The Phoenix rose into the sky
And blazed so bright
The sun turned its eye.
The moon spun in delight
For finally the sun knew the taste of the night.

In fiery fury did that Phoenix fly free.
The taste of heaven its to sample,
The winds calling it to be.
Its joy was ample,
Its song beautiful in flight.

He flew unto the mountains
To taste the morning dew.
Sparkling lights from his plumage in fountains,
Little flames that rose and flew.
And everything was right.

Its indomitable spirit brought joy to the land,
Yet sorrow to the more covetous soul
That couldn't have him on hand,
And death if they could not capture their goal.
The Phoenix learned to fight.

So he faced their persecution and contumely,
Their arrows like a storm,
Their drive all consuming,
Their hate the norm,
And their numbers like a blight.

Their attacks wounded and even brought him to the ground.
But in a fiery blaze he always rose,
Reborn and not a scar to found,
Returning to the wind's currents and flows,
Outshining the daylight.

In icy lands one day he soared
When a songless tune tookwing.
He searched, adventured, the winds they roared
As he sought the owner of this tune to sing;
No one lay in sight.

The winds buffeted
And the Phoenix tossed and tumbled.
Tailspinning as the winds parleyed,
Into a valley he stumbled,
His landing narrow and tight.

In this valley lay the quarry at hand:
An ice elemental of purest blue.
She swayed and she danced and sang across the land,
Her laugh like windchimes and her voice true.
So the Phoenix let his voice alight.

The delighted elemental joined along
And they played and frolicked in joy,
Friendship made in song.
The Phoenix flighty and the elemental coy,
Raging flame temperedby cold's fierce bite.

They journeyed and traveled in wonder.
Where one dare not the other paved the way
Their compliment tore previous limits asunder
And made wonderfull each new day.
Their bond a happy fright.

But nothing lasts forever,
And shadows dwell wherever
The light shines free.
Thus came the darkness inevitably.
It stole the elemental away
Bringing an end to their play.

Then, did the Phoenix know sorrow;
Bitter, painful, dimming the light of tomorrow.
Then, did the Phoenix know anger,
With wrathful thought to linger.
And with determination did the Phoenix fly
Into the realm where darkness lie.

Once was there did battle engage
As torrents of flame flew with righteous rage.
The darkness stabbed and slew, bringing much harm
But the Phoenix rose again and again to face the swarm
And the darkness cloaked him in endless night,
Yet the Phoenix prevailed with blinding sight.

The battle won, hard fought,
As the darkness scattered did he see what he sought.
There lay his elemental fatally struck,
Phyrric victory claiming his luck.
And in the air rose a beautiful song
A sorrowful lament that played ever long.

And those who heard it wept,
Tears spilling from their eyes.
Heartache as they slept,
And sorrow in their cries.
They knew the Phoenix no longer alive,
For life doesn't exist where a broken heart may thrive.

A mother is still crying in Ferguson, Missouri tonight.
There's no media coverage though.
They are all in Charleston.
Tomorrow, they will be somewhere else.
Once the cameras get turned off, and the microphones put away,
      the story does not end.
There is still a father crying in Ferguson, Missouri tonight.

There are children crying in Minneapolis tonight.
There are dozens of young children walking
      the hallways of their school, and searching
        for a man that will never walk them again.
There are still tears in Minneapolis tonight.

There are smoke and tears in Charleston tonight,
There is rage and exposed indignity.
There is corruption, and a systemic virus that
    we all pretended was over on July 2nd, 1964.
The fight is not over.
But tomorrow, the cameras will be gone, and there will still be tears,
     in Charleston.

With so many tears, it's amazing the entire establishment hasn't just
      been washed away, by a salt-water flood.

I'm a slave to my hair, my hair is a construct of ego, ego is a construct of superego, superego is a construct of id and id begs for release -
Water and space and light and room to live free from context, ravenous and unsatisfied, I reach stalemate on the come up and surrender unconditionally on the comedown, I'm getting sick I'm getting sick I belong in jail, I belong in an elsewhere that never manifests except in the moments half awake between waves of sleep and dreams, and waking light on skin I can't recognize, did Christ recognize his own skin on the cedar? Could he tell his body was holy slick with blood and the lashes of whips and nails driven deep into hands? Could he be honest about his situation then, and if not, who among us can be honest? Who among us has not sunk our teeth into something unreal and sweet? I want this, I crave this kind of waste, shot up with suicides and Americana, what is more American than apathy? Don't you agree? Don't you see you're just like me? I want a new way, I want pure energy. I want something so raw it bleeds in my hands. I want distant shorelines and lines of demarcation and I want to run full speed into something all night and never get there, aesthetic and substance, fighting for power over two guitars and a drum beat and a voice, droning out platitudes about forgiveness and an abstract sense of love, I don't resist anything in this way but rather become submerged in it, allow it to roll and crash over me as long as my breath holds, fire a rifle at the sun and call it a small victory but phyrric because it took more out of me than I'm willing to admit, and for nothing,
I'm coming unstuck, America you're coming unstuck with me, I address you as judge and jury and executioner when we both know I am guilty too, I deserve that mercy seat as much as you and I can't look you in the eyes anymore because we look too much alike, who pulled the trigger, who gave the order, who payed the taxes, is this blood on my hands? We've both built our egos on an idea of beauty that doesn't hold up to scrutiny, but the clinic is all full up tonight run those tests tomorrow, find out where it went wrong and smother it

Take the poet out of the voice, what is left?
What happens when we force honesty for qualitative judgement?
What happens to an art form when we force it to dance for us?
What does it become?
Is this a process of bastardization or a fulfillment of prophecy?
Take the poet out of the poem, what remains?
I want to know if this will outlive us, if we became Prometheus martyrs for something or nothing, or a story on someone else's walls, in someone else's heart, in something not so easily killed,
Or are we jerking off into a void? And if so, is that wrong if it works? What price is too high for honesty of expression? How much is too much?
This pen wants to die,
This notebook wants to die,
What have I done to them?