THE UNNECESSARY ANGEL OF POETRY

THE UNNECESSARY ANGEL OF POETRY

One-day
Soon after the glamor had faded

The sun ate all her flowers
Her milk & honey

As Taylor toured America
Inspiring poetic amnesia
To kids

As old poems & memories
Died hard & rotted in their graves

The dirt

All lost to a McGeneration
Without focus

Without hope

Rhyming incoherently
Attempting consciousness

As someone random
An unremarkable wannabe
In Chicago in 1984 gave
A young genius, the next
Shakespeare “A Five”

Never to return to the mic
Again or write again

Taking the despair of a 9 to 5 job
Employed by hopelessness as
Dreams die hard due to arrogance
& the lack of true spirit

True words
&
True soul

Oh and where o where
Have you been published?
Said the old poet who
Didn’t quite fit in

As the children all laughed
Never knowing that their
McOverused McGimmick will never even
Be remembered

Seeking temporary glory
& fame, applause and few dollars

Upon a stage

HEY!

Who’s Wallace Stevens?

Who’s read Keats?

Have you ever even heard of Walt Whitman?!

They all looked puzzled
Appearing almost as smart
As Kanye West

Trying to actually seem smart
But couldn’t even find the words

After they had already paid $20.00 at the door
With the loss of more
Than ever won

But now?

To them it’s still all a MCcontest

The longing to be a gangsta or
Rapper but not a poet

No

Not a poet

Or a writer

(Eminem had no comment)

And Tupac
Who was a true poet, a writer
Died from too much exposure

In real time
In his end

As the hordes & whores
Of Instablab saw dollar signs
And created false
Celebrities

Overnight

And although
All these years have
Passed

Revolution & evolution
Are merely the ideas
Of a commercial enterprise

As the true voices continue
To fight for the light, the ground which
They had lost

As the unnecessary angel
Now sits in a posh expensive McOffice
Somewhere in Los Angeles

Looking for the next fad
To make a bundle on

Has never actually opened
A book of poetry or a poetry journal
In his life

Throws them out
If received

As Henry Rollins
& Lydia Lunch
Said it best

As Sun Ra
& Artaud
Created genius
In its wake

That the words
The poem is the all
And the everything

Try not to
Fuck it up

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2024