Kyle Phoenix Books 2018

Kyle Phoenix Books June 2018

Saturday, November 23, 2019

S: A Novel, Chapter 1 by Brian Kyle Doyle on The Kyle Phoenix Blog


S is a supernatural thriller blending mythologies from the Caribbean, Africa, and ancient Greece with quantum mechanics to bring to light a tale that explains the birth of us all.Sade. Sabe. Salbe. Sacatra. Sandy Ree. Silence. Squasho. Sapphire. The S sisters. Daughters of the legendary Mrs. S, granddaughter of the Great Old S, a woman who crossed from hellish depths of the Civil War to the 21st century to give her children a better life. The S women are hunted by a nemesis who knows the secret of their escape, the secret of their inherent magic, the darkest secrets of each sister.Into their town of Thick comes Serenity Thoughts, an "ideological idea of the ideal" lead by the charismatic Canaan and his azure robed disciples. They come hunting for the prize of the ages, inside each of the women. The sisters, one by one, come face to face with an adversary birthed in a vendetta older than them all.


Chapter 1


Open the gate for me Papa that I may pass
When I return I will thank the Orisha



Speak

     



      It frightens me to tell you the truth but I will lie until you understand why.
      “Bring me your desire and I will transform it into a thought, a way, an ideal idea of ideological illusion.”
      When we pledged ourselves to Canaan, it was from fear and envy and, yes, ultimately, greed.  He swore all to us if we were willing to be dominated by him.  If we were willing to become his minions then he would divide up time and space and share it with us.
      “Look into his eyes. Look into them and remember that a man is a man, a woman is a woman, and death never discriminates.”
      “I had always had dreams of having babies, sweet smelling babies.”

      Momma was a fool, she let us loose too soon, she died too soon, and she didn’t tell us the whole story soon enough.  The complete story of what it means to be an S woman.  What that demands of you, of your spirit.  Momma wasn’t a weak woman but she was a fearful woman, afraid of what she had created, like most the women I’ve seen.  Woman would be a far more glorious beast if she got rid of that fear, that rank cloying terror at what a man, any goddamn man, thought of her creations.
      “Fuck men.  Any way you can.”

      Images capture reality.  Reality is like this cosmic butterfly waiting for our gaze, to see its beauty, to reach out with our net and snare it.  If anything ever confuses you, look at it.  Then, see it.


Sabe




Sabe could've been beautiful but she didn't want to be, she wanted to be natural and with that long dark hair curling like stolen minks, she was. 
See, she knew, things. 
Not big things, not enormous things, she knew the catalysts, the conjunction of teeny things that make big happen. 
Like she never knew who the new President would be but she knew to call all her friends to watch some speech and they would love one candidate and call some people to tell them.  Those people would make some long distance calls and well, you see the point.
      Hard to say if her knowing had any value to anything because it was so instinctual.  She wasn’t good for the lottery other than to mutter that the number you was picking wouldn’t come out.  She couldn’t tell you what number would come out though. 
Sabe contented herself with being an assured Devil’s Advocate and when the time came that’s whom she fucked best.

