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



My long dead
Animal spirit
Doesn’t give
2 shits about your
Drama, symbols, politics
Pornographic presidents
Or clever displays

In my dialect
A long lost forgotten language
Of primitive signs  smoke filled
Bars, cigarettes, man caves  &
Sun gods on vacation
Riding old motorcycles

Into the dusk

The last of my tribe
Who share these
Ancient memories of
The earth the trees
And the sky &
Of getting laid
On a Saturday night

& Open

The zine ?
Now the only
True bible
True words which still
Remain sacred

Once again overthrown
By the domestication
Of the human race
A totem left here & there
For posterity’s sake

But the voices
Will always
Stay as they
Travel upon
The wind

Never extinct
Not yet
Not ever
As long as
We remain





“That’s the god damn problem with Albany, NY” She said.

“There are too many fucking poets “

In the city

Where I was born

They tore it all down

So many times

That we all forgot.

Because you see

I was born

In a place

Where the lives get

Lines and the stories

Become lives

Of their own.

Full of gangsters

And politicians, low

Dealers and the cops

Gotham city at it’s finest

Without a single hero

To write about it

Except us.

Because we’re just the fucking poets

And because were not the fucking law

And we are only here to tell the stories

Because this is all we own

Because we’re

The poets & the outcasts

And the makers of the songs

And the leftover soul of a city

That’s heading for a fall

And if Jesus came tomorrow

And if God closed the pearly gates

We’d still all just be the poets

Writing poems till the end of days

And we don’t write for glory

And we don’t write for time

We just write because we have to

Without a rhythm or a rhyme

So even if you leave here

Or you meet a sad demise

Remember that you’re a poet

And that’s just enough to survive


 Without the words?

It all means nothing

At all

And the poets

Will always be welcome