VOICES FROM THE FIRE: R.M. Engelhardt

Shakespeare,  Kerouac

& Bukowski Are Waiting

And You’re Running Late

(In Memoriam For Gerald)

Everyday

One Poet Enters

Another Exits

Handing Over The Pen

It’s the story of

The world the story of

Words the story

Of what makes a

Poet a human being

And makes a human

Being a poet

To each

Their own voice

To each their own

Gifts to share

We have been

To heaven &

Thru hell

Drank in bars

And fought

For & against

Everything

But in the end

We all walk out

The same door

Beneath the big

Red glowing

Sign that says

“Exit”

ASYLUM

Every morning comes in

Like smoke 

A vision through

The trees

We have wasted

All this beauty

All this precious time

With postcards

From the damned

As memories

As our souls still

Bleed for better days

She was the universe

The black hole

You fell into

That you

Never escaped

But that

Defined you

Forever

GHOST

Like you

I was once

Human

A part of all

Things connected

But now

After these times

After these wrongs

I’m just no longer

Here disappeared

From all my friends

The bars & the big

Bad wolf called

The world

Woven

Now intermingled

With the fabric

Of history

And time

Tragedy

A Non Entity

Just a memory

A stranger

Still

Without an

Obituary

Or a song

Living

Somewhere

But just

Not here

Anymore

GENIUS IS A

DRUNK IN THE BASEMENT

A

Broken Record

Broken poet

Broken song

Something

About the flowers

Something about love

Shufflin a’lone gainst

The night &

The darkness once more

Broken Record

Broken poet

Broken poem

She is

She was

She’s a ghost

She’s the apocalypse

Taking away her burning  love

In a broken world full

Of broken thoughts

Broken words

Lighting up another

Cigarette in the dark

An epiphany

A cliche

Another poem

A

Broken Record

Broken poet

Broken song

What happens

What does that

What hasn’t been

Said that hasn’t

Been sung?

Said?

God is in the trees

God is in the closet

God is all around us

Desiderata

Touch that holy

Veil muther fucker

Touch that veil before

It’s gone

But the devil

Is hanging out

All alone

In the basement

Writing

Poems

Drunk

A

Broken Record

Broken poet

Broken song

And that shit

Is pure genius

Worth more

Than any pushcart prize

Made of gold

For

Genius is just another

Drunk in the basement

Talking to himself

Writing poems

To a bottle of

Gin

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