The Collective

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

Slowly slipping away

Measured by day

It’s my conscious thought

Or the ability to collect it.

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Natural Instincts

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

There is

The garden you can see

And

The garden under lock and key

Caffeine Engine

Benjamin Jenkins, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, Throwback Thursday, writing

Smoke pours from my crown in the form of conscious thought.

Smoke pours from my lips in the form of a lit cigarette.

Bend in thin alleys and alcoves.

Closed storefronts and bright sparkling coffee shops.

Open the notebook and fall from the world into oblivion.

 

My mind becomes looped in interest,

In the way graphite melds with the white pulp of paper.

In the forming of the letter O

Clockwise vs. counter.

“Operator- can you help me?”

The Grateful Dead in my ears.

The caffeine in my bloodstream:

Oily and clear as Micah enforced by a blue riverbed.

Hot and black as coal endorsed by a green mermaid.

A vowel is a skeleton key.

 

There’s a distracting mechanism on the apple wood table.

Named after a fruit.

Named after temptation.

Show me an array of

Faces and undocumented news.

An endless dictionary, thesaurus, and encyclopedia within my pocket.

Keep the Grateful Dead singing American Beauty.

Connect me with voices wherever we stand if I happen across your thoughts.

I feed its electricity

That glow won’t fade away.

 

The snow begins to swirl brick streets.

The people seek shelter.

Warmth from radiator or alcohol.

Close the notebook, stop drawing letters.

Cap that billowing smoke stack with a black Red Sox hat.

I take advantage of the weather

Move toward work.

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.

The Fear

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

Heavy influence of substances

Stops the thought process.

Heavy influence of caffeine

Keeps me keen.

Write a horrid mass of

Marble-bag words and splatter plots.

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.