Ave Angeles


Salvador Dali – Angels

“O’ what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!” – William Shakespeare

I watched them fly in early morning. Stern faces all, diamond like eyes reflecting a pinpoint brightness of eschatology. They pointed themselves toward the eastern horizon, daemons and angels, muses and monsters of mythology. I opened my curtain ever wider, and saw they were burning stars, blazing before the dawn. Reflecting the vitality of beginning and ending. The holiness of G_D’s names. And I wished to fly with them above November.

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a sweet day in November, with the sky an eye of blue, an occasional sun drop. Bouncing off my points of view. Woke myself to sweet surrender, of the purpose designed a new. From this vantage on this altar, laying naked before you. Cut all feelings from the shadows, those that are human accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You are the author of my adventure, between the lines of light and hue. In the numbers of error, you found me, and led me through a timeless wound. Said you, “there is higher than you are reaching”. Said you, “Loose your thoughts and I’ll show you, you”. Said you, “Care for me and care for no other, for I am jealous for all you do.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a force of Citrine lightning, a picture painting of gothic rhyme. All though it is written I am a little lower than the angels, still above them I would fly. Bring myself before her presence in a question and a cry. Risen in the morning, with frost above my eyes. Tear myself from self-deception, that which lies accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You have formed me like no other, cut my soul from roughen hew. Lifted me up from this dead garden, fallen Eden, no longer new. Said you, “unto you the choice is given, nothing hidden from your plain view.” Said you, “love me, and love no other, for between us life is consumed.” Said you, “I am breath and, I am numbers, time and mystery, ever new.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Above the Scorpius, beyond all air, below frozen water, all November’s share. In staring upwards, I stare no more, for I hear the summons, it is a silent roar. Your final gesture that defines my core. Said you, “born of the morning from when all comes, and innate by my word relative to all sums.”

We fly in early morning. We fly in the morning. We fly in the morning! – 11.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Beneath the Leaves (Ever Dream)


“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.” – Arthur Conan Doyle

“Would you do it with me”*, lift the wood that brings mystery; fall forever with me, through the portal where phantoms scribe magic free. Feel your breath leaving air, your body writhing in an orgasmic sea. Trace the hand that you see, draw its lines around your heart comfortably. Be damned to be, would you ever dream with me? Beneath the leaves.

My Dad used to say that what comes before us has always been behind us, and that which places itself at our side has always been around us. My Dad used to say that gates that swing inwards are willing to be pushed outwards, and all doorways into heaven, were beneath the leaves, when we went to an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We discover the door near the river. It is 0.3 miles past the Fruitland Trading Post, pretty much where “Brigham Young Jr’sHouse would have been. We sweep away the dead leaves that hide the door in the ground. Their wrinkled husk make a scratching sound as we sweep them from the dark rotting wood of the door to the surrounding dead grass. “Shouldn’t be leaves here”, Jason say’s. “Yep, yep”, I say, “Shouldn’t be leaves here”. “Not a tree in sight”, Jason says, a hint of a grimace on his face. “Nope”, I agree, a little vexed myself not a tree in sight. “No way to get this thing open that I can see”, I say to Jason a little relief in the tone of my voice. The truth is, sundown is near, and there is a chill in the air, that fits right well with the nip that is beginning to well up and down my backbone. “I think we owe it to ourselves to try and get it open”, Jason says. “There might be money or something valuable under there”, he says. “There might be something”, I agree…

My Dad used to say that the mystery in life is life itself, and that which is a pattern leads not to G_D but leads to mediocrity. My Dad used to say, that which leads the head must lie beneath, that which is deep. That which calls unto deep. My Dad used to say would you go with me, go beneath the leaves after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We brace our cold knuckles against the grain of the heavy wood, the splinters digging deep into our fingers. We kneel opposite of each other. Jason to the top of the door, I to the bottom. From the heavens, we no doubt look like cherubim’s our small frames bent in labor, looking for the covenant. Fulfilling the covenant. The evening shadows move over us quickly enveloping our effort. “I think its moving”, Jason says, his breathing heavy with exertion. “Yep, yep, I say, trying to concentrate on our effort, my fear of the unknown replaced suddenly by the thrill of adventure, for the door is opening. The door is opening. The door is opening.

My Dad used to say, that there is nothing unseen, that has not been seen by someone, yet those who say they see do not, and those who say nothing, see. My Dad used to say, all doorways into heaven were beneath the leaves, when we went after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

Authors Note: The two boys were real, the leaves over the door were real. The door in the ground was real. The opening of the door was real. What was discovered was real as well. It was all as my Dad used to say… 11.06.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

* Would you do it with me – Nightwish

World on Fire (Lost Boys)

We part the veil on a killing sun. Stray from the straight line on this short run. The more we take, the less we become.” – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand

For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny……Still the “world was on fire and it was more than I could handle.” *

The phantoms accompanied me through the real forest to the line of demarcation, that which divides the body from the craving. They were muses, if not daemons, and at times they settled upon my skin as if to travel there.  They thought my soul a rest from the long smoke-filled pathway. We walked on to find the shroud. That veil which separates life from the world on fire, and hurls the soul into the blue forest. They whispered that they had been “Lost Boys” too. Unbound in other creations, their worlds scorched by the burdens of fallen men. So, I listened to them, as we passed by the seared headstones near the trail. Those graves of grandfathers, and pioneers, missionaries filled with evil and good will alike. Males of authority, bastards without a story of where or when. Rich and poor men. Those men known to a world on fire, without their boyhood name. Cut in two by lack of identity. A timidity of soul before the vale. Afraid to jump, or believe, and I walked hurriedly by, for I did not wish to know them, or be as them.

The apparitions with me, poked me with memories, as I stumbled through the ash filled undergrowth, reminding me that the delineation boundary was hidden at times, as if G_D wears a mask. I felt myself humbled, bruised, and I did not wish to be hurt or lost anymore. I quickened my pace, as if in doing so I might eliminate those questions that look for hidden responses, when the answers reside in the question itself. As the burning trees consumed the oxygen around me, and in a state of desperation I begged the specters which gave me haunt to know their names. I wished to know them, and with that acquaintance, I alluded myself to think that there was magic. A quickened as it might be. A mirror with a reflection to know whom I was supposed to be. It was then that I stumbled upon an uplifted root and found myself falling. And, as I fell, I heard ten thousand whispers repeating, “We are Legion“, and I knew they did not know their names, as I did not know mine. For I had become them.

I was dropping, falling as the morning star. A burning orb within me, plummeting within and without the world on fire. Plunging as David after the fall. Moving through lives and beyond burning shadows. Failed dreams, and an eternity of futile desire for knowing not my name, or what it meant. For the world was on fire, and every something appeared in a negative sum. A dwindling cool spot under an uncontrollable flame. A crisis that goes without repent. For the night had become the day, and the day the night.

……And I cried out to G_D to judge me, to know me as I am, to amplify my reasons for living under the calmness of her hand. To kiss me, to fill my soul and feel my face. To become me. To believe in me, as I bless the treasure, the mystery that is his hand. To be like Moses, and know it face to face. To be it face to face. For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny, to be one with the sum.

