“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it burn the fire in my veins

and overcome these years of doubt and pain

and start removing death’s ominous mask?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it bring me  flames and blood and sex,

remove this vile demon’s vexing hex

and raise me from this bed of dust and ash?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it spread my wings to flap again?

How long will this dark, dreary winter last?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

When will it blaze, ignite my life and pen?

“When will the Phoenix fly again?” I ask.

Now I’m gonna bring the hellfire

like a dragon launching the apocalypse.

The fire of fighting and fucking and drugs and shitstorms.

The fire of lightning and death.

The fire of that passionate sex,

that ass slapping pounding piercing

pain and ecstasy all rolled into one

mind numbing heart pounding eye closing

orgasm of bleeding crying loving screaming

suffering and joy and sorrow and anger.

The fire of burning pot and psychedelic synesthesia.

Flaming hot lights and glowing skin shards,

screaming colors and shining sounds,

magical rainbow tastes and white hot smells.

The fires of outlaw thought and rebel souls

feeling the heat burning from stars

at the edges of the avant-garde universe

expanding into galaxies

imploding into black holes

that suck in all matter and light and thought and feeling

and explosions of flame and simmering love

and infinite ecstatic sound

shouts and screams and moans

the shining light of inner presence

the joy of ecstasy

the crack of pain,

the fires of life and death.

If I were to write a poem,

it would be about pain and suffering,

heartbreak and loneliness.

It would have similes and metaphors

comparing things to dead leaves,

bleached bones in the desert,

rust and ash, darkness and dust.

It would be about

how I no longer believe in love

or life or God

or even death.

It would be about me smoking myself to death

while I fall asleep watching old Dr Who reruns,

alone and lonely,

friendless, sexless,

lifeless, deathless.

It wouldn’t be the sort of poem you’d want to read

unless you’re a depressed masochist

with a death wish

like me.

So since I wouldn’t want to subject anyone

to that shit,

that awful poem,

it’s probably best

if I just don’t write one.

I’ve been broken for so long

like a bug squashed but not killed,

and I’m limping and struggling,

bleeding out all over the pavement,

but somehow still alive.

Theres no way to fully heal from this;

I’ll never be whole again.

And I wonder if a half-squashed bug

has an imprint of the foot that stepped on it

not only on its body,

but in its tiny bug mind.

I wonder if that’s all it can think about,

that one sole thought,

one thought repeating over and over

until its death,

or would that make it too human?

I lost my counterfeit dream,

the suburban life

of wife and kids and mini vans,

of picket fences and Sunday school,

of a comfy bed, clean white sheets,

school and soccer

and hand-me-down clothes.

I lost my life,

my sex, my meaning.

I lost my fun, my purpose.

And I’m spinning like a top,

lost like a puppy

wandering in a dark forest,

though I’m an old dog

entering my autumn years,

my twilight,

the curtain call.

I’m hoping I have more

than just memories left.

Pictures covered in dust.

Pictures of the dead.

Pictures of hopes and dreams

unfulfilled.

I hope there’s one more poem in me,

one more novel,

one taste of love.

The poker game’s over,

my cards are on the table,

and I lost

and my chips are gone,

and I’m waiting alone,

hoping I can make

one last buy-in,

take one last shot

with a revolver with one bullet left,

and I’m hoping that shot

isn’t at my own head.

Rosalie, Rosalie,

I’m running for you, Rosalie.

Through scorching heat

and pounding wind,

uphill, downhill,

out and in,

when early morning shadows

roam fast and free,

I’m running for you, Rosalie.

Rosalie, Rosalie,

I’m running for you, Rosalie.

Whether it’s three miles,

seven or ten,

through streets and alleys,

fields and glens,

through the pouring rain,

torrential seas,

I’m running for you, Rosalie.

Rosalie, Rosalie,

I’m running for you, Rosalie.

I’ll never stop,

never slow,

never give up

when the going’s slow,

when the pain sets in,

when it stings and bleeds,

I’m running for you, Rosalie.

I never thought it would be like this. The pain is minimal. But it’s so cold. And I can’t breathe. I gasp and gasp but no air is getting to where it’s supposed to be. There’s something missing somewhere. The physical pain is minimal, but the mental and emotional pain is unbearable. I should have had more time. More time to love my kids. More time to build a new life. More time to find myself. But she took all of that away from me. When she pointed at my chest and I felt the thud before I heard anything.

I didn’t believe

in past lives

and future lives,

other dimensions

with their kaleidoscopic universes

all happening at the same time

like infinite funhouse mirrors.

I didn’t believe

until now.

This life is my purgatory.

I’m always waiting for something,

always looking towards the horizon,

at the sunset reflected in the ocean

with its orange and pink clouds

spreading through the sky

like loving arms

I can never quite reach.

This life is pain and heartbreak.

In previous lives

or future lives

or other dimensions,

maybe you and I were in love.

Maybe I held you in my arms

and knew you wouldn’t be gone in a heartbeat.

Maybe I looked into your eyes

and saw my own looking back at me

and maybe we smiled

like we did in this one

so many times,

but maybe in that one

we kissed.

But not in this life.

In this life I waited

like a lonely beach

with waves crashing,

lightning flashing

in the distance;

a harbinger

of wet and windy doom.

Maybe in one of those other lives

out there in other times,

other dimensions

I’m happy.

Maybe I’m publishing novels.

Maybe I don’t have to worry

about how four young mouths

are going to be fed.

Maybe I don’t have the weight of the world

on my breaking shoulders.

But not this life.

This is the life

where I scratch and claw and bleed.

This is a life of jail cells

and therapy and insane asylums.

This is the life of drugs and alcohol.

This is the loveless, sexless life.

This is the life

where I always need something

to help me forget.

This is the life where I’m always walking,

always running,

but never reaching any sort

of true destination.

This is the gray life,

the life of endless hallways,

the life of haze and fog,

the deathbed life

where the end never comes.

Maybe in one of those other lives

out there in other times,

other dimensions

I’m happy.

Maybe I’ve arrived.

Maybe I’m alive

and not this undead,

half dead mess.

But not in this life;

this life is my purgatory.

How do you bottle up the wind

or stop the ocean tides?

How do you catch light in your hand

to throw at the impeding shadows?

How do you dance

on the cliff ledge without falling?

How do you hide from the sun

on a scorching summer day?

How do you keep water

from filling whatever vessel it enters?

How do you hug a soul,

embrace a spirit,

hold hands with pure energy?

Perhaps it’s best just to watch

the butterflies dance in the sky

rather than risk

erasing the beautiful color.