

One, Two, Three, Seven

And it terrified them.

Witness to those before,

How children view love spattered gore.

You cannot become what you fear.

I’m not afraid.

 

They pour into a myriad of

Teeth and neck.

Connection is but a fleck

Like the stars in the sky.

Shut out by smog

And the steady crank of electricity.

The lens refracts light into a ROYGBIV prison,

Emotion classified by the color spectrum.

 

Let’s continue where we left off.

Spin Cycle Coin Laundry

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

A cork billboard.

A lost and found.

A village square.

 

Hanging forgotten is

A house key,

A garage key,

Or a shed key.

Not an off key remark.

The owner will pinch the empty mark

On their key ring.

Memory sparking.

 

A cork billboard.

A lost and found.

A village square.

 

Cards for business,

Tacked by candy colored plastic.

A student I.D. card;

Graduate.

Her smiling face a façade

Of the living relative.

How long have I been hanging here?

That’s embarrassing.

 

A cork billboard.

A lost and found.

A village square.

 

Like worms on fishing lines,

Individually cut phone numbers flutter.

Phoenix Paintings.

The bottom half torn away.

Fax machines stand vacant.

My colors buzz, warm and fluffy.

I leave before

I am lost in their eternity.

 

A cork billboard.

A lost and found.

A village square.

Droplet Memory

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

My eyes stare forever forward,

Pupils like black ink droplets.

Staining white sheets in neuron flashes.

A kaleidoscope day

Interrupted by the occasional blink-

Lost in the endless

Stream of stimulus.

 

Memories drip from my pen.

I don’t know where I am going;

I only know where I have been.

 

Where I am going is

Something I can never tell.

Where I am going seems

To be coming fast.

Where I am going is

An unavoidable constant change.

 

The next hill has the highest watchtower.

The trees bear fruit.

The only constant is the coffee break.

Remain on a path-

Keep climbing-

Reminisce, reminisce, reminisce.

Home Stead

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I know your future is foretold

With blood, tears, and bottle caps of gold.

I know you wish you could move your lips.

Rather than speak through clenched teeth.

Thirty-six months by

My calculation makes a lifetime.

In homestead of poison

I consume caffeine.

In homestead of poison

I inhale flower buds.

 

I know everyone’s hand

Can curl into fist or hold.

I know Jacks, Queens, and Kings

Can make loose hands fold.

Thirty-six months by

My calculation makes a lifetime.

In homestead of poison

I consume caffeine.

In homestead of poison

I inhale flower buds.

 

I know every lie could appear white,

Arguing your way into an effortless goodbye.

I know on holidays

We’re supposed to swap vocal vibrations.

Thirty-six months by

My calculation makes a lifetime.

In homestead of poison

I consume caffeine.

In homestead of poison

I inhale flower buds.

 

I know ten years of fond memory

Fogs a forest of fifteen willows weeping.

I know fictional squirrel stories own

Responsibility for my prose and poetry.

Thirty-six months by

My calculation makes a lifetime.

In homestead of poison

I consume caffeine.

In homestead of poison

I inhale flower buds.

Eastbound College Car

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I step up the steps of

The Eastbound TTC streetcar.

I sit my ass

In this seat.

And try to write

Poetry.

 

Besides Me

A Boy sits.

Drugged.

Plugged

Into spider-man

On a PSP.

His face slack and drooling,

Letting the “Grown-Ups”

Have their time.

In their respective seats

 

After a few adult rounds

Of conversation:

“You are being such a good boy!”

One of them sounds,

Without looking at him.

Unbeknownst to them,

It’s conditioning.

 

Another stop.

Strangers come.

Strangers go.

Outside my window

A flock of bike cops

Come to a stop.

Polished law on steel and oiled gear.

 

One of ten wheels wedge

Into the tracks we shamble.

He flips helmet over pedals.

His squad laughs.

And I thought they were a brotherhood.

And I thought this was a brotherhood.

When Nature Calls

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

A poem scratches

Below the surface of consciousness.

It’s in my fellow homosapien.

Unless they share the itch;

The searchlight scans right over the sea.

Written in her ponytail and visage

When her dog shits in the packed public park.

The sun sets over a sparkling

Marvel of human engineering.

We are the center of our own universe

And it’s still embarrassing.

Concentrated on thinking

People are snickering at every display

Of pure primal instinct.

 

Those people over there

Puffing on tropical punch hookah.

These people over here

Copying Yoga pose.

The energy of the night

Keeps just ahead

Of how fast my pen can create prose.

I record this Friday night

While people all around me live it.

I love it.

I convert seconds to ink.