……And above me was the sound of pleasure, the movement of airborne wings, and what was separated from me, was in me once more. Kissing me in shadows, knowing me in light. For it was eternity beyond the curtain, and I was a child unbroken. I was in the calling, summoned out of a world on fire. I was a man. I was a man. – 10.15.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

* World on Fire lyrics – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand

The Harlot of Rotterdam (Nehalennia)


“Ocean of time, eternal law, to ashes, to dust, to ashes, but not just yet. To ashes, to dust, taken away from the light, but not just yet. Miracles wait until the end.” – Zu Asche zu Staub

The shrouded figures watch the gale move in from the vaulted ruins of the abbey. South by Southwest the dark clouds roll out across the hidden heavens casting hail, then wind. The cloaked figures appear to melt into the rock-filled shell of the abbey. From there whispers come unto whispers, sighs unto sighs. Sweet undertones summoning. Wet lips moving, bringing forth that which comes from the sea. That which comes forth from moving hips, from fecundity. She who is eternity from the sea. Bringing her home to Whitby.

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say.

Some say how the tempests sigh. Exhale thee spirit against a Rotterdam sky. She says what a perfect night, to sail under his poison eye, to walk away and not say goodbye. In streets that pass her by, she moves much quicker than to fly. To reach the darker waters of foam and spray, no more man, a creature between her legs. Forgetting about how and when, she begged abstinence from the house of sin. To sail a dinghy into the host of spray, a single passage to where witches play. In stars well-hidden where eternity stays and taste the life, that’s time.

She sails in ashes on a shadowed sea, with deep dark seams that sometimes do not meet. In a cold, where there is no end, somewhere in truth to begin again. Sounds and pictures within, pieces of scripture, from her Opa’s thin voice. Simmering rejection from the church with no choice. She pictures astronomies in degrees, her gift to elevate and bring forth relief. To heal from thoughts within, the harlot of Rotterdam commands each wind. Each elevation a structure within. A stroke a brush with a hand she sends.

The gale the screaming din, the driftwood from the sea with its upside-down grin, to capture all time in a thimble within. Sixes and sixes in upside down triangular twins.  The force that never ends. The strength that forever begins.

She sails alone in cold English seas, a longing a hunger for more than believed. Beyond the nightlights of bars and skin, the mainland is dying from its rot within. To escape the poison, to really be free, to master cold waters toward a home, in Whitby.

Born forth by ash is she, not that of dust, she circles herself in eternity. Deeper than deep, the divers depths call “Nehalennia“, “sing to our dead souls in need.” “Cross yourself forward, the ashes and dust, calls from a time beneath.” “Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes indeed.” Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes, let all these waters recede.”

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. – 10-07-2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

When We Travel


“G_D moves in a mysterious way, and rides upon the storm.” – Jeremy Riddle

“People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” – Albert Einstein

“Who were you talking with out there in the dark with it storming like this?” My dad ask me as I enter the downstairs door. He is standing there in his red stripped pajamas trying to look grim. “Just talking to myself”, I say back to dad, lowering my eyes, although the truth shines in them. Dad just shakes his head, and then looks back at me with a slight glint in his eye as if he has thought of a wonderful magic trick. “Don’t make a habit of it”, he says, it might be the only person who will listen to you the rest of your life”.

An inch between you and me in blood and essence, by G_D set free. For you are young without line nor gray, not sure in shimmer of what to say. To stand or kneel, to watch or pray in metaphysics the numbers they play. The Dog Star climbs in lovely breeze, it passes Shiprock in this desert sea. Be still thy mouth oh child that is me at twelve to thirteen the sights you will see. In faire of something of times to come, in many years to know this sum. This night the storm that rides thy way, it carries adventure in G_Ds worst way. In such I travel, I travel far, a future present by translucent stars. Time has been mine now to pass through them, those thorny angels that raise their din.

For stand you here, and stand me too. No air or seals between you and me. This night of nights, will pass us through. This night of night will pass us through.

There stands a target, a myth ahead, perhaps its true some ghosts have said. That do you good on what is right, and some time when, from here right now to way back then. I do it now I know not how, my person sent, that spark of passion will ride the wind. To see it happen to come around, there might be sometimes it might abound. For I have seen it through all these years what was born this moment, is someday clear. For as you kneel child, me to you, the sum of thunder runs us through. In your life certain, not straight ahead, you will live it full from what now you are fed.

For stand you here, and stand me too. No air or seals between you and me. This night of nights, will pass us through. This night of night will pass us through.

Two still shadows one young, one old. The kid looks nervous, the man too bold. Antares glowing with red guiding light, the future starts this night. The peaks in the distance lead to off somewhere, a journey so bold that I would, I could share. To take this inner child who wants to dare, and fly into the sky. The storm it cometh upon us soon, righting our way until we are left with no room. The unknown behind us, with the mystery still to bloom. How the thunder booms, and how the thunder booms.

For stand you here, and stand me too. No air or seals between you and me. This night of nights, will pass us through. This night of night will pass us through.

An inch between you and me in blood and essence, by G_D set free. – 09.23.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Iiná Joe

In my time of dying, want nobody to mourn. All I want for you to do is take my body home. Well, well, well, so I can die easy.” – Led Zeppelin

“Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall).” – Gerard McMahon

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe comes around, just as the August, sun has lost its crown, and it sets itself in message, in an altered degree, sending signs of mourning for all to see. And it spills out red across the sky, sending farewell tears to a million sighs. “That’s what makes me cry”, Iiná says to me, standing just my height, dressed in the color of her grief. It is a visit of timing it is a look without a word. As if in the world of symbols, we are the witness to the earth. Iiná Joe says, “I heard it, the song you said you’d play”. I say, “You mean “In My Time of Dying“, is that the meaning you wanted relayed”. She nods her head in the affirmative, and then we both look away, just a disc jockey and newly minted widow at the end of a funeral day. Standing in the foyer at KWYK, all the world is moving with us as actors on its stage.

Iiná Joe says, “The darkness falls upon us as it fell upon my man, as he drank his way from Gallup, into the desert and the sand.” “When they found him out near Sanostee with the cuts upon his face, he’d been sitting in his pickup truck for forty nights and forty days.” It grew very quiet between us as we thought about her words, the quiet that conveys meaning from our words to other worlds. Like the transmitters nearby us, cooling from their five thousand-wattage heat. We wandered through Iiná’s pain filled loss, looking for comfort to keep. And as a boy of seventeen with all my wishes draught unpaid. I was humbled by my friend’s sharing of the greatness of her loss, and the grieve it built and made.

Iiná Joe walks around, the darkened radio studio looking at me, with her eyes filled with amber tears, a reflection of a man she no longer see’s. “Will you play the song again”, she asks. “I think I’ll wait outside, the night is coming quickly, and the chindi is nearby.” “I would not have my man’s blackness upon you, as you do for me what’s kind.”

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo big little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe went her way a few days ago. She passed into the darkness after the August sun had gone down, forty-one years to the day; she visited a seventeen-year-old disc jockey to make a special request. That seventeen-year-old disc jockey pictured above thanks her for the honor, those many years ago and wishes her G_D speed ahead. There is no more to cry for little sister. – 09.03.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

For the Lack of a Map (Roads)


Artist Samy Charmine – Almost Time

“New roads, new ruts.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline.

