Front Street Condo

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Front Street condos

Face other condos

The sky is so high

Between giants of

Concrete, steel, and glass

Sparkling

Like those stars

They amorously climb towards

Different units alit

Different circadian rhythms

Twinkling

Like the traffic far below

Watch them go

Hurrying home on Love Day

A surging sea of constant

Honking

White and red lights writhing

Against an invisible median

The condo life escapes me

Passed ten stories

Cost of piping water is unjustifiable

Anything in the pursuit

Of higher living

I enjoy watching

Traffic down below

Stars up above

The view

Gotta love the view

Dry, hot iron

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Last night was garbage night.

The morning smells

Of wet, sweet concrete

Coupled with the apparition of sour trash

I kiss the cheek of my lady

Goodbye and good day

Rolling like early morning thunder

People in pyjamas drag back

Empty bins from a rain-stained curb

Sausage vendors fire charcoal grills

Peering at the morning shuffle

Behind a line of soda pop companies

Bleary eyed streetcars shamble by

Eating up early track slicked with dew

I shuffle to work on my day off

To pick up my pay

Thirty thousand pennies and a free drip coffee

Perks of the job augment my hours for sale

Buju Banton sings about walking like a champion

Through white iPod ear buds

The buds begin to peek on the trees

Rubbing dew from sleepless petals

The THC in my bloodstream amplifies the affect

A wet Wednesday in Toronto

So obviously Spring

Working on my fifth coffee of hour three

My agenda is brimming with nothing

Buy food for my kitty

Eat buffet sushi

Pull some lines from my brain

Turn them into an ink stain

The streetcar now grinds

On sanded, dry, hot iron

Same goes for the caffeine in my bloodstream

Today will be fine

I can feel it in my bones

We both grind our way home.

It’s as if we never left

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

It’s the campfire smoke

It’s the granite load

It’s the firewood

Stacked in neat triangles

Of chords and ranks

It’s the forestry lesson

Follow the wood grains

Identify Red Maple, Hickory, and Beach

It’s the burning trees

It’s the peepers and crickets

Singing like a wall in the thicket

Once your ear is dialed into them

It’s hard to focus on what’s being said

It’s Shipyard’s Pumpkin Head

It’s the flow of life through the bottleneck

It’s the flow of the Lamprey River

It’s where time moves slow

Relative to the amount of souls

One encounters in the backdrop folds

It’s that free-floating space in your brain

It’s the majority memory vault

It’s the sea salt

It’s the Ocean’s smell

It’s the seashell

It’s the poison’s fault

It’s the sunshine

It’s sand dunes soaking up heat

With sticky, sharp dune grass

Deep roots, the foundation for visage

It’s my home away from home

It’s a shoulder to lean on

It’s the gleam of a silver tongue

People come and go and go, go, go

Round and round on this five-cent carousel

We embrace and talk face to face

It never gets old

It’s the blood that never runs cold

It’s the love that keeps hold of a red string

Wound through scene after scene

Hold the end, follow it like a stream

Float through the current

Down river, towards me

Bound in Time, Time Outbound

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I still see you in my dreams

No matter how old I grow

You remain seventeen or younger

Whether you left or I stayed

I have yet to decipher

 

Nothing is more solid than death

It seems as translucent as a memory

I know today we would be in touch

Friendship has transcended this waking life

It inspires me to sit and write poetry about you

 

Your energy jumps through

Time, dark matter, and dimensions

Without the restraint of boundaries

Without the restraint of emotions

While the Milky Way Galaxy swirls

 

My energy is dictated by milligrams of caffeine

Measured by cups into my bloodstream

I sit and wait for work to start

In the King & Simcoe Tim Horton’s

While the milk in my coffee swirls

IX

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Born with the drive to strive.

Heaven and Hell

Play horsehair violin strings.

Harmony becomes symphony.

Live your dreams

Or fall

Through Alice’s looking glass.

