What if the universe is an open wound, a catastrophe in making? What then? Do we snuggle within the voids between the stars? Do we build our homes in the shambling ruins of dead quasars? Mapping the desire of dust swirling in the bright structures of far nebulae? How should we think the thought of the brain itself being that it too was once a cold star? That every time I smile I am enacting the death of galaxies? Shall I wander among frozen time, passive and alone, gazing on the silence that is almost palpable; or, should I actively participate in the accelerated heat death of this blasted thought? Tell me, who am I? Am I a thought between two voids, a point of decision that cuts the truth from lies of a broken symmetry? How do I expose the emptiness that is? How efface the face that is no one and nothing? Where is the mask to hide this void? Elide the ‘I’ of its burden? To touch another is almost suicide. To kiss the lips of my lover is to suture desire and follow the slitted wound through the middle gap of infinity. The gap is our joy and our horror, the very site of our birth and death. Once exposed to its existence we forever wander the labyrinths of light between great clusters folded among black holes channeling their energy which is our only ever life. Between Being and the Real we all dance laughing like children on the edge of a great Ocean: the sun, moon, and stars cascading with the waves as they spill over our young bodies. Bounded by an infinite sea we joyously dive into the brink knowing our time come round at last when we too shall build our towers among the ruins of stars…
~ S.C. Hickman
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Published by R.M. ENGELHARDT POET AUTHOR WRITER
R.M. Engelhardt is a poet, writer and author who over the last two decades has published over 16 books of poetry including "Nod" "Logos" "Alchemy" & "The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt. The founder of the Upstate NY organization Albany Poets & the Annual Poetry Celebration The Albany Word Fest he has through his ideas & visions helped to contribute a large amount of advocacy and creativity to the Spoken Word~Poetry Capital District scene and is the former host of the long running readings Vox, Propaganda, Listen & currently is creating a new resurrection of one of the area's most well known open mics for poetry and spoken word THE SCHOOL OF NIGHT in Troy, NY held on the last Wednesday evening of each month at the incredible nightclub/speak easy bar THE BERLIN IN TROY NY. His writing has also been published by many journals such as The Rye Whiskey Review, Red Fez, Rusty Truck, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Thunder Sandwich, The Hobo Camp Review, Full of Crow, on the Outlaw Poetry Network & in many many others.
Look for his books "WHERE THE PEOPLE'S VISION PERISHES 2020" "DARK LANDS (2019 on LuLu, Amazon & At Barnes and Noble) The Resurrection Waltz, 2012 ( Infinity Press) & "COFFEE ASS BLUES & OTHER POEMS" ( 2018 Alien Buddha Press 2018) " DarkLands" 2019 & "Where There Is No Vision" 2020 and his new book, "WE RISE LIKE SMOKE" 2021 all on Amazon.com
He is also the Editor of the small independent poetry press DeadMansPressInk.
www.rmengelhardt.com
www.albanypoets.com
www.gentlemanoutsider.com
*All Poems, Writings & Information Contained On This Blog Are The Property & Owned By The Author R.M. Engelhardt. © 2021
www.rmengelhardt.com
View all posts by R.M. ENGELHARDT POET AUTHOR WRITER
What if the universe is an open wound, a catastrophe in making? What then? Do we snuggle within the voids between the stars? Do we build our homes in the shambling ruins of dead quasars? Mapping the desire of dust swirling in the bright structures of far nebulae? How should we think the thought of the brain itself being that it too was once a cold star? That every time I smile I am enacting the death of galaxies? Shall I wander among frozen time, passive and alone, gazing on the silence that is almost palpable; or, should I actively participate in the accelerated heat death of this blasted thought? Tell me, who am I? Am I a thought between two voids, a point of decision that cuts the truth from lies of a broken symmetry? How do I expose the emptiness that is? How efface the face that is no one and nothing? Where is the mask to hide this void? Elide the ‘I’ of its burden? To touch another is almost suicide. To kiss the lips of my lover is to suture desire and follow the slitted wound through the middle gap of infinity. The gap is our joy and our horror, the very site of our birth and death. Once exposed to its existence we forever wander the labyrinths of light between great clusters folded among black holes channeling their energy which is our only ever life. Between Being and the Real we all dance laughing like children on the edge of a great Ocean: the sun, moon, and stars cascading with the waves as they spill over our young bodies. Bounded by an infinite sea we joyously dive into the brink knowing our time come round at last when we too shall build our towers among the ruins of stars…