So many roads into Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. So many dreams left along the front range, gasping. They are a memorial, a delusion, inside, that’s not fact. Treasures at altitude, a once upon a time, a “Rock of Westies“, a vision above Nederland, a realization that 1975 is never, ever coming back. And maybe that’s a good thing, a very good, good thing. I think I can dig it now, “Portishead” driving me on this road, Beth Gibbons taking the wheel, right out of my hand away. Strange when I stare into my rearview mirror, I still see the mountains, shimmering above Boulder, some angel somewhere, whispers, “find”. Just another road, here, made up inside me. And I feel it takes me where I need to go. I know it takes me where I need to go.

So many roads into ageing, so many stories that still are to unwind. So many numbers numbing my mind, the physics of heaven, still these many, many ghosts aren’t changing any time. Driving, diamonds dancing on this road, in the summertime. High table, that’s still glowing now “Rocky Flats“, in nuclear time. That which is buried, still stays on my mind. And whispers, low tones, syllables that barely rhyme, still they encourage on this road, “seek and you will find”. “Seek and you will find”. On the road now, that which is with me, never that which is left behind. Going further then I need be, watching mountains left behind. And I wonder, as I wander, what it is that I will “find’, what it means to really unbind.

So few roads out of Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. The sun never sets above the “Mummy” Range, the snow never melts and that’s just a part of my mystical Colorado, that’s a part of these roads. A paradoxical fact. I suppose this might seem like nonsense, an ageing man rambling who has lost his tact. But there is something here, something shimmering on these worn roads, something well beyond 1975. For the lack of a map I free wheel, for the lack of knowledge I try. There might be a road that is headed for what I have to “Find”.

For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline. – 08.11.2019- דָנִיֵּאל

Innocence (Hedges & Fireflies)

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows. Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows. Quite canopied over with luscious woodbine. With sweet muskroses and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania sometime of the night. Lulled in these flowers with dances and delights.” – Shakespeare

“But I know a place where we can go and wash away these sins.”- Henley & Hornsby

Titania watches him with interest before the dawn breaks, a round of leaves within her mussed hair. She thinks to let him go might be a good thing, but she cannot. He has come to her on a mid-summers night, at the end of his innocence and he is alone.

Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, stolen by the name of ruin. Hips withdrawing, pants still falling, injustice by these fates not bloomed. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, finite too soon. Find the hedges for your hiding for the nighttime is coming soon.

He hid among the hedges, in a tunnel of which rabbits made, a long leaf filled burrow between the house and the gravel roadway. In his mind, he pictured safety, a sanctuary of play, and though he hid his body, his soul was on display. The world of summer was risen, with the night falling in, and somewhere there were angels. Watching in interest over his boyhood den. He looked through tiny windows at the darkness. A world so warm in gloom. He interlaced his fingers, and felt himself traveling further outside his self-induced cocoon. So, it was there in the twilight, far from his desert moon. He thought of all that had happened, an indiscretion born so soon.

For he hid among the hedges, in a tunnel made of thought, watching fireflies dance outside, for in truth they are more than spark. Near the point of total nighttime, when monsters bare their teeth. Silent shadows, silent wisdom, all is hidden beyond display. Not a sound in all creation, like the very first day. He lays himself still burdened lost in thoughts of the afternoon. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, stolen by the name of ruin. Hips withdrawing, pants still falling, injustice by these fates not bloomed. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, finite too soon. Find the hedges for your hiding for the nighttime is coming soon.

He hid among the hedges in a place of hideaway, watching fireflies go to heaven for a purpose in which they stayed. In the glooming, in the hedges, came the silence of the break. Just a moment there is reason, nothing happens by fair mistake. He wraps his arms in loneliness and watches his soul begin to fade. For the want of its own amusement, it hides away. Softly crying to the nighttime such a movement of a score. Led by mercy, thoughts emotions and the life we are purposed for. In the hedges, in the hedges, a place of no mistakes. In the hedges under fireflies, asleep as the dawn breaks. – 08.01.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Dragon by the Dump


“No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith.” – R.A. Salvatore

The night sky ripples in my dreams, a mixture of sun, moon and stars. Something stirs in my bloodstream, and awakens me to whom I am to become.

The spine went from west of the dump in a half circle, unapologetic in its bending latitude, king like, under sun, moon and stars. The jagged edges whispered to us as we climbed them by day and moved tilting inwardly as our feet touched them by night. Although the rains almost never touched our hidden sacred find, the winds often came ripping away the night clouds that formed a curtain on the summer sky. We ran, we walked and we sat upon the back of a dragon, and its form entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever be.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

“The fires never go out”, my friend say’s from the shadows of the dragon’s tail. He signals towards the dump with his nose, but I know he is talking about the warmth beneath his feet. “They never shall”, I whisper not sure, if I am back then, or here now speaking in my sleep. The sky seems to ripple, perhaps the fathoms of the days heat being released, more likely it is gravity protesting the movement of great silent wings. “Is it a ghost”, I whisper, thinking it might be. “No” my friend whispers back, his voice beyond my reach. For a brief moment, a bit of time that is deep in me, I see us moving upwards upon the spine of a great sand filled sea. A dragon has entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever need.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

The head of the dragon, resting so still, one eye glazed over, under moonlight, may be it is granite but still. Sometimes it was more than just a rock on that hill. Guarding that dump, that manmade swill. “Sometimes it was us”, I hear my friend whisper, and it gives me chills. For now as back then, I can still feel. The rush of the dragon, the knowing so real, there in my bloodstream, from then on until. From then on until. – 07.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Drive


“It’s like driving a car at night: you never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” – E.L. Doctorow

“Beautiful calm driving, deep-sea pearl diving”. – Sia

I suppose these are the questions and the gifts of what was youth. Bear with me a little longer, while I drive on toward the truth.

I drive around a hillside that I drove so long ago, looking to the starboard future to the left of stardust glow. It seemed just for a second I was born upon a bed, a mortal existential of what some G_D had said. In the twinkling of a lifetime, I was old and old again. It is time to drive myself homeward once again. I suppose I should speak silently, just a nod or two in sleep, or continue to just sit here on this hill, that is not so steep. Still, may I ask a question or a second if I could? For I do not wish to go on driving misunderstood.

Was it I that floated past you in the summer time, with the moon smiling wickedly at a three percent of shine? Did I seduce you, did I know you, and was I a little boy at all? Would you answer softly speaking while I drive on through to fall?

Did I not sit upon a hill of stars, falling from the spirit-filled sky, and did I not kiss them each one silently, like the apple of my eyes? And did I not change from one heart to another, of that from clay to air, and under your simple direction did I not become a man in that same air?

Did you not transmit breathe to me while you held the planets in your hand? The sound of moonlight falling over a mighty world of sand. And forever did you not caution me, without provocation to stand, boy you had better drive so carefully, so carefully when you can?

I drive around a hillside that I drove so long ago, maybe it is in the Ozarks or the desert of New Mexico, or maybe that same hillside has grown a length or two. Maybe it is now in Colorado where the mountains give a further view. For it is in the sum of all my questions, and the space I place them on, I begin to wonder oh moon of sliver lighting if you are the origin or the sum? I suppose these are the questions and the gifts of what was youth. Bear with me a little longer, while I drive on toward the truth. – 07.02.19 – דָנִיֵּאל

War and Times for a Gentle Man


“We are all ready to be savage in some cause. The difference between a good man and a bad one is the choice of the cause.” – William James

The ending of a Sabbath for a gentle man. The signs and the lessons for a gentle man. The sun rises and sets on the gentle man. When the day arrives and I seem to die, play Led Zeppelin over me. For not in a grave I will ever be. From the beginning to what is to be…

A gentle man’s immortality.

