To answer your question, Jimi: no, I am not experienced.
some days I am both the joker and thief
lying to myself hiding
within
my hands cradling
the stacked stones collecting their dust
hands which hold no instrument nothing
to press violently into speaker
to smash and burn summon
the smoke from flames
the steam of kettle
even that whistle a song
a morning of guitar
fastened around you
at breakfast at tea
me in my bed again
flat and still
as a fixture
sightless as a box
so just another morning honestly
can you hear the howling?
how do your fingers
control such distortion
blues bent to rock
my day bent to voices
and too-quick breath,
too-violent trembling
and paranoia my swollen
knuckles and nails too long
did you still play when scared
scared even for your black life? scarred
and falling from the haze?
I guess there’s a score to this chaos
like a garden trimmed to look
as if natural—
how about that?
how about living so hard
your name is an experience?
what would die in you with
a collapse of fingers?
what died in us when
you died?
I guess there must be
some kind of way out of here
I press my knuckles to teeth
and pretend they sing
Marlin M. Jenkins was born and raised in Detroit and is a poetry student in University of Michigan’s MFA program. His writings have been given homes by The Collagist, Bennington Review, The Journal, and The Offing, among others. You can find him online at marlinmjenkins.tumblr.com and @Marlin_Poet.