  
Sacatra
  
Sacatra was the color of up and down, through and through, east and west.  Aww, she was a pretty one.  She went off to Baton Rouge to educate herself and she came back smart as reality and became the first female town mayor.  She got light boxes on every street, names put up though we all already knew where we were and a burn unit for the hospital after Mr. Joe set fire to his whole family on accidental-purpose.
      Sacatra was smart until Mr. Keith, the haberdasher, got an order for twenty blue silk robes.  He’d left one of them for her, it was now sitting on the chair across from her desk, with a note of introduction to the man who’d ordered them.  She’d seen them at the edges of her periphery while driving through town, coming in and out of stores, standing at corners talking to small groups of people, singing hymns outside of churches.  She hadn’t put two and two together that they were a new congregation, until now.
      Later she would discover, with polite inquiries that no one quite knew the day they came to town.  One day was and the next was with.  People would mark it by it being the time that Sacatra took ill for a month.  About springtime before that was when they started wearing them blue robes and Sacatra had a visitation.
      "Morning, Madame Mayor, I am Canaan Williams.  I'm the leadership for Serenity Thoughts," he said as he eased in to her office.
      "Mr. Williams, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.  Your people are out by the old Clifford Place?" Sacatra smiled.  Part was political politeness, part was his striking and dazzling.  This was a man to whom women first paid attention and then obeisance.
      "Yes.  You don't remember me?"
      Sacatra looked at him closely, squinting even but nothing came to mind.  Years of schooling and teaching and then traveling a bit had caused her to forget more faces in this town than she ever thought possible.  She buzzed Sabe, her secretary, to come in.  Sabe came in wearing a bright blue silk blouse.
      "Sabe, do I remember this man?"
      "Sacatra, this is Booger Williams,” Sabe said.  Sabe was a mental library on things trivial and forgotten by her sister and others.  “We babysat him a few times back in high school then his people moved away," Sabe laughed as she sat on the edge of her sister's desk.  Canaan’s gift for collecting honeyed attention wasn’t lost on Sabe.  In fact her, her deep desire to know things made her more starved bee than anything else with this man.
      Canaan watched them and smiled, it was time for the town to change hands.
      "I was George Williams back then.  Booger was a nickname,” he lied.  He’d learned in the traveling that people tended to fill in the blanks if he allowed them.  When here he always looked like someone, a long connected relative probably.  The vagaries of his journeying less relevant than the goal to stay permanently.
      "Of course, now I remember," Sacatra smiled, but something was tugging at her something she was forgetting to remember about little Booger.  The whole family had worked at so any different things to make ends meet, to keep clothes on eight backs, to build Momma’s house with its four bedrooms.  Those were blurry times for Sacatra, she’d done so much learning that Momma couldn’t and passed it on to the others so that they would fit in and not have to leave as they had from_________.
Sacatra took her mind from that past road, let buried stay that way.  “How may I help you, Canaan?”
      "I want to have a carnival, my people love to give others loving, peaceful thoughts." 
      "Do they?" Sabe nodded encouragingly.“What are your people, Serenity Thoughts, anyway?  A church group?  A love commune?"
      "A communicating group of cultural exchange and cross-cultural love," he said and fixed his smiling gaze on Sacatra. "You know about cross cultural?"
      Her cheeks went the color of cherry cafe au lait and she agreed that a carnival might be nice though his jibe bristled.  An insinuation made about her line, her clear difference from the russet Sabe, digging all the way to whether the S women were of a singular mommy but perhaps plural, dissimilar shade, daddies.  Lots of things might be nice about having him in Thick.  High yellow with dusty brown-blonde hair, Sacatra felt both the pull and the jibe and her own thoughts about it distracted her from her deeper questions about Canaan, about his people, about what they were doing here.  What they wanted.
      But that was his intention, wasn’t it?       
To entice, enrapture, tweak, offend and obscure.
      Sacatra traded pleasantries and gave him directions around Thick, the parks, the stores, the properties for sale, the businesses that might help his people in work and supplies.  She told him about the kinds of permits he’d needed for assemblages and nodded to Sabe who eagerly took the dark blue suited man by the arm into her outer office to give him copies of form this and form that.  Lost to her own thoughts or dismissive of the unmanageable, as always, she noticed but didn’t note that two bodies left but there was only one shadow, one set of clicking footsteps. 
      After an hour had passed and the chatter and giggles from the outer office were gone, Sacatra walked to the window, wringing her hands.  She watched Canaan Williams cross the street, get into his dark blue sedan and drive off.  Once away, she was only slightly less intoxicated by his resplendence than her sister, her natural anxieties and historian’s curiosity erupted, edging past her inner peace when something was about to be really wrong.  She didn’t have to call, Sabe came into her office.  They had always had their own sisterhood within the larger coven.
      "Sister? What's bothering you?" Sabe put a comforting hand onto her sister's.
      "Haint about that man.  I can't remember something about him and I can remember everything!  Everything!"  Her pinkie nail ground through her palm skin, a trickle of blood coming up.  The drop smeared across her life line.  Sabe dutifully pressed a blue handkerchief to her sister’s hand, squeezing and pressing, until she got every drib she could and it started to clot.  Sabe pocketed the cloth for later use.
      "What you wanna do, sister?  Call off his carny?  Drum him and his out of Thick?  They here, sister, leave it be.  Canaan is here now."
      "Why don't you go round sometime and make friends with them people.  Snoop about.  See what's what."
      "Like a spy?" Sabe winced.
      "Like a sister," Sacatra corrected.  “He likes women’s attention?  Give him some.  Talk over old times, if you can remember them or make up some, if you can’t.  We already got three churches in this town, what we need with sounds like a cult, for?”
      “You always been a suspicious thing.  Suspicious, suspicious, suspicious but never truly paying attention to how the rest of us feel, what we want, what’s really going on with us.  Nose in books, papers and plans.”
      “Suspicion serves well sometimes.  Education too.  Take him one of your pies, he’ll be flattered.  When you go visit Sapphire take her one too instead of just cigarettes.”
      "He is fine.  Lord have mercy that man is fine."
      "Be careful.  Feeling haints and foolishness around a man generally means he has more than one docket and ways to get them done."
      "Sister, can’t no country pastor tame me and you smart but not sensitive enough to know a ghost from Adam, Eve or me.  In, out, through me but I got this.  I got Canaan.  I’ll handle him."
      Sabe, the last of them all, knew what people wanted, would and wouldn’t get, long before even they decided they needed anything.  She was firm in her belief that she couldn’t be tricked.  She was confident in her ephemeral, lopsided, unreliable Knowing. 