A gentle man dances in the dark, behind a curtain, oh his mind is stark, thinking not on that which brings forth love, nor does he even consider if the sun will rise above. For that gentle man thinks of worlds to be. Has he done what is right to blend a destiny? For to care outside of self is instinctual not, to hold hearts close, where they are not tied in knots. Yes, that gentle man moves with not much ease, for a train calls a sound from his inward prairie. Indeed, a gentle man is not sweet or good, baring strong sentiments of what most think he should. Not a great cut figure drawn is he, still a gentle man will he be.

There’s a mirror chained in deep waters on a ghostly sea, it reflects certain attributes a gentle mind can free. Without strength or power, or ghastly deeds, moving strong cogs of iron through ocean reeds. A gentle man can breathe, can breathe with belief, part the water of doubt with ease. Indeed, there are moments of immobility, when movement unexpected changes everything, and a gentle man looks to find someone holding a key, someone that is a she. That someone is a she.

The world becomes full of whispers for the gentle man, caressing private moments in places that he thought he would never understand. Movement in a symphony a chart of notes, a minor key in sixteen rhythms on his weakening knees. A monotone turned to a stereo vision. Six pointed seals of such mysteries. An entrance given for the mind that was not living, a thought becomes a decision. Suddenly there is something slight, a spark or two in one for the gentle man. And yes, he sees, for the rest of his life with clarity. Only the beginnings, the very depth of gentleness is G_D’s vision for he. A gentle man he will be. A gentle man he will be.

But then, and then….

The rains come down, and the war does start, and the sky turns ghastly with unimagined art. From the day well given for the night has come, and the rebel man yells, give us your father’s and your sons. Comes the battle for many, is there a man not even one? There are terrible instincts in lives of men, when their nature is built on the greed of sin, turning each woman till she can’t be turned again. For the culture rages, and it sums its end, saying there is no redemption needed for we will always win.

But give me no prophet, or new age spin. Just a sword blessed by G_D and a gentle man.

The ending of a Sabbath for a gentle man. The signs and the lessons for a gentle man. The sun rises and sets on the gentle man. When the day arrives and I seem to die, play Led Zeppelin over me. For not in a grave I will ever be. From the beginning to what is to be…

A gentle man’s immortality. – 06.23.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

4th Night Studies


And G_d made the two great lights: the greater light to rule the day, and the less light to rule the night; and the stars. And G_d set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth, and to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness; and G_d saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning, a fourth day. – Genesis 1:16-19

Once upon a time in the west, on the 4th night, before the 5th:

I left you at your doorstep, with your taste still in my mouth, and I stopped in Flora Vista with the moonlight all about. In the ruins I walked transparent with all my single lonely doubts, and the daemons reached unto me, to divert me from life’s route. And I wonder as I wander what this night is all about.

Oh, moon my moon on this dry ground, in hallowed whispers, come on down. In the night still, flies caped burdens, bringing night songs to the ground. In cloth I stand a human, watching stars they do abound. Is this night to be divided, or am I forever drowned? Oh Lord of syllable and Lord of sound, beyond my eardrum I spin around. For deeper still you come to reach me, like some lonely spirit found. Be gentle here by this ruin known, how many times have I come here alone? Still I wonder as I wander which light, I carry to my bones, still I wonder as I wander which light will shine if left alone.

This fourth day, is upon me, as the night before the fifth. Something borrowed deep in memory about the light and how it splits. My mother said, my mother told me, oh I had so far to go, oh Thursday child, was really Wednesday how that night was filled with woe.

In the ruins there was a lessor light, an angel on display, said she how it is you left me just a moment or two today. For that girl you left past star ward with her taste still in your mouth, cannot contain what G_D has for you in all your secrets and your doubts. It was a question that I wondered from that night there in the ruins, for what it was on that fourth day in the creation of my youth. Even now I walk division from the night unto the day looking forward to the greater light, not found deficient in anyway.

Once upon a time in the west, on the 4th night, before the 5th. – 06.19.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Cellar Door


Cellar door, are you open to find me, Iron ore shields remorse.
When I look, I look to your beautiful name. – Skylar Grey

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you curious without expectation, be you thrilled to be alive, explore the thin veil of the spirit, not the dry bones where they have died. Take your many steps through a tunnel, to see the other side. Know that every dark dream has an ending that ends in the sweet by and by.”

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you not afraid of cellar doors, or what the traits they hide. Many a good man has found that door protection from the tornadoes outside. Be you not of single mindedness of any issue in your life; remember every problem known to us has always had two sides. Be you not for revolutionaries, the one who rebels against the tide. Know that every rebel of the soul is a tyrant who rules his heart with pride.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he led me through a dreamscape world, my fever roaring inside. His large hands moving as he walked down the concrete steps to a cellar door with words inscribed. How I wished I could move closer, how I wished for better light, but alas this dream led mystery, without a clue or special rite. I knew right then that every virus; every blight I knew inside could stand to show me something, even in my darkest night.

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you quicker than your adversary, that devil that comes in light; know that he is part of a commandment to judge you when the day is night. Be you an ever witness to the shadows, the tricks of light, know that Mephistopheles is your left fists action while the good Lord form’s your right. In truth, there are many questions that go beyond this door. Do your best to obtain no answers until you know what the questions are for.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he turned and bent a little bit, his overalls so blue and wide, I thought him but dead just a while ago, but here he seems so much alive. In a dream that held too much fever, at least I could see inside, but still I could not read the inscription on the cellar door, standing before my pappy’s side.

I was nineteen, when I first dreamed of Pappy and the cellar door. Through the years, I have had the same dream many times. The symbols, philosophy and spiritual mysticism and eschatological character of the dream, have never been meaningful to me. To know what is beyond the iron ore door is not necessary to me. However, there is an ever-burning desire to know what is inscribed upon that cellar door. – 06.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

When Men Read


“Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself, to become what he potentially is.” – Erich Fromm

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said

When men read, they think of miracles in what’s concrete in each word. Not a thought about the whys or what fors between the lines they see no blur. When men read, they see an angel, not a one that has the curves, just a heart that has a calling, that joins her noun to all his verbs. When men read, something dark calls out to them, like a carrion sitting so adorned, they find themselves like Caesar taking Vercingetorix down in a storm. For the words float unto many a man, atop an altar made in mind, a beginning and a continued end until the angels say its time. Take you now from what is your calling, in the reading that sought your eyes, take it now and dwell on thoughts of Emerson, on the metaphysics that you know will rhyme. When men read the devil’s in the details, and that’s where the answer shines, like an oracle that calls up concrete answers, a man charts his course on time.

When men read, they remove the shadows and they use them as a blind. For when a man is hunting, he ingests what he might find. As Plotinus, said upon his return from Persia, “The world is knowable, harmonious and good“. Each man reads this as a calling in any word that breaks his mind. What of the calling you might find. When men read there are no answers, may be a sound, is all that’s near. But somewhere deep inside a man’s consciousness, they look to find a plan in fear. For if they trample most emotion, they leave just one small tear, then from that they raise a mighty reason to understand the life that appears. For a man is all incarnate in the words he reads today. He knows in all the sounds there is a calling, and that calling cannot be delayed. That calling cannot be delayed.

