Tonight on television
there is an actor talking about his battle with
drug addiction, sex addiction and life.
You would think that by the way
the host is interviewing him
that he is wise & worldly, an
ancient sage from his
battle with the curse
And there are a billion lights
in the great big city, a million lives
that get up everyday and go to work like
everybody else. And their addiction is food,
their addiction is rent and how to somehow
get thru the next day and make sure that
their children are dressed, educated & well-fed.
So the question is is that when you
look at the world do you see a gift? Or do you see an
enemy? Do you have faith or do you pretend that
all of these famous people are like you or your friends?
The constant partying,
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Preferred Flowers for funeral… Or one flower only please;
Kennedia … Angelica…Lilac or Iris
And upon said date of expiration,
Please inscribe names of said flowers upon heart, mind & soul
Category…. In Word Media
Lost poets, minor poets, local poets, major poets
DEAD poets living poets no longer in print, paper, journals but on inter-net
Ether-net under new title “another dead white guy” who wrote
Who isn’t so dead anymore… but still wearing black,
Who perhaps just pulled a disappearing act
Or a mystery which you cannot “unravel”
So look for these clues;
Search under true lives, true words & true lines,
Where there are no excuses, false critics or liars
Look for open minds & what matters most.
Burn past, burn history burn intensely into
New realm of being… dream.
Search for her & that’s where you will find
EGO voveo delecto vos insquequo
terminus of meus dies.
~ R.M. Engelhardt
Silent whereas no one
Gives a “shit.”
Whereas a single voice or one still moment in
its measure linger,
This message, “unrecieved.”
Where no amount of time, wine-roses or memories can heal.
As human falls, fails broken, out of reason.
Long letters written, months recorded days, photographs and longings,
And unrelenting dreams.
The cold earth, this cold world
Which still compels,
The embodiment or abandonment, of spirit.
Where all of your magnificent angels have flown, and have now fallen below,
To the pavement.
Love, no longer a poem but only a word,
Too slow to process.
Poet, out of time place and season.
In thy soul, thy breaking heart obscured, silent.
Whereas no one gives a “shit.”
This message “unrecieved.”