      Sabe's nail cracked and chipped off as her hand flew from Canaan's head, a hiss seeped through her teeth and her legs vised around his shoulders.  Normally it was a contrived hiss seeping through her teeth, her legs vised around a man’s shoulders or hips, because contrivance was all she would give any man.  But this one pushed and pressed and pulsated and possessed her flesh, from voice to facade, beyond her arrogance, through her hubris, to the heart of her Knowing.  With the piercing of her Knowing, the corruption of something akin to her womanhood, Sabe, for the first time in her life, didn’t know, and that’s when ecstasy became a shriek, a tumult, a submission and then an allegiance to Canaan as Poe. 
If anyone had looked through the window on the small house they would’ve seen sheets flying, blue robes twisting, Sabe bucking and churning and the occasional hint of Then Canaan playing her like a spiritual organ.  A sensitive witness would’ve seen Canaan, firmly ensconced in-between two sisters, within one; and known George Williams, builder of that small house that Sabe lived in who had twenty years ago buried his son Booger Williams was a long descended cousin of Canaan who’d never met Booger, who as a child had seen Canaan in a dream before falling into a gulley, head dashed open onto pocked, too warm rocks, giving entryway to Canaan, his toes still wet from the spilled blood that contained George.
That mishap, unknown, mattered in a When.

      All that mattered Now was that Sacatra wasn’t sensitive in the right direction and that Sabe was a devious collector of sanguine S.

SALBE
     

      Things often missed Salbe, but she intended, this day, having worked up her nerve for weeks, that she not miss out on anything again.  Salbe fumbled under her desk for her right shoe, slipped it on then went directly into Mr. Danvers' office.  She’d practiced her speech for weeks.  Even written it down twice at her desk last night and rushed out of the house this morning, ignoring her husband’s agitated demands as she’d rehearsed it again and again, like a holy mantra in her head. 
      "Mr. Danvers, you know I like working here.  You've been good to me over the years.  I've been loyal to you, Mr. Danvers.  Remember back when this place was almost closing and I took three weeks without pay?  Well, Mr. Danvers, I've trained four of your sons and there are now five district manager positions.  I ain't training a one of those resumes on my desk, Mr. Danvers.  I can do the job better than anyone but you, Mr. Danvers.  I've been here for a long time, Mr. Danvers and I want my due or I'm walking out for lunch and not coming back.  And that would be a shame, a crying shame, Mr. Danvers.  But twenty-four years is enough."
      Salbe took a Lifesaver from her pocket.
      "Sal’ hon, what're you doing in here just standing?"  Mr. Danvers asked as he walked in.  Salbe sucked her candy and began.