Brought to our knees by

A self-aware synaptic miss-fire.

My life is measured in passed kisses

Beneath burnt charcoal skies

I smoke signal my wishes.

Memories pierce my veins

Backwashing a crimson decision.

My High

Plunges me into a rush of divinity.

Dropping from a boundless height

Burning with an evanescent light.

I become a color

On the spectrum.

The Sands of Mine

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Old Orchard Beach

Is closed for the season

The Arcade, The Fryers, and

The Booze Monsoons hang in there

Digging up that last buried dollar

Printing that last redeemable prize ticket

Stay off the boardwalk

Stay in for dinner

We are long passed the crowds

Craving summer carnival narcotics

We walk the beach

Watching the tide

Juxtaposing our memories

Passed, piled into grains of sand

There’s no shortage of sand

My Brothers are scattered

Through age and Beach Pea

Throwing a football, spinning fire poi

Red Sox Jacket flapping in the rippling wind

The wind burn feels like a subtle sun burn

The cold sea air like a cool beverage

The salt in my cells

Osmose into a different thirst

Family and ocean scenery

Future Approach

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I open my eyes.

An inpour of stimulus

Parade across my irises.

Coffee stains my lips.

The future approaches for inevitable embrace

My bags are packed.

I move forward, toward

The unattainable tomorrow.

Seemingly meaningless moments

Meander their way

Into my poetry.

No matter how horrific.

No matter how beautiful.

It’s all human nature.

Becoming lost in the white noise

Of event shaped by emotion.

BJ&K#8

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I only drink gin

She exclaimed with her head jutted forward

Face adorned with a wild grin.

The tree has been

Shoved through the door screen.

Trunk sweating sap

Tinsel hanging like frozen tears.

The relic regresses into the corpse of a Pine.

Her laugh tasted like York Mints

51 weeks after Christmas.

 

You said that we would grow

So I am patiently waiting

For that time to come.

The crowd lined the parade

When the man made masquerade

Showed its drunken rage.

Guarantee me you will go down in the 4th

I will guarantee we both get paid.

I remember your puffy eyes

Dancing, knuckles raised in a daze

Apologies, perfumed by lies.

The round bell will signify

The beginning and the end.

The gloves have been dropped

There’s still time for a cheap shot.

 

You said things would be different tomorrow

So I am patiently waiting

For the rays of the sun to rise.

Climbing fast in burning flask

There’s fire in your eyes

And water in your veins.

The sand between your toes

Swirls with the incoming tide

On the shore of your memory bank.

Definition guarantees tomorrow never to arrive

 

You said to never count crows

So I am patiently waiting

For the three black birds to take wing.

Perched with cloak and dagger

On the power cable

Outside my bedroom window.

The Last Sunday of the Fair

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

At the Deerfield Fair

My Brother and I

Play a game of I-Spy

Tallying the points in our head.

We laugh and we shuffle to mood.

 

Leopard print tattoos = 5.    Cowboy boots = 2.

Tattoos of cowboy boots in leopard print = 100.

The man with a megaphone and the collie dogs corralling a heard of ducks = 777.

 

We laugh and we shuffle while

Sheriffs direct the ebb and flow of the crowd

Trying to appear loud.

As loud as the tradition we tread.

A loud hat with a badge dazzles the onlooker

Leashing the might of the sun.

Like the prize dazzles the couple near the B.B. Guns.

 

We laugh and we shuffle right along

Shoveling cheese fries into our face

With white plastic utensils.

The hornets gravitate

Towards the mounds of plastic

Paper, napkins, fried starch and soda.

They look like puffs of milkweed tumbling

Amongst the smell of sweet popcorn and livestock.

 

One big dust puddle.

Parked cars, butt cracks, and diesel fuel.

The bright blue sky stretching overhead

So encompassing it makes your stomach tickle.

We paid eighty dollars to marvel for thirty minutes.

The attracted more intriguing than the attractions.

We laugh and we shuffle our way home.