Perforation

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

The only thing killing me is time,

It’s no longer a cigarette

Sitting amongst the pack

Within my breast pocket.

Craving immediate effect

Leads to side effects.

 

Sun light reflecting

On snow covered fields.

It’s brighter when it’s colder.

Flip down the Wrangler’s visor-

Cross the Great Bay

In a six-cylinder bound.

 

Pulled sixty miles each hour,

I can always see the horizon.

Tethered by a broken yellow thread-

An orderly, landscape of beauty

Changes into

A chaotic, blur of foliage.

 

Within the rearview mirror:

The back wiper works

When not wet by rain.

Other people roll to a destination,

Exit near Red Hook Brewery.

I stay stationary while they move away

Or

They stay stationary while I move away.

 

The theory as to which is correct

Has gotten us killed,

Has forgotten doubtless interpretation,

Has gotten us rich,

Has forgotten collective unconscious,

Has gotten us into this mess,

Has forgotten an infinite orbit of dimensions,

Each interpreting color, time, sound, and intention.

 

My eyes are windows to the world,

How’s the view from that angle?

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