OLD SOUL
An old jukebox is playing
Tom Waits as the smell of beer
And cigarette smoke
Permeates the bar
The patrons, the drinkers
Are old and now I am
Have, become one
Of them as
The days of light
Electricity & destruction
Punk rock & single living are now
Over & as the words take over
And possess the pen
As the ink transforms thoughts
Bourbon into
Something someone
Else
The unknown man
The unknown poet
Left with an old soul
Just writing a poem
In some dark place
Or darker corner
On napkins
Outside & behind the walls of
The always boring &
Casually observed
The popular &
Pop culture writers &
The 5-minute celebrities
Of the world
All supposedly living on
Some lost & lonely planet called
Earth
Where
I am no man
No memory
Or of any place
Or time
At all
Where I am merely the
Drunk priest in black who
The city sings to at night
And the sound that is
Beneath you
& beneath your
Howl your heart & soul
The truth
That no one wants to
Hear or think about
Anymore
And I no longer have
A young man’s eyes or
Some epic poem love or
An epiphany to share
And I don’t give a shit about
Your politics
Television or the news
Because as always
Death & history
Always repeat
And always remain
The same
Hand in hand
Forever
So I don’t pretend to be a
Prophet or
Something I am not
And I am not interested
In attempting to save the
World or
In creating the next great
Literary movement
Of fools
But for those of you
Who do?
Gee
That’s swell
But my gods
My muses
Still walk
Still dwell
Still scream
In another
Century
Who tell me
Whisper to me
That in the end of
All ends nothing is left
But your words
Your soul
Burned &
Weathered through
Ink blood & paper
The years &
The experience
Of time
Alone
And we
The poets
Are only
The dust
That remains
Behind
Another
Old soul
At the end
Of the world
At the end of
The bar
Writing for
No one anymore
But himself
Some memories that I am always reminded of around this time of the year and on Halloween in this new edition of The Half Dead Poet Review:
