“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.



“When the Poet is Dead”

When the poet is dead

stars will be burning gases

and not homeward diamonds.


When the poet is dead

wonder will wilt into facts

and the facts refuse to blossom wonder.


When the poet is dead

the glittering princess at the ball

weeps after midnight in her ragged, real clothes.


When the poet is dead

the plain, convicting blade has

impaled the lying heart, despite its rosy intentions.


When the poet is dead,

entombed in truth

and buried in reality,

instead of his sensory, invisible wind

blowing lovely, changing letters in time,

only barcode numbers cover his forehead,

only logic, and no rhyme.