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?


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.

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.