“Phoenix Logic”

The flame which burns you

is the flame that warms you.

The dry winter,

chapping soft lips and rugged earth,

gives way to a wet spring

invigorating the nose and breezy air.

Brown bears shuffle

their cramped, clawed carpet feet from

the mouths of oppressively dark dens,

like bold children struggling

from their mothers’ painful cocoons.

The clock on the kitchen wall

ticked too fast during Christmas cheer,

ticked too slow during the blizzard fear,

but now,

the numbers comet from the glass prison

as my freed mind dreams of approaching summer stars.

The river runs smoothly like fresh blood,

pouring into empty tombs of basins.

Poverty digs holes into your hands and money.

Yet poor people know they’ll ascend.

Broken hearts rewind whole

when the eyes catch shattered faces.

Though my red eyes washed themselves in grief,

the restless sick now descend into sleepy healing.

So I think of things like these,

as I lie on my bed,

warring to breathe,

waiting for this endless shadow to finally come.

Yet how is it endless?

Did pain not give to pleasure?

Did laughter not trump weeping?

For every death there is another birth.

My flesh will become warming flame,

for it was fashioned by burning flame.

 

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“The Cogs of the Underworld”

Stony suns engraved in rocky darkness,

the cogs of the underworld turn:

He paper-cuts his thumb at work.

The tiny slash stings red,

a small nuisance.

 

The cogs turn faster:

though the cheesy pizza was good,

his chest gurgles and tightens with acid,

shortening his breathing,

his hand clutching his chest.

 

The cogs turn faster still:

he aims poorly off the snowy slope

and cracks the joint and bone.

The pain waves his flesh,

making him yell in agony.

He flails his hands around the V-shaped leg.

 

The cogs turn even faster;

he’s lost his ten year job,

minor mishap caused it, would you know?

and now mental pressure

squeezes his eyes towards the poor street.

He’s running out of money.

 

The cogs spin rapidly in the black:

his wife leaves him, taking the kids too.

And while he lies on the floor,

the demons of his past taunting him,

tears try to redeem his purpose.

But the angels tread far from him.

 

The cogs turn his life away,

their brutal turning he can’t endure.

Yet his spirit endured the body.

Now he sees the underworld clearly.

And shrieks. And screams. And howls,

His renewed flesh devoured by three-headed teeth.

 

For him, and the unfortunate others,

the cogs of the underworld turn and turn and turn,

a silver speed as fast as eternity.