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said. – 5.28.2019-דָנִיֵּאל

Uninspired (A Tragedy)

Photography (all rights) by Mike Dempsey

“The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook”.-William James

We are but dust for what I see, born into life at times a tragedy. With sounds and signals from energy. As above so below in me. When this life has been set free, I will know not this vanity. I will know not this vanity. As I came, so will I leave. Uninspired.

I could write about inside dark hedges, and perhaps someday I shall, I could eek out a verse or two on sly daemons and how my future they foretell. I could take you down hidden staircases to the bottom of my wishing well. Take your hand down naked backsides to the secrets that no ghost will tell. Still in the efforts of all my verbiage from the secrets that I would spell. Craft I find brings me no lifeline, I am undersigned, uninspired and my thoughts, they have expired. Not the sight of a war-torn glory, not the sky split now in two. Not the chance of a personal story. Happy or tearful, I am not even blue. Just a shame no words come new. Though my lips are not breathing at the most tender part of you, I find I cannot write a canon or express my point of view. I am, uninspired.

I but for my breath am uninspired.

I start the story graveside up, of an old friend in my dream view. Saying words, he says to me, tell them now of you. Still with visuals spinning, inside the seal that witches use, I cannot even make a rhyme to tell you all I knew. All I knew. Even though I faced a dry spell once in past or may be two, I am tired inside and there’s so much left to do. I can write about rays of sunlight, tempting time travelers, and perhaps someday I shall. I could stir words by the feet of angels, in the lower pool where the lame were made well. Incite the verses by incantations of passion, taught by the sons of G_D in hell. Know that I think of the lyrics of all fashion, but then again I think, “Oh well”. Then again, I think, “Oh well”.

I but for my breath am uninspired.

We are but dust for what I see, born into life at times a tragedy. With sounds and signals from energy. As above so below in me. When this life has been set free, I will know not this vanity. I will know not this vanity. As I came, so will I leave. Uninspired. – 05.21.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Second World


“It’s when I die in this life, that I take refuge in a parallel world.”-Anthony T. Hincks

It came floating by just the other night, as the clock chimed three, and I thought isn’t this nice, that there’s hardly a wink before the morning light. Might as well enter in and see my other life. So, it is I pushed forth at least I thought I did, climbed a little bit and then I took a skid. Fell a step or two into a this and that, heard a note take flight, and an audience clap. For a second or two, I was in real life, then my second world gave me flight. My second world gave me flight.

In my second world, there are witches there, and they seduce me, as they comb my hair, say they unto me, we see all your dreams. Say I unto them, I choose all you please. There are twist and turns in my second world, and the once upon a time becomes a present mural, and all through the seconds as the time goes by, I think it’s kind of cool how my life has revived. For over here, is over there, and what’s majesty, is what I deem is fair. Like a spoiled child, I spell my wants in the air, in the second world no one cares. In my second world no one cares.

I heard a band that played in my second world, a song was played just for me. In the glen of trees, in my second world, where the mist comes down, and pirate flags unfurl. Heard a fender play pomp and circumstance, as a trail was blazed to a crystal sea. A special occasion on my graduation, from a pawn to a king as I spread my wings, and saw what I could see. Yes, I said to myself as the lights displayed, shining bright as day, found myself dancing naked on a mountain stage. Who would ever think that I am made this way? One-part man, and one foot in a magic grave, all that G_D made for me. In a second world. Let the music play on and on, let me leap and twirl in my second world. In my second world.

As I typed just now, I saw my second world, spinning by taking me for a whirl. For a second or two, or a life reprieved, I found myself just a boy so free. A Hardy Boy in a mystery, finding answers all around me, of what it meant to be me. I found through it all I was free to choose to be me, in my second world. In my second world.

And, I….

Loved and I loved

and I loved some more,

and I christened my life,

and I loved much more,

and I found my second worlds, back door. It became my first world’s core. In my first world’s world. -05.10.2019-דָנִיֵּאל

 

 

Highway 491 (Were Still Here)


“No one is actually dead, until the ripples they cause in the world die away.” – Terry Pratchett

“We’re still here We’re shadows fallin’ the night is callin’ again We’re still here Where love is runnin’ the night is calling, again (Brother to brother)” – Steve Perry

Steve Perry is singing “Were Still Here” The words move through my thoughts, taking up association with the visuals from a troubling dream of the previous night. There have been many dreams lately. Too many. Visitations from unknown parts. Voices and faces from different times, different places, gathering it seems still here it seems on Highway 491, that highway in my head.

I watched them turn in a distant memory, a friend or two within my head; they stood upon the precipice of my thoughts shimmering and looked straight ahead. The night closed in with all its mystery, the stars moved circles around their heads. For I probed the devil’s triangle in my soul for they were no longer dead. “Still” I ask, “oh why the stillness?” “Is this the answer that you had?” “When you drove the sprite’s highway, with a holster packing lead.” A way fare that you both paid duly, not aware of interest due. A lost account when the sun rose ruefully, there you lay, life shed. There you lay, life shed.

Be gone, I sometimes ask the nighttime, when such scenes are played. Dreams they shouldn’t be of lesson, that of fright or dismay. I do not want to ask or wonder why such friends would leave such way. It seems a crime they stray on highways. Lost alone in May. Faces white with questionable worry, lost alone, where daemons roam. Hardly seen by modern travel, my friends, my friends you are still alone. “Still” I ask, “oh why the stillness?” Bone to dust your bodies gone, yet you distress me, for somethings wrong. In hours of morning, with springtime here, I see you driving your eyes bright and clear. On down a highway named 491, those numbers cover the shadow of the beast; those numbers cover the shadow of the beast.

Oh, mortal frames that break in two, unwitting minds of careless youth. That star you followed with its red face, led you forward on too fast a pace. It is some mystery, my dreams that see, you are waiting, waiting so patiently. Yet your mouths, cannot speak. “Oh G_D”, I ask, with weakened thought, brought on by darkness and turmoil wrought. “What is their place within my life, what is the meaning for which I now write”? “What is the meaning for which I now write”?

For there they stand by the highway, that eternal highway that runs at nighttime through my head. That eternal highway that runs at nighttime through my head.

For Jason & Tom and so many others, in my dreams on Highway 491, how I miss each one of you . – 05.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Lonnie & Truman

Sometimes when you have no better sense, and you are seeking a lonely place, you can drive out past Akron, where Highway U crosses the strait. A place that has not changed much since 1948. A murmuring of spirits, a train that digs for bones. What you hear when you listen closely is a couple driving home, and a voice that is heard from darkness. A voice that carries no gray. “Come for love has earned you, a leaning to my arms, for here you’ll be together, no worlds can do you harm”.

“Lonnie” say’s Truman, “there’s a full moon tonight, hanging upside down against this steel bound track.” “The world is shimmering yellow and it brings a truth to the facts, of where we are tonight.” “The devil’s in the details but the moon paints your eyes.” “Oh Lonnie it is such a lovely light. Well Lonnie just smiles and points her tongue at the sky, and with the light wind blowing, it makes her dress blow tight. In truth, she looks just like the fair girl that he kissed one April night, long ago, when the full moon bathed the night. In the distance leaves a thudding sound of a workhorse pounding might, over Eastern Colorado, moving grain throughout the night.  Its lone light sweeps the scrub-land, painting a long row of cross ties, twenty miles on to Brush and then turn right.