      Salbe ended her service for the mill that very afternoon and headed home to a husband that lacked so much it was another one of her shames.  All her life she’d been afraid to speak up, to say that she was unhappy.  Instead she gave whenever her heart wanted to.  All of her husbands were well dressed on her dime, smelled better than she did and left her for something younger, tighter, stupider, more selfish, in almost the same amount of time.
      Salbe had figured out that her twenty year pension would still come up short for next week’s, next month’s, next year’s, bills.  On the train home she circled two or three positions in the newspaper to look into. 
      Who the hell wanted to drive an hour to go to work?
      She’d been at the mill so conveniently long that the good jobs, the new jobs, the good, new high paying jobs, were built miles and miles away on little industrial campuses far from her neighborhood.
      She hadn’t really been serious about quitting until Mr. Danvers had started his hemming and hawing and her right bunion had started hurting and damn it, she was right, wasn’t she?  The more he stalled, the more she saw herself skidding into her late forties working for his fat, fleshy, bald pink head and she knew that she wasn’t really asking for a promotion, she was asking for what was left of Life.  Mr. Danvers had simply told her no: there was no Life for her there.
      Oh, if you weren’t standing there bleeding from a thousand and one little wounds that you’d collected over the years, you might’ve believed him again.  But this time there’d been a little smirk at the end of what she’d always thought was a kind smile.  He knew he was getting a bargain, he knew that she could do better and Salbe saw that cruel streak she knew existed in most everyone but her sisters.
      Okay, so she would leave that job, find another and at some point she would have to tell Gordon that their marriage was no good.  She was on a roll of liberation, of reclaiming her life.  She giggled to herself as she keyed into her apartment and was about to call out for Gordy when the stillness of everything hit her.  Generally, he had the music blaring, the television on or he was yattering away on the phone trying to get another fool (like her) to buy his malarkey.  The more than ten year age difference had been intoxicating, erotic, passionate the first few years, after a few more, she’d resigned to raising some other woman’s man hoping that maybe he’d become a somewhat decent husband.
      Hopefully, to her. 
      It was all so still this afternoon, that her heart started beating faster.
      Please Lord, don’t let him be in our bed with a woman!
      Salbe was terrified that she was going to see what she’d known in her heart he and all the others had done all around town for years.  But to see it?
      Will I lose my mind and get violent like Sandy Ree or will I simply stand there and eat another Lifesaver?  I’ll need about a thousand of them.  I can live without him but not with the shame of laying back down in a big empty bed that wants to know where those other two happy, frolicking people went off to. 
      I’ll buy a new bed. 
      There was a sale on mattresses in the paper. 
      But I like my bed, got it worn in just right.
      Maybe I really need to stop talking to these quick tongued, handsome men?  They seem so perfect, so good for a little bore like me, at first.
      Salbe went into the bedroom. The bed was as she had left it that morning.  No Gordy.  Nothing looked out of place.  She smelled something like a loose bowelled dog in the room, coming from the bathroom and there, lying face up, in the corner was Gordy.  It looked like (after falling off the toilet) he’d smashed his head something terrible on the tub.  Slipped probably.  During a heart attack or a stroke.  Salbe stared at him.  He was well over six feet four but now he was just this folded, bloodied, greyish ball, his ass halfway out of his slacks.  She stared at him a while longer, waiting to feel something appropriate to finding your husband dead.  Inappropriately she felt relief and she was ashamed of that.
      She stepped closer, looking for breathing, getting her hopes both up and suspended.  Hoping that he was good and truly dead, because if he wasn’t, he’d be in the hospital for a while from this, maybe forever and with her job gone, who could afford a new hospital bill?  She hoped his days of being anything other than a final expense bill were ahead her.  Sitting in the cool stall, she was standing really close to him now, close to Death to try and find her mournful feelings.  He was dead all right, going ashen even.  Still no sad feelings. 
      This morning, distracted by her speech rehearsal, sitting on the closed toilet pulling on her stockings, she’d forgotten she had to pee, and stopped instead at the diner near the bus station, picking up the office coffee orders.  She had remembered him calling after her, from the bathroom, probably from the toilet. 
      What wouldn’t have happened if she had turned around and acknowledged him? 
      He would probably still be alive if she’d peed this morning at home, if she’d turned around and attended to him as she had for years.  Her one selfish day she’d just missed his end.
      Salbe was proud then of her determination to confront her boss, her preoccupation with dealing with Mr. Danvers that day had saved her a fourth divorce or worse, an invalid albatross.  Gordy, as another item on her list of problems, was over with, and most importantly she wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of having another husband listing her failings, as he was packing to leave with a flashy, fleshy, gaudy thot (as the kids called sluts nowadays)honking impatiently in a car outside (like husband three’s replacement of her had done.)  If you looked at his thirty year old face now, without his face scrunched up trying to convince her of some bullshit plot or another (how he was going to be a producer, a rapper, a model, a star) he truly was wonderful to behold.  Handsome, serene, almost a crooked smile on his lips.  He looked if not peaceful, satisfied.  Like death was where he belonged.  Young to have died like this but Salbe was comfortable with tragedy, with the dark sides of life, with pain.  In fact it didn’t so much of hurt her as it answered her patient questions as to what was going on, what would happen next?  What would happen in her fourth marriage to break the streak of charming men leaving her for a more charming woman?  Who knew that this one, with his childhood diabetes, needles regularly bought and replaced by the doting Sabe who’d been a nurse years back, would die on the day she quit her job?  Salbe’s own midlife diabetic needles next to his on the toilet tank lid.  Their needles, a few of the tips blood stained, were indistinguishable.
      Actually, technically, she’d tried to give her two weeks’ notice.  Didn’t fill out the necessary, final paperwork, Mr. Danvers forcefully telling her over and over to take a day or two to think about her decision, that she was on vacation and nothing else until she had some time to think about it all.
      Bad choice on his part.
      Employee and spouse insurance policies and such.
      I don’t need the classifieds no more.
      Gordy had sat with her in her small office and checked off the highest insurable amount for both of them, saying that Black men died younger but sometimes Black women died from working too hard.  It was a dark, uneasy joke but suddenly six figures were hers and not, as she suspected, his planned due.  Gordy would chortle in the morning as she left for work, and he planned a day of indolence, that Pisces women were often tireless workers, like his departed mother.  He’d squandered the little bit she’d left him, turned his charms to getting another woman’s nipples, first engorged before he returned to nursing, draining.
      What an interesting day, things are always changing.
      Salbe took out her cell phone and called for an ambulance.  There was a voicemail from the county jail.  Sandy Ree most likely.  She’d attend to that in a few hours.  There was even a moment when she caught herself smiling as she told the operator to come get her husband’s body.  She felt lucky, lucky that she didn’t have a job or a husband anymore.
      Salbe had thought all her luck, all her fortune had gone when Mother had passed.  Look at her now. 
      A rich, free woman.
      Popping a Lifesaver into her mouth, a green one, she realized, finally something good hadn’t missed her.

