THE PHOENIX

Was it sparks from the surgeon's knife and saw

That set aflame my body? or my own blood, by-passed,

Gushing through old veins, my old brain?

I went mad, so lost in a manic rapid-fire

Switching among layers of symbolic form -- print,

Playing cards, TV, music, movies -- I said, "I cannot

Find my way back to reality, no one will ever find me,

I am dying!" and passed out in Katka's arms, a Liebestod.

I dreamed I took her with me 3 1/2 steps into death

And then lost her. A rush of youth went through

Me as I drifted down a staircase. I awoke in bed,

Whispering two spontaneous love poems in Katka's ear.

I signed myself into a psych ward with just

Enough savvy left to strike out permission for

Lobotomy and emerged on the 4th geriatric floor,

Heaven, filled with RCs and protestants, no atheists

Like me. I raved for three weeks, laughing

And crying, but ever since then, 500 years old,

With the taste of ashes in my mouth, I am young

Again, swim quarter miles, keen of mind, erotic

(I had said goodbye to Eros), reborn,

Still kicking, burning, burning in these flames.