The Daisy Field (III/III)

Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, poem, poems, poetry, Throwback Thursday, writing

We fell from Heaven

And struck every branch

On the way down.

The impact left a crater,

Half the diameter of a New England town.

With no direction I dream

Of rambling on.

Lucidly waking, scrambling for

Planes, trains, or bus.

Filling my hiking bag, hand encompassing a compass.

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Alcoa Bakery

Benjamin Jenkins, life, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Tables with serviette stations stand

Spaced apart, like livestock grazing linoleum.

The atmosphere is Easter and will be for the next month.

No matter what’s ordered-

The price is around $5.85.

Moving on varicose veins,

Vision tipped with red billed visors,

Dusted in flour, selling Lotto tickets and cigarettes,

The women behind the counter

Could be any body’s grandmother.

Two televisions play soaps and soccer.

An elderly, male audience;

Scratching tickets, drinking Sumol,

Consuming caffeine of heated espresso bean.

I order a black drip and Pasteis de Nata to fit in,

Then reveal my Macbook Pro.

Peer into Davenport, through steel roller shutters

Plants that hardly need water obscure

A riotous display of motorcars and humans.

CASH ONLY.

The ATM: The heart and soul.

Electrically alive;

The only polished gem.

Built from sole to brow

On egg, salt, sugar, and flour;

Portuguese pastry, deli meat, and cheese.

Duplicate chocolate cereal boxes

Live in spare real estate.

I see no harm in it.

A man who looks homeless begs cup of coffee from the barista.

She obliges without a word or coin exchanged.

The vice won’t turn him into an abomination,

Water costs nothing in the business.

It’s a gold mine disguised as a salt pile.

Don’t think fiction, just look up and type.

Amongst the 25 cent candy, tattoo, toy machines

Amongst age that lived everything I have learned.

They sit in their leather jackets and Scally caps.

Cigarettes in their front pockets,

Index finger in an espresso mug’s loop.

I sit with white iPod EarPods,

Soaking my perception in underground hip-hop.

iPhone on my hip,

Spliff folded in wallet, tucked in back pocket.

We stand up and depart,

Decades apart.

BJ&K#12

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I hope this thing never breaks;

Slows as it sits on the shelf.

My mind seems to couple words

With the same fervor as the

Dark days in winter.

Dust spelling stories untold,

The radiators are cold,

Drinking beers, watching x-files.

I want to believe.

Let’s watch Mulder bone Scully

Or Seth Rogan; James Franco.

Marshall Mathers cameos.

Is that a real name?

He wears spectacles at night.

He believes in aliens.

You think he’s an alien?

One of those lizard people

The Reptillians.

Sub: Poem#1987(Poetry)

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

All engines burning on Fiction

Lately, I have not written poetry.

It is hard to believe, surrounded

By humans and animals.

 

It is barely spring.

It is barely five.

The smoker outside

Is barely alive.

Children push siblings in carriages

Shaking powdered cinnamon

On tall, light, mocha frappuccinos.

Only differences between daughter and mother

Are stature and amateur body language.

Travel through this painted life

Absorb it into my irises;

Spill it out in ink symbols.

 

Magazines do not accept poems

About writing.

What do you want from us?

My poems reflect my life.

Who am I writing for?

Is it you?

Is it me?