The Last Real Poet

The Last Real Poet By R.M. Engelhardt


The last real poet
Sits alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
Around the age of 95

Still alive

But they all forgot about him
Years Ago

The prizes
The many lives many
Loves he had once

His memory fades
From time to time
Unsure if it was all real

Meeting Kerouac
Was just like yesterday
Reading upon the stage
Drinking beers & whiskey
Meeting all the Beatniks &

Ginsburg was just
A smart kid, Corso a punk
Who swore alot
And clammored
For everyone’s attention


He remembers
The applause and the hip
Hot beautiful girl with long brown
Hair who took him home
That night

Only to receive
A long distance call
From her nine months


What gives?

Where’s the

He wrote
And wrote
And wrote

Was published
His books now rare

Recieves letters
Every now & then
From college kids
Who found one of
His books at a library dollar
Sale, praising him
As a genius, a poet

But the literary cannon

Never cares
Or gives in
Or gives a shit

Beauty or sadness
Street poets or
Madness or unformalist

Far too consumed
With the fear of
Honesty, cancel
Culture or a frightful

When most
Of his kind are
All dead

His legacy
Torn from the days
The pages of true
Freedom & non censorship

We were all labeled ” Communists”
For publishing

The Truth


Martin Luther King
And at Jack’s
Grave the same

The world
His words helped
To create only
To be betrayed
By all those hippies
Who traded in their love
For the mighty dollar


But we can’t
Publish you

Your work
Just doesn’t
Seem to fit

We just want
To hear another
Version of the same old
Shit we just published
Last week

“Fuck Off”

His rough voice says

Fuck. Off.

With your
Boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Do you have a Facebook?
An Instagram?

Fuck no.

Is meant to live
Upon the page

And not
On some ridiculous
Flavor of the month
TV screen

Takes a shot
Of whiskey

Goes to sleep

And dreams

Where he and
Mingus are
Shooting pool
In a NYC dive bar

He smacks
Some faux celebrity
Writer in the head
Smoking a diva stick

For talking too much

And being

The last real poet
Sat alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
And last night he died
Around the age of 95

A small obituary
Appeared in the NY Times

And thousands
Of writers & poets
On their computers
Put up memorials with
His poems claiming

He was a genius
And I’ve read all
His books

Two months later
Appeared in all the

Published by
The boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Who bought
All the rights
To his life

With the sales pitch:

He was friends with Kerouac
And Bukowski before Bukowski

He was The Last Real Poet

Buried now

In an unassuming pauper’s


~ R.M. Engelhardt

An Interview With Albany’s Nippertown, July of 2021

Let’s be honest.

2021 was not the best of year’s for many of us with covid still rampant as well as for many of us still stuck working from home. But for me there were a few bright spots. Jai & I were able to create many new books for Poets & Authors at DeadMansPressInk & create a brand new open mic at The Fuzebox. One of the best moments for me was an interview with Jim Gilbert & Nippertown about my latest book ” We Rise Like Smoke Poems Psalms & Incantations Published by DeadMansPressInk. Dedicated to our girl, our cat Cordelia we lost in April. Life isn’t the same without her.

Best to you & yours in the coming New Year.


An interview with Jim Gilbert of Nippertown with poet R.M. Engelhardt about the Upstate New York Poetry Scene and about his new book ” We Rise Like Smoke Poems Psalms & Incantations” Published by DeadMansPressInk Now Available on Amazon 2021.

Nippertown Interview With R.M. Engelhardt

DeadMansPressInk & The School of Night Newsletter

To many of those of you who follow or read my work there are only a few that are aware that I run, along with my friend and coeditor Hex M’ Jai a small independent poetry press known as DeadMansPressInk as well as a page called The School of Night Newsletter which promotes the teachings & mysteries, articles and rituals of magic. DeadMansPressInk has a very fun & all inclusive popular group for poets called POETS WHO HATE POETS ON FACEBOOK which has been growing day by day and allows writers & poets to share their work in a safe, secure atmosphere of respect and humor with an eternal ” no trolls allowed” policy.

I hope that if you are a writer who would like to publish your book of pagan based poems ( we also are interested in noir, the occult & the macabre) that you will send us your manuscript or join our group to just enjoy people’s work and share your own. Find us on Facebook as well as Instagram.

Many Thanks. Join Us.

~ R.M. Engelhardt Editor DeadMansPressInk
The School of Night Newsletter



God died
The other day
Or at least the
Media said so

He had a great
Career, a few number
1 hits and a fan club
Back in the day

I turned to
My wife after
Reading of his
Demise on
Facebook and

“Wasn’t he dead already?”

~ © R.M. Engelhardt/2019







You want to be a poet?


Then stand in line


Because just like every other damn poet

That ever came before you

You’ll have to write


And Twitter, Tumblr, Fumblr

Whatever, will never save

Your sorry ass


And the Pushcart Prize?

They won’t reward you

For writing a Facebook

Status that’s poetic


And just like

Emily, no one no

Publisher will ever

Come knocking

At your door

Looking for your poems


So listen;


Because there is no new

Jack Kerouac, no new Bukowski

And no new Poe


And Shakespeare?


He threw down his pencil

A longtime ago after Marlowe

Bought the farm


So just like all of the most

Famous poets of old expect

No compliments, no fortune

And no dough and learn how

To live on noodles


And believe me

When I say that

When you tell Mom & Dad

That you want to be

A poet someday?


Don’t expect them to

Embrace you or let you

Ever move back home again


Because remember


That this is the life that you chose

And if you ever finally find

Finally write that one piece

That one amazing epiphany

That says it all and that says

Everything and that has the

Power to knock the world

On its ass?


Then maybe one day

You’ll be able to look

In the mirror and say


It was all worth it.



Follow My Page On Facebook …

Follow The Words …

R.M. Engelhardt Poet

Like The Book? Support It On Facebook.

Then join the new “Resurrection Waltz” Book Page On Facebook !


~ R.M.


The Queen Of Hearts


They say in Deadwood

Hickok’s final hand included the aces &

eights of both black suits,

A Deadman’s Hand, a 5 card draw

And that death came with it,

But in life it all depends

Upon the cards

That you are dealt.

For I’ve seen the world thru

A narrow glass,

An empty glass

And a terrible glance

That revealed all the best &

The worst…

The worst oh love

The worst kind of chance

In life.

For you can dance with the devil

In the pale moonlight,

You can save & save and work

all your life. And hope… And pray or

Spend. But either way the man

Will come a knocking soon

No matter what… in the end.

For your life can be a million things but

It all depends on you.

For luck is only half the game,

And the rest is up to you.

Because the truth?

Is that you are not

Completely, supremely, or eternally fucked or

Somehow destined to self destruct

But everyone you love will fall in the end

No matter what you do.

So the best kind of dance?

Your best card to chance?

Is always the ace of hearts.

For this, these words are both

A warning and a blessing,

A little bit of wisdom from a man

Whose words will stay true.

That your mind & heart

Must find a chart to

Plot your course upon.


Find a love thats

True, find a soul thats real

And that will never let you down.

And that heart my friend

Is your ace.

So no matter what?

Treat her right.

Rich or poor

Old or young

Thru good times or bad.

 Because all life really

Is based upon on how you play the cards

And the winner always

Takes all…


R.M. Engelhardt 2011