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Ben Heins
Ben Heins is an avid reader and writer of poetry, mentored by the late Dr. Len Roberts. His work has appeared in several publications over
the past three years, including
White Pelican Review and Wild Violet, and his poem "Stone's Weight"  took first place in the Lindsay R.
Hannah Poetry Contest in April, 2007. His writing group, The Winged Poets, have been meeting regularly since 2005.   In 2008, Ben earned
a BA in professional writing with a minor in English literature from Kutztown University. He is currently enrolled in a poetry MFA program at
Rosemont College.
Ben Is

I have seen the greatest minds of my generation drunken, self-conscious, texting
non-stop, and I'm not on Facebook, so I'm dead like you
and Tupac and Elvis, lol-ing in the Caribbean, and not

fantasizing about pistol-whipping kids in Chuck-E-Cheese
because they're in MySpace; I'm not Tweeting with twats, not blogging on bullshit,
I've had it with BlackBerrys and Bluetooths and Warcraft and YouTube and lights – Jesus
Christ! –
you wouldn't believe how many red lights you see.

Len, things have changed since you've been gone.

but nvm im dun wit dat im lmao nd im not goin back
u can take nd take ur tmrw away nd ill b back anthr day

I've disappeared, I'm in the forest behind Dave's house,
I'm 12 again and burning plastic army men, black thumbs, black
feet, I'm swinging unbreakable reeds
in that strange bamboo patch that Pennsylvania didn't think could live and grow,
the one they cut down years ago –

that I was not 24; I was all of my years at once.
That there was no light – not one – in that box,

and just as I spoke my mind, I was proven wrong;
just as I reached for you,
the oak trees were mere toothpicks in the cosmos.

(for L.R.)

Where squirrels left nuts in the glovebox,
the driver's manual and old napkins,
pillows suddenly left behind.
Trunk hood open, birds' nest in the hatchback.
Good sleeping space for raccoons,
once they pulled the splintered glass
to get in that sweet spot, the way-in-the-back,
where ragweed pokes through the sunroof.
A bee hive in the engine block, exit down,
where headlights saw too much;
a mosquito troupe nestled in the exhaust pipe.
And deer, curious, gnaw the brake lines,
though these things cannot be blamed on them –
axles like dandelions, heads bent,
float toward the fall light.

I think some day
I'll write a poem
for you about this
pink room; this
space you've closed –
but it's too much
to compose, and who
reads love poems
these days anyway?

Dazed, naked, I lay
on a plastic mattress,
watch you rise,
wrap the beat-up
bathrobe around
sweat and funk
and skin that tastes
like Italian food,
nipples sharp, hard,
I wait for you
because I'm scared
of everything
outside – my full-
time job, the endless
Turnpike – I'm all
alone outside this

pink room; this
space you've closed –
a poem, cocooned, left
to that unknown place –
I grow jealous of
that long robe,
and when I am
just cold enough,
untied, you come.