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.


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.


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?

Egotistical Payday

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

You’re a writer

If you can put down the pen

Then pick it back up.


Is this art?

Or self-mutilation?

More like endless process.


You need experience for work.

You need work for experience.

It makes my spine hurt.


They told me to go to university

Or I will end up flipping burgers.

Now, burger flipping requires:


Five years working experience,

Bilingual skills,

The completion of an unpaid internship.


We treat money like a human right,

Priced by hours in your life.

I’m a professional fine-dining measure for poison.


If sipping coffee, staining ink into bleached page was a paid gig.

I could don a powdered wig

And light cigarettes with burning Benjamin Franklins.

Summer Spirit

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

The sun hoists on thread line

Suspended above the city skyline.

Goodbye winter

Hello Sunshine.

The change in atmosphere

Brings change in costume.

Roaring down the concrete plume

Wearing lots of skin.

The urban nature is bleary

Yawning in collective awakening.

Directly correlated to the temperature

Come on summer.

Like a marathon runner

Rubber-kneeing through a cumulus line.

Unsteady in the vast blue.

Those Coincidences

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Pack a bowl

Toss two green tea bags

Into my Lee Est. 1763 mug

Set the scorching kettle

Onto the rug

Iron out the wrinkles.


Am I

A permanent refuge?

Are you

A permanent refugee?


At the gym

Watching the built-in elliptical television

Chicago vs. Nets live feed

Garnett slaps his head

The teleprompter reads:

Look at all that sweat!

Half a second after

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs

sing about sweat into my ear

It takes my conscious reflections

To bring them together

It’s brazen to overlook dimensions.


Am I

A permanent refuge?

Are you

A permanent refugee?


I think about you

The next day

Someone’s lips drop

Your name, so my question:

Are we engines of thought

Or driven to cast into a vast ocean?


Am I

A permanent refuge?

Are you

A permanent refugee?

Spare Change

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I want words to live

Not splashed with formaldehyde-

Dried, ink stained into the page.

For me, this shit’s therapy,

Leaking memory

Through metaphors and simile.

Life changes on a dime.

My mind’s sick

A disease makes me write anything upon it.

I open my mouth

Never know what it’s going to be.

Attack the industry

With life blood pen trickles;

Ordered, symbolic ventricles.

It floods my brain.

Let’s maintain this relationship

Of reader and writer.

Watch yourself in these lines like a mirror,

I’ll record my environment.

Together we’ll make it

Through the world

Dime by dime.