“Truman” says Lonnie, “it seems so cold out here, and I know we are feeling April, but it’s January in here”. Truman watches Lonnie draw with fingers around her heart, and he says, “Now there, now there, my Lonnie don’t you fear”. The scene it plays beneath the heavens on a lonely stage, of dark, where Lords and Daemons come to judge and swirl under stars as they spark. Destiny and choice, they barely talk from the start, as they watch the couple where they lay. Decorum holds its head above all that is displayed, and watches a single second hand upon a universal clock in play. For nothing holds to purpose until the day breaks, and this single hour is weighed.

“Lonnie” say’s Truman, “I thought I heard a train, it seems even now the whistle carries through my brain.” I know it probably not the time to tell this or explain.” “I love you with all my heart”. “Truman, oh my Truman”, says Lonnie with her soft smile, “I feel my cold leaving with your words, oh so worthwhile”. “I think that angels might carry me right up from off this track.” “Forget all explanations till our Lord brings us on back.” For it is with these last words and smiles, that rise from a human dismay, that a voice is heard from darkness, with words that carry no gray. “Come for love has earned you, a leaning to my arms, for here you’ll be together, no worlds can do you harm”. – 04.26.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Ghost in the Cathedral


“Hear, O Israel: the LORD is our God, the LORD is One.”

A dream on April 15th………

“It is well” my dad whispers as he sketches the Cathedral, the details designed from the nape to the great stone that shelters the moving shadows in the Roman portico. “Are there ghost here”, I whisper, thinking the answer I might receive might not be kind. “They are here” he whispers back, continuing to manipulate the pencil on his long white draught tablet, his face the color of angels, that of peace, that moves rough rivers to find a better course. My dad, the dad I know no more, a spirit, a moving light in darkness, moves his right hand with flourish finishing the left arch that covers the holy of holies.

“I will put daemons on the outside of this sanctuary,” he says, his now inhuman glowing blue eyes giving the appearance of a shelter, he was unable to offer while yet he was breathing. “Why”, I ask, the question knowing the answer to come. Still, the inquiry helps me hear my own voice. It sounds passive, and echoing, as if in a great hall. “They help us to know possibilities”, my dad mutters, turning drawing rapidly something that stands still, noticeable only to his eyes. His immortal eyes.

“It is well”, my dad whispers, baring the image of something alien upon his arms. They are moving images of creatures, alien beast that move to guard a sanctuary. Perhaps it is they guard a throne, a host, or a plan sketched of what is to come. “What of the ghost” I ask the spirit that speaks as my father. “They are here”, my dad laughs suddenly, as his eyes turn a cobalt cold, color of ethereal energy that moves between worlds.

He draws them then, with quickness, a suddenness that interrupts the troubled thoughts I have. They sit in silence, in quiet death, their bodies in sanctuary, their souls’ deep wells, not troubled by belief or ideology. “They rest”, my dad says, his voice moving to other places. Perhaps mysterious places where bleeding stops. Perchance that place “John Lennon” imagined, with no religion too.

“I would go there, also” I whisper to my dad, this dad who roughs great divine basilicas. “I would climb past these ghosts, I would Passover“, I say, as the night moves in and out of that consciousness that is my soul. “I cannot make it so”, my dad smiles, the same unavailability suddenly present within him, as it was in life. He moves then his pencil moving furiously over the pad he carries with him, and I understand. I know without worry, and I am concerned no more. My life passes beyond cathedrals, celestial and even divinity. It spins so often out of control. Nevertheless, they are there, ghost sketched in great cathedrals, daemons of awe sculpted by my dad’s awl, that help me know deep possibilities. Thoughts that are not bound to past or future. Still it is well, oh Hashem it is well with my soul.

“It is well”, my dad whispers.

For Notre Dame That still smolders this night.
– 04.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

White Sands


“The wind it paints your face, as it stirs the shifting sand. Nightmare creatures closing in, they leave at your command. Fading lady light, always here with me, singing your song in the wind at night.” – Jeannette Sears

She is a faded lady in the arid early morning, a patch of dream torn from its unconscious birth, a soft passionate cry in the gypsum sand, where ghost lay their hands upon me and breathe light.

It was in April, that much I remember, well a quarter moon too, there is a memory of that. Perhaps the more I think about it, the more that appears. Those cascading fragments of thought, that drift at first unpieced. Those parts like a jigsaw puzzle, that flow afraid to touch, until the hippocampus is stretching at its very seams, and much like some messiah on a cross you cry out, “Take this cup”. And then it happens from various places in the cortex, a wholeness begins, a picture, a sound, smells and then a story. A beautiful story filled with “white Sands“.

The sands hold a picture that is still hard to find, of something that found me on once upon a time. To see it all now comes to me fleetingly. Perhaps a soft breath that touches my teeth. A buried illusion that comes as a tease. A finger down my spine, when there is no one but me. A vision of eyes turned to stars in a sea, a coven of seven dipping to sweep. The dunes of infinity revealing the keys. Oh, Megrez and Mizar they sing a chorus at first louder, than so silently. The place of death angels, atomic degrees. Whispers by slumber the puzzle recedes. A swath of her garment, as she passes by me, her home in this desert a white sand filled sea. What account can be printed until I finally believe. Memory my memory, come to serve me. Memory my memory, come to serve me.

The questions I have asked, that still haunt my belief. When I took a journey of solace in spring. Slept upon White Sands, under a breeze. Saw shadows and graces that circled beneath, the light of the heavens, the chill of the night. The cosmos of magic, that changed me somehow, made me different under odd lights. For if I could take a minute, relive a single breath. I would be in April my body laying helpless on White Sands. Under heavens probing stare.

Perhaps in this nighttime, as I lie on my bed, hearing my thoughts of distant memories unsaid. The puzzle will gather, and pour through a glass. The memoirs of mystery, a swirling soft quest. That led me to sit up that night on the sand, and welcome the spirits of light to come in. To welcome the spirits of light to come in.

She is a faded lady in the arid early morning, a patch of dream torn from its unconscious birth, a soft passionate cry in the gypsum sand, where ghost lay their hands upon me and breathe light. – 04.11.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Songbird (OCD)


“My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened” – Michel de Montaigne

I tell him he’s a songbird when he’s terrified, not a simple canary, no not that. Rather he’s a Hawk, a screaming raptor, that hunts symphony, that looks through the patterns of confused stanzas, and bad timing, and finds perfection. For he, this son of mine is perfection. He has flown to great heights, and yes, he has skimmed the valley floors. Tasted clay, envisioned horror. It is there we begin.

First it comes when he’s dreaming, and it takes the dream away. In its moves insidious it turns water into clay. It wraps the things up he loves to do and binds them first with string. Layer upon layer it then becomes rope and finally barb wire that stings. It tests the singing of his angels, until their sound becomes such pain. Night after night they come until, he holds his head screaming as if he’s insane. It blocks off every open space to make a puzzle of dark disdain. “For everything there is an answer”, It whispers, “it’s a fire to a flame”. “Turn the lock just one more time to drive that itch away”. He has heard there are many troubles and diagnosis of mental ache, but nothing beats the worn-out torture of neon thoughts of personal pain.

Sometimes he mourns the private artist that person who rode his silent range. A wild boy inside chasing rainbows so playful in his games. Then it came and brought its people, the nightmares of made up shame. Twisted turned, and bound his anger made his pathway narrow and strained.

