Tongue Rust

Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, writing

 

My dreams were absurd, scrambled last night, I know.

Can’t seem to recall any coherent flow-

Or any type of image worth review.

When I awoke, so vivid I could taste it.

Sober reality focused and it was gone.

A flicker across the retina of my mind’s eye.

Try to fire neurons in other hemispheres,

Try to recall that little detail-

A detail you might be creating

Or mixing from other flickers.

Like this poem, excavated from my skull.

 

It’s something I pull myself to do,

Finding words can be like digging through sand.

Exercise muscle memory:

Hack at doubt’s gnash, by hacking at the keys everyday.

The slob’s doubt has a syringe for an incisor.

Block white noise:

Mary Jane’s euphoric lucid dreams,

Method Man’s hoarse flow in my eardrums.

Read my blue, office rug,

Below the relative humidity and temperature display

And the almanac celebrating Lee’s bicentennial.

A wide Burn on my side from Potassium hydroxide;

The PH in the groundwater is affected by all the damn Pine!

 

The more I write,

The easier it is to ramble.

I always feel the disconnect,

I always feel the sublime electrocution.

I want to ramble with my eyes wide open,

In the moment, spilling, and tapping.

Worry not about eyes licking the white page,

Worry not about making someone stop;

In the moment, thinking, and reviewing the evidence.

If you are reading this,

It’s intended.

If you are offended by this,

Imagine how I feel.

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