Sandy Ree

How is it that two people who laugh together and love together, sometimes end up far apart?
"I will kill your tar ass, nigger."
Sandy Ree picked up the pot of boiling grits.
      " ReeRee!  ReeRee baby!  Stop, baby.  It ain't what it look like.”  He’d lasted almost eight months under her sexual assaults, longer than most, the only way to describe the ferocity she made, more like took, love with.
      Tell me how it is.
      "It look like lipstick on your dick.  I’m too dark for such a cheap shade.  You gonna die for cheating on me, which part confuses you?" Sandy Ree lifted the steaming pot over her head, readying.
      "ReeRee baby, it's-it's  a special cream.  Cream to make me smooth and smell good.  It's hypo-allo-hygienic!" even as he said it, he was flicking eye to door and window.  Door or window?  Which one could he make?
      Cry together
      Wanna die together
      "It's Maybelline!  It's pink on your yellow self and it's where I'm a aimin'.  Your sad six inches gonna fall off as you die, motherfucker.  You crossed my line.  I told you, I told you my line."
      Sometimes end up with a broken heart.
      Sandy Ree tensed her arms.
      "Wait!  Wait, please, baby.  Listen to me, please listen to me, my sweet, sweet baby.  I can't live with this anymore, ReeRee.  I'm tired now.  Tired of this jealousy, tired of you acting like because I love you I gots to be part of you.  You won't live with me, you won't take my name, be anything but what you want to be.  I want kids and freedom.  I want you open to my loving heart, ReeRee.  If I ever sought out the arms of another it was ‘cause I don’t know if you truly love me, ReeRee," pouring all of his terror into words, words, words knowing she loved to hear of love and devotion.
      Isn’t it a shame?
      “Love you?”
      “Yes, love me. You the kind of woman who demands and demands but don’t know what she want.  Yeah, you always angry!  Angry!  How is my true, good love supposed to get through that anger?  That’s why you’ve gotten so big, of course I love it, love it, it makes you so much more beautiful.  I likes you big well enough, but it’s from the pain in your heart.  The pain that eats away at our beautiful love and has you wanting to hurt me. 
      “ReeRee, we ain’t our bodies, even if I put a piece of mine into you or say between some other lady’s soup coolers.  Only our spirits can commit crimes, never our bodies.  Our bodies is just vessels.  No crime ever sticks to the body.  We ain’t nothing but spirits of eternal, holy love but how can I share that with a woman who hates herself?  You hate yourself, ReeRee.  Admit it.  You hate yourself and that weight, like your body, pushes me away and it hurts me.  Yes, yes, you do.  It hurts me so much to be pushed away, ReeRee, that I stumble and tumble ‘cause your love ain’t there to hold me firm.”
      Sometimes a love like this must end.
      Isn’t it a shame?
      “Your faltering love, your doubts are what crumble my love, my resolve, make my flesh weak.  Your doubts infest me to madness and I’m sorry to say it because I know how gentle you really is but your hold on me is so strong I can’t resist your doubts.  Your doubts push me away, push my body away.” 
      Dream, dream together       
      What was left to say?   To offer?  Her scowl had softened, her bosom wasn’t heaving with fury anymore.  She’d heard him for sure.  She’d recognized the truth and taken the blame.  He started to breathe easier, shook out his tensed legs, even contemplated casually walking to the bathroom to empty his searing bladder, maybe get a good meal from that steaming pot above her six foot two head, maybe even a fast, guilty lay.
      There was a long contemplative silence between them, filled only by the blaring Labelle’s from the stereo, music playing night and day around her.  Sandy Ree searched his words, then her heart and finally her anger until she had come to the heart of her anger.  The truth of her love and lack thereof.
      "Nigger, please."
      Sandy Ree threw the grits.
      Isn’t it shame that sometimes love must end?


