Of Ghosts, Dust & Forgotten Poems: R.M. Engelhardt

I have long since disappeared from these places. Time speaks and all I have left is gone where meaningless gestures from strangers in a foreign land signify nothing, the circle once more revolving and unfolding the mysteries of sleep. And everything, macrocosm and microcosm, has merely become a dream. Dead sonnets and broken memories. Lost words and disintegrated photographs. Here they say it’s easy to become “dust”
Tonight I have awakened you alone once more. I walked through you’re house and you screamed, you’re once beautiful brown hair now white with years, your heart still missing in all the wrong and familiar places. What are you now? 65? 70? You cursed me and swore that you would never let me in again. Was I supposed to be there? Afterall, you were the one who called me, and all I did was answer. So what’s worse than a suicide? I know. To live day after day after day in the misery and pain that you created
For yourself.
Beneath The Waking Sea

Beneath the waking sea a man pauses and dreams and says I am and could be, and yet there is nothing. Too much violence and too much hate to comprehend, too much disease and sickness to defeat. For this is the restlessness of one’s own immaturity, knowing that without imagination that all these days seem to mingle and blend and that we become lost. And yet it is not enough to merely be or to live beneath the waking sea, for there is a moment, a wave which must take you and carry you away when a man knows his purpose & his purpose for being when he becomes
“And there is a strange beauty in destruction and time ravages all of us in its wake.”
Detective Noir

It was dark after midnight and in the distance the dogs were barking loudly outside in the cold where his car was parked in front of your apartment building on Manning.
And I thought about how much you loved me, words now left
And uneasily spoken beneath the dim streetlights and the windows downtown where at about one a.m. all yours went out.
And he, got into his sports car and left around seven,
Looked right at me, through me, never knowing how close death was in the mourning of everything  lost.
I lit up another cigarette and walked home just as
the rain was beginning to fall.

Love Or Darkness?
Once, when younger I dreamed of you in visuals, brain-scattered images where I would catch a brief glimpse of you touching face and hands smiling voice melodious and beautiful streaming, kissing chasing a destiny myself that never came. You would walk suddenly and unexpectedly into offices, coffeehouses, libraries, restaurants and cafes, down the streets of the momentary fragment and into the crowded bars. You would dance wildly moving and your long hair would gently brush across your shoulders and it would sing lullabies lightly against your lips & breasts your eyes following mine in concert this connection blood for blood and wine for wine together. And like a motherless child from time to time you would follow me and ask me for forgiveness when the darkness came at night, and as the years passed by my answer was once gone it never returns.
It is said that once you love, truly love that you shall love forever and that that emotion never dies. But unlike you I have always known this simple truth: that heroes are made for falling no matter what they do.

I remember now,
I remember you and I ask
Myself why even bothered
To care
To let myself believe you
To let myself feel you trusted you
Here inside where
Once everything was dead
Didn’t you see the sign that said
“Do not open?”
Didn’t you care?
Selfish and foolish
There wasn’t any power
That you could have gained from this
But as I ‘ve now heard from many others
Inflicting a little bit of pain never
Stopped you from getting what you want
But the box my love, you shouldn’t have opened
Because inside of it was my heart.
1.   If it all doesn’t make sense anymore than what do we have left?
2.   What’s left.
Perhaps there is a history, an unexplainable riddle about
A man who eats too much albatross,
And a woman who drinks too much bleach.
A man who is waiting in Casablanca
And the woman who always leaves
All in the name of great drama.
And chivalry my friends, is the heart disease of idiots,
And the last vestige of her ice-cunt logic that convinced him
That it’s possible that temples can be built upon sewers
And that honesty never saved anyone…
From themselves.


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