The Last Poet

The last poet sat at his desk,

his muse on the couch, a needle

dangling out of her arm, mouth 

agape, a goner; victim of 

amusement.

Always an outlaw, dying breed,

drowning in the crap called culture

these days.

Who listens anymore, outpaced by

shills of illusion? Beauty takes

a back seat to the dazzle.

“Truth is beauty, beauty truth…”

We knew that before the confusion

of corrupt minds set into our lives;

brainwashed, heartwashed,

soulwasted, mocked by museums.

Get out there and dance, anywhere, 

anytime, before you get dragged down

like the others. Make your own noise,

sing your own songs like your ancestors

did, in spite of their struggles. 

As for me, I’ll be alone, outside the coffee

house, smiling at children, looking at the

joy of fresh lives.