The Outside World

writing

As you get older the more things change – for the better or for the worse. Sometimes being a writer and becoming somewhat of an self-isolationist is like being in a sanctuary and finding your true self, your true voice and words. The outside world never goes away. It will always be there.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

Write.

Inspiration Poetry
Follow inspiration, not popularity.
Write from the soul, not for the world.
~ R.M. Engelhardt
WRITE.
Manifest power in words.
Write poetry.
Name your own humanity.
Ponder creation thru inner meaning.
Find hidden voices in the universal consciousness of soul.
Find yourself, and then return again.
Poetry is the sacred religion
Of both time & space older than
Civilization itself.
Poetry is dead.
Poetry is living.
Poetry is everything.
Poetry is a language
Unto itself that is understood.
Poetry will never die
It will still appear in places
Long after you are dust
So write.
That’s all.
That’s it.
Write.
~ R.M. Engelhardt

Notice

NOTICE

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

Tequila
Poetry
& Open
Mics

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

Poetry
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

Logos

Being A Poet

Picsart2017-07-11--19-33-00“Being a poet isn’t something you are or choose. It’s something that happens to you at irregular intervals and with no guarantee it will happen again. You can disregard it when it does happen but you can’t turn it on. All you can do is wait.”

~ Margaret Atwood

Too Many Cigarettes Can Cause A Revolution

Picsart2017-08-10--18-10-43.jpg

 

Too Many Cigarettes Can Cause A Revolution

If you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.
It’s happened before for I am no stranger. I walk this weary world alone this mortal coil looking for whatever may be a truth, love oh God a love of God’s of flesh & blood & tribulation when there’s nothing else left. But I am no man of God but just a man of words and cigarettes, whiskey and poetry. Another madman who creates worlds with his pen. Sits in bars, places for hours waiting for the muse to guide me down my ancient path. My church is unknown to you and all you men of commerce you men of wealth and destruction and greed. I keep my one good eye upon you, watch you in all your darkness trying to hide your symphony of dalliances’ and crimes. Your sins against mankind. Your hands in the money pot your hands in wars and death and disease. You never see me but I’m there. Waiting. Waiting with words and my one true voice to take down you and yours your corrupt kingdoms your self made reputations and to judge you as you falsely judge me and mine. The poor and the working people. The starving masses and the rest of the world seeking sanctuary from far away lands. This is America. This is what humanity once meant and stood for. You’ve destroyed it. Used it. Used us and have filled up your pockets with lies and green. A green that the starving shall never see. You’re monsters and not people. Corporations and not our country tis of thee.
So I light up another cigarette and I make notes in my journal. And in my mind I send you on your way to hell with a smile and no regrets. You can ignore me but there are thousands like me. Me and mine. The people you despise, the people whose beliefs and lives don’t matter to you. But we’re waiting. We’re not leaving you are and we’re staying. No matter how many times you poison the well no matter how many stories that your cronies’ manufacture. We’re Americans. We’re the people who bust our asses everyday so garbage like you can live in castles. We are the slaves without a mention we are the tools with masters  unseen. Too many cigarettes can make you see the truth. Too many voices can cause a revolution. A revolution of words. A revolution of the light we shed upon you.

So if you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.

But we aren’t ready we won’t go we won’t leave.

Not until we’ve burned you down

To nothing

See you in hell. Have a nice trip.

a leaf a stone an un found door

WP_20170805_001 (2).jpg“. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother’s face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father’s heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

O waste of lost, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this weary, unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.

 

Thomas Wolfe,  Look Homeward, Angel