      When she arrived in a Northern city with twenty-four dollars, a stubborn refusal to ever call her sisters and a firm nineteen year old body, there was nothing to her thinking for a hot, hard headed piece like Sandy Ree to become but a whore, a loose lady.  She wanted clothes, a car, good food without even a high school degree to her name. Only took two days of a grumbling stomach in the Northern city to remind her of when she was young and they all nearly starved, before she took her big Black ass out there and sold for cash what she fantasized was only given in love.  Oh, she got a choice, she got to split hairs. 
      Kept by one pimping man? 
      Or work on the streets servicing hundreds?
      Sit up in a brothel doing three or four men a night? 
      Sandy Ree ended up doing all three at one time or another.
      What can I do for you?
      Whoring broke her back, open. 
      Are you lonely?
      Then it poured molten steel in.
      You turn me on.
      Sandy Ree became an evil woman.  Not bad in the sense that she purposefully hurt people but she had a bubbling hot nature under her skin.  Passion, fuel for sex and violence.  She would cuss, she would fight, she would scream at anybody who dared to cross her line.  
      Messin’ with my mind.
      She’d beat up hanger twisting men and vituperous taloned women, even once suckled an abandoned baby for five days but Sandy Ree had never been used.  Whoring, well whoring, made her tough, ready to defend herself, to keep what was hers, to strike at whatever was fooling with her.  Strike first, think about it later.
      Take the night off.


      Love, hmmmph, never that.
      Sandy Ree thought of all the songs she loved, that sang to her, that sang to what she wanted, what could cool that temper enough to believe a man, any man.  Love songs that she couldn’t let go of had gotten her here.  Like Labelle wailing about wasn’t it a shame when it was over?  And if it was over why not throw the fucking hot grits, right?  Yeah, Labelle had gotten her here.  Wasn’t that a shame?
      Sitting in jail now, a smallburn on her thumb from flying molten grits, Sandy Ree thought about which sisterto call.  Who would come right away andnot want the whole story, just the facts?

S:A Novel
available on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble

S



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Kyle Phoenix is a teacher, certified adult educator, sexologist, sex coach and sexuality educator with over two decades of intensive experience. He studied at the University at Buffalo, SUNY, New York University, and Columbia University. He has worked, consulted and taught individuals and focused professional developments for the CDC, Department of Education, Gay Men's Health Crisis, New York City Department of Health, non-profits, Fortune 500 companies and unions. He began his career facilitating on-campus workshops addressing a wide range of sexuality and sexual health issues and then moved on to teaching at universities, non-profits, private groups and clients, hosting The Kyle Phoenix Show on television and multiple online webinars, including YouTube and Sclipo and writing extensively through his blog, Special Reports, articles and other print and E books in the Kyle Phoenix Series on relationships, finance, education, spirituality and culture. He lives in New York with his family.

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