I tell him he’s a songbird, in a deep, dark mine, finding the right, tracing invisible paths of oxygen until he breaks into the light of day. Then he’s a raptor, a bird who seeks prey, and he rescues that which was long ago taken away.

I know for now he looks at trouble, at daemons night and day, those thoughts of dripping blood and agony, he wishes would just go away. I wish it too as his Dad, I wish I could take them away, but damn it G_D expects him to fly and challenge what’s in his way. For there is no amount of medicine or therapy that can heal what is a shade. That, is the road of what was chosen by another lord of judgement gray.

For now, I tell him he’s a songbird, that sings a note that’s unheard in the fray, a melody that will soon turn into lightning, and strike the fright to day. When all the world has stopped to listen, his mind storms arranged and stayed.  This thing that takes his pleasure will  bend to his vision, and he will be okay.  My songbird will be okay . – 04.02.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Arthurian (Owl Canyon)


“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.” –Albert Einstein

The ghost sum together in the thin early morning beam of light. Their spirits look like a sharpened sword streaking across the sky burying its point into the western red rock face of the canyon. Owls returning to their nest underneath the cliffs, circle the blade of light until it shows buried to its hilt, forming the brief illusion of a star of light.

On my knees,

In the canyon of the owls of purgatory, those that see what I cannot see. Comes the scepter reaching forward by the grace of what is she. Is your sun a path of mercy, cross those eastern skies it springs. Thus I pray, let me be silent, before your turning majesty.  By thy quietness, in thy beauty, what must I see that you bequeathed?  Is it something predatory wanting blood from me? Are you wisdom, are you creepy, do you celebrate disharmony? Are you like that old story from my childhood, thine is the glory, I a servant beneath thy feet? So here, I kneel feeling foolish in Owl Canyon, with a light that I see. Translucent inside of me.

On my knees,

In this canyon, there are lions, those that hunt incessantly. They are archetypes of the dragon when they run, their kill they see. Nevertheless, no lion do I see, no not nothing of a mission for me. What would you have me do, without a faith or knighthood? Should I pray thy angels down? With what would I speak, when I feel my soul has drowned? Underneath thy open skies, with what should I see? The best in this canyon I feel is an inner child of mediocrity. Adonai reverse this sight for me. It is so hard not to see. Impatience rules the man in me.

On my knees,

The rising sun gathers a thin cloud across its midriff, casting a long dark belt of a shadow across the western red rock face of the canyon. Above the dark division, the rocks glow red as if they are breathing fire. Below the shadow cast a prism of colors, as if a rainbow is cast upon the lower rim of the canyon wall. For all the lack of vision, for all the willingness to try, still I have been given a sign, a promise, and a knighthood.

On my feet,

In this still canyon, early spring light bathing me. “Adonai”, Thine the glory of my question, thine that is my destiny. “Adonai”, Thine the glory of my question, thine that is my destiny. In this still canyon, early spring light bathing me. – 03.28.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל 

While Playing Hooky


“How can I possibly be expected to handle school on a day like this?” – Ferris Bueller

“We’re off to the witch, we may never never, never come home,
but the magic that we’ll feel is worth a lifetime” – Ronnie James Dio

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left in this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

Two heads we see, headed west, down a sunbaked path; one with brown hair, the other a black mess. The sun falls fast on this single day of spring, shooting down through the heavens, bringing something on its wings. It would appear the burdens carried from a year of math and art. Now are loose without a feeling. For these boys walk without an arc. Why there shoes made by converse, leave hardly a trace. As they carry sacks of lunch and knowledge to the place of secret things. “School is not made for the living”, one boy cries unto the air, and they both laugh without smiling for the truth is there somewhere. For a moment, let us watch them still frozen in time. In their purity shimmering, moving onward in this rhyme.

Let us look at the picture that is painted from above. A numbered highway in the background, beyond it scrubland wild with yucca, dryland arroyos, lie open, writhing with their scars. Down the path that leads us westward lies a rusted oil tanker and two old cars. It is a graveyard of a shadow of another place tomorrow. For it is tomorrow where they go, a bit of yesterday, and as the clouds flow from the east, they turn their backs, and begin to walk to stray. Indeed, we see them avoid a snake his triangle head of spotted gray. “No matter it all”, one boy he brays, the other sings out, “we missed our school today”. A matter of steps a slight incline, the scrubland rolls out, and dips and divides. At last we watch the two boys much slower, reach the rusted oil tanker, the place they know they will soon grow much older.

For here, it is we cannot grow nearer, the picture shimmers, dances, and glimmers. A place were two boys search for cracks in what is sutured. Finding doors that open, on order, past and future. Ruins discovered in place. Veils ripped from openings, alien voices calling out from deep to deep. It is the discovery of the last of days. It is here they come to play. If we could venture a thought of what they find, inside compartments of an old oil tanker way past its prime. Could they go where one has not been, could they find the way past when? Is there blackness beyond the divide, or have they found the path to the divine.

“That picture looks like us”, one boy says, a film of cool perspiration resting upon his brow. The thick darkness inside the front compartment of the tanker surrounds the thin beam of the flashlight. It gives the feeling of a tomb. “It could be us”, the other boy says softly.” His voice carries a soft echo through the oval opening into the next compartment. It is there; we look and see a sudden wind created. We watch as it lifts itself backwards through another opening, and then upwards through the open hatch, as if with a sudden relief.

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

For my eighth grade English teacher Mrs. Howey, who charged me to read the classics fearlessly, and to write as if I were mad. I will forever carry the guilt of disappointing her by playing hooky on the final day of school in the spring of 1974. In her aggrieved state, I have always hoped to share with Mrs. Howey that I was indeed engaged in research for how to do both of the charges thus listed above. – 03.22.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

 

Marriage


After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.” – Mark Twain

Our marriage is like a shelter.

Our marriage is as Don Quixote heaped with scorn.

Our marriage is like a great man o’ war with sails unfurled.

Our marriage is as “Allegri Miserere” performed at 3:00 A.M.

Our marriage is abstract before concept, a dismissed preposition, built upon an article of fact.

Our marriage is like a shelter. Our marriage is like a shelter.

There is a falling angel with eyes like glass, bringing fire for our journey to the world we cast. For we float on many waters of times to come, and we search each other’s motives with an iron rung. For we are one, under this shelter, we are one.

I wake, eyes wide, from smoky dreams, of tattered wings falling from beams. I wake in morning of the year’s just past, I harbor that vision of yesterday, dwelling my eyes, upwards while kneeling as to pray. What there does fall, and consume rare air, fall at fifteen past two before the altar stair. Just the years before, before my words “I shall”. How it warmed my face with a bit of touch, then brushed right past me to a bridal veil.

Those years before, when I looked up high in a sanctuary and saw no sky. Imperceptible in quiet, below, rafters’ brown in tongue and groove, flew a rarer angel who with burning glass eyes flew. Came a lustrous fire upon the gentle head, swaying to my side, such a beautiful head. In all those words strung by to and fro, a lighter rhyme off our tongues they flow. Written by earth bound hands and spoke with ease, now they mark my soul a façade I see. Now in this morning of the years just past. Something in those rafters reaching so fast.

