Electric Ivy

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

“Do you think it’s the apocalypse?”

“You mean right this minute, or in general?”

I have never been asked this question

With such earnest,

From a sane, pragmatic individual.

Sane, in the sense he has made money.

Sane, in the sense he has children.

Sane, in the sense I trust him not to become incarcerated.

Is this pragmatic thinking?

Working the night away

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poetry, writing

Port City walks of life,

Brick and old industry.

Pull Little Dogs from Great Bay.

Crushed ice by the pound

Keeps them on display.

Price liquor and ceviche

For the booze hounds.

I wonder how long

This waking life will last.

A snapshot, shuttering for a century,

A blur of tattoos and painted toenails,

Filter five hour long exposures.

Americana,

Vesper,

House Gimlet,

A smoke and pancake.

Kettle One Martini straight up-

“Why is this shaken and strained?”

“The system made me choose a modifier”.

“Add rocks”.

I have four draughts to draw

From a hydra headed tap.

When the back of the house shuts down

The front is soon to follow.

Count tilled treasure.

Smoke cigarettes trying to relieve the hunger.

A Tuesday Night’s Shift Haul

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Working until 2 A.M.

Mopping a blood stained

Potato peeled floor.

 

To supplement my basement

Kitchen, I’m pinchin’:

 

3/8th’s of a plastic bear shaped bottle of honey.

I have the tea.

I have the coffee.

I have a tea bag that looks like metal tongs.

Made of bulbous, Iron-mesh bongs.