All I have to do is think.

Absorb the inevitable philosophy.

The words a byproduct of

Observed reality.

I’m Broke

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

It is the hottest day

The city has to offer.

Until I close my eyes

The moon winks permanently

Set deep within the skies.

I have twenty dollars Canadian in the bank,

Which works out to be

Seventeen thirty five

In dead presidents.

 

Until I close my eyes

I know that all the money

In the world cannot buy back lies.

So I order a yam tempura roll

And a cold green tea.

The rent is already paid and

Though I will soon be broke

I can afford to feed myself

Today at 2:17 p.m.

 

Until I close my eyes

I will purchase pens

And keep my neck free of ties.

Save for those lives that tether

Invisible bonds to this waking world.

BJ&K#6

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

He opened eyes to a deep ocean blue,

Knew it was time for the sublime.

The birds called his name

And the same came from the sun.

She was the one.

Beside his pillow,

She winked a furrowed brow,

Whispered a soft growl.

Interlocked fingers, overlapped lips,

Eyes locked, and tongues dancing.

Time passing too fast to savor the moment.

They were told to stop and smell the roses,

Weary of the pricking thorns.

 

Over caffeinated and under stimulated

They begged for more.

Forlorn on the shore

Of lifetime memory.

Opening their mouths to speak,

Cracking a smile,

Laughing away time,

Falling in love with eternity.

Forever seemed too soon;

Tomorrow too far.

 

Stolen kisses and weighed words,

Speaking in similar tongues

But missing the subtext.

She caressed his neck

Whispered “What comes next?”

His answer: “Don’t come too soon”.

They fell into a monsoon.

The mascara streamed from her eyes,

They kissed in the driving rain.

Drowned the cries:

Of the screaming city.

 

Still on their midnight run,

When up came the sun.

Red skies at night

Sailor’s take warning.

Avoid the sirens and incessant mourning.

Those who came before,

Those who were still to become.

The starlight twinkles while

Smiles break into molecules

Of eternal black matter.

A Convenience Store in Toronto

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

The concrete

Streets were as

Cold as the weather.

April was

A month of

Rain and mud.

I walked down

The sidewalk

Shopping for

IMAGES.

IMAGES.

Screaming, at the streetcar stop.

Clinging to the train, posted to lamp posts.

Written in jet fuel on a blue canvass sky.

Pecking in the grass and plastered, wind-rippling, to a chain fence.

Chalked to windows, floating about the man-made floor.

IMAGES.

Flashing provocatively

Like badges upon

The fire crowned girl’s-

Green summer jacket.

Whose fingers link mine.

I try to avert

My eyes from those ads

Right when she smiles.

Dodging the wrong shell

To my beating heart.

I come eye to eye

With the pavement

And the trash I tread over

And my own images

I follow the commercials to

A store around the corner,

Dubiously dubbed:

CORNER STORE.

 

I tinkle a coin

Into a stubbled,

Down trodden man’s

Raggy-glad tin coffee cup.

While he preaches

From a sewer pulpit.

I step in-

The doorway.

Shopping for

IMAGES.

A man stands before a

Wall of silver buyer beware doors.

There were plenty of

People purchasing

At seven p.m.

Adolescent school girls

Flocking around the sugar

Amorously eyeing

Multi-colored, candied keys.

Some buzzed professionals

In the Miss Vickie’s.

A lone yoga instructor

In the XXX water.

Godmothers in the

old avocados

an unintentional prop

affirming that the

store has everything.

 

And, is that you?

Allen Ginsberg?

By the shake N bake? A peephole?

Eyeing the ladies licking keys?

Or the narcotic tobacco?

Over Ginsberg’s gaze

through the Shake N Peep

I spot the wayward

Grizzled man step in.

Swinging his tin cup.

His grey beard points down

Empty offerings.

Three sixty-five,

A bottle cap with

A cigarette smoked

Half, puckered and brown.

WHITMAN LUMBER

Is printed on the coat,

Hunkered shoulders.

An ironed felt badge

Over his heart tagged:

WALLY.

 

The overseer of the register

Tongs him a sweating dog

From the grease splattered green house.

He wipes the coins and butt

Back into his cup

And leaves gumming

Into that frozen wind.

I dash, bumping my voyeur mate

Spilling pasta and toilet paper

The sense, the senses, the sensations!

I banged through, the door jangled

Hoping the sound caught

That grizzled man.

I was only in the cool city.

Wind swirling with a

Whisper of snow.

The unnatural trees poked

Through their allotted plots

In the concrete as though

They chose to grow there.

Where are we going?

WALT WHITMAN

Where are we going?