For it seems the years before brought something new. Not the voices inside, the ones I always knew. But a visual aspiration, from a king’s held cup. A curse or a blessing, but it is always enough. A premonition that would lose its way floating through the years of marriage until it was almost decayed. Once or twice to rise, when forgotten enough, just a kind reminder, of the host with wings above. To speak clear words in the dust and binge, when the modern worlds about us, and we cannot remember why or when. The shelter of sorrow, with hands held close, our entwined fingers tighter than if they were sewn. And if I look just up above, toward the ethereal of heaven, where most see a dove. For I see a raven with fire in its beak headed towards kingdoms for those we yet seek. What comes to me just as that first day, when I said, “I shall”, and two in one we came away.

There is a falling angel with eyes like glass, bringing fire for our journey to the world we cast. For we float on many waters of times to come, and we search each other’s motives with an iron rung. For we are one, under this shelter, we are one.

Our marriage is like a shelter. Our marriage is like a shelter.

For Susan who has put up with me for 26 years under the glassy eyes of the angel. – 03.13.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Occultavia (1988)


“Because no retreat from the world can mask what is in your face.” – Gregory Maguire

“What is strange, when the strangest things are born from G_D.” – DS

I thought for a moment that it could be the late hour, the tricks of the night on the eye, the curves of the highway. I thought too much on it at first, and then I thought not on it at all, as the hillside parted, and that which was movement moved.

The space around her appeared barren, the frozen fog closing gaps around her lithe figure, changing not it’s form, yet somehow it changed. That she was the first witch, that I knew, and although there is reason that I should have known it not, yet in that late hour it became a part of me, something in reflection, I would rather it be not.

The years since then, that is something most would address, those many years since I saw, that cold dark spirit. She there in the wood. Still, so still near the highway. She in shadow, not a tale. Not a figment of thought to frighten young children on eves of reckoning. Rather she a witch, a true shadow in the leaves on that winter night. Standing with arms unfolded, inviting. Her song in alien syllables not of this world, but of that which we do not see until we die. But yes, it is the years since then I now address, and I do so carefully, for I think I have seen her once again in the corners of my dreams, and in that I think there is something I should see not.

I could describe that night, in detail, the Ozark mountain highway, the very monochrome world that I drove through. The cold, the moment KFAQ out of Tulsa, went silent, that bend in the road. That place where giants were born from falling angels, after the flood, after Ha Adam. The sifting of red clay and rich dark sediment, where the flood began, and ended. I could tell you all. Still, all would not describe her, standing there at 3:04 A.M. The first witch in darkness. The first witch I have ever seen.

It is written for I cannot say it aloud, that, my darkest thoughts contain G_D. It is in those thoughts that I am judged, for as my name beholds, G_D is my judge. Also, in my thoughts, those darkest thoughts, stands a witch, the first witch. She too implores and judges, and often, as my life moves, I do as I should not, and I look if only briefly into my mirror.

She runs, with her billowing swaths of black cloth moving all around her, she follows chasing, frost and cold about her. and her face I pray, oh her face I pray, I never ever see. – 02.25.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Clouds


“The pillar of cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, departed not from me.” – Exodus 13:22 (Paraphrased DS)

“There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, ‘Consume me’.” – Virginia Woolf

It is a wee voice, a small murmur like that gift of calling to Father Samuel, the end of a whisper as it falls to reprieve. It is a hum, a syllable or two not known by any tongue. An undertow that pulls with its sound. For it is a question, and everywhere the sky is painted, with colors and clouds. It is a wee voice, and it comes from many clouds.

The boy stands at the canyon, the one that lures him in. The curious art he sees in the obscurities, the mysteries without end. He ask himself a question, a personal thought within. Where does the course carved by this river have a source to begin? Am I to be like this canyon, carved and butchered below a skyward facing rim?

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

The young man stands near the ocean, the one that dares him swim. The twisted patterns he sees in its never-ending currents. The dark water appears so dim. Greater than the tempest, an octave of torrents. The face of Lilith looking up from a vast and pale vale. A moment or two of indecision, a fear of drowning in depths that have never seen the stars. He ask himself a question, of which not a word begins with when. Who calls to me? Who calls to me? Am I to be within this water? Dead and plummeting without breath.

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

The gray haired man stands on a mountain, above and below some clouds, he sees. It appears just a moment or a prospect to close his eyes and disappear for eternity. The wind has the sound of spirit voices, the eagle it swoops in vain. Somewhere close just nigh of heaven up here, the rocks echo a name. He ask himself a question. Is my destiny still the same? Is my destiny still the same? Am I to fly home into these heavens, finally to be consumed by your flame?

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

It is a wee voice, and it comes from many clouds. – 02.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

In the Library


“Oh, my G_D how profound are these mysteries!” – John Dee

Kelley holds the shew-stone with the mist forming fast. The white vapors shoot upwards around the volumes on upper shelves and form a circle as if to task. The days are still some colder but the winter will not always last, voices moving in their language, numbers show me, show me, something past.

For what is the speech of angels?

I set upon a voyage in a hinterland of sleep, a cauldron of air so cold at first, I thought I would freeze. A self-taught journey from places of the deep, to find the ever after answer in the library of John Dee. Symbols all around me some painted legend in the sky, a coat of many colors as millennium flew by. The whispers of the angels said they were drawing nigh, and then my soul dropped from the star filled sky. Like the star, not yet of morning, summoned to a rite of old, my bare feet feel so frozen in the library I well know. It is about the phantoms, and it is about the truth, the long search of the symbols to find if what angels speak is truth. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

For here among this sceptered place, with pages from strange worlds, candles burn until morning light, all time has come unfurled. The figures of the two men turn as if to see, but then I see them looking upwards, they do not see me. The coven of the angels falls without light or human sound, they whisper in the shadows who is willing, to stand higher ground. Their bodies are like different lights, some common, some spark with sound. It could be some are seraphim, some light daemons who have come unbound. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

I stood so indecisively, surveying an unreal play. The ghost of Dee and Kelley asked their questions from a book displayed. An esoteric experiment, to know the power of G_D, to wonder at the wisdom, imparted in what they caught. The scene of simple symbols invoking that realm in which the angels play, to not know that they had reached any reason, only the gray at the end of the day. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

So, this is a little something that happens now and then, I disappear in airs of thought to a library where time stands still. I ask the light around me what is that of shapes and wills, and still I have no answer, and perhaps I never will. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

For what is the speech of angels? – 01.30.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Blue Forest (Two)


“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” – John Muir

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for myself and a long forgotten youthful twin!

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin. “The late hour it whispers, is over, the morning is never to have been, and nightfall has come forth to show you a strange forest”. “Rise in your place let’s begin.” I wondered at this kind of slumber, awake or a dream held within. For surely it was as a time I remembered that happens over and over again. For just a second, I thought it illusion, a discording thought of dissonance within. But then the sweet kisses touched all my body. What inner wounds inside sewn, a healing began? As soft sounds sang, I traveled millennium, both forwards and backwards, my spirit extends. To see that place a child called a forest, blue with light, a place I had been. The two of us stand in our glory; mist about the mystic begins. A thousand lights the magic starts again.

Day upon day, my life seems to tremble, so shy in its way, so much trouble it seems. An opera plays Faust with marching daemons, sticking their bloodthirsty knifes in me deep. Suffering thoughts of infinite worry, anxiety, fears there seems no relief. Still, still a thought pervades all this darkness, making its way to the core of my belief. Two is you, tied to survival; night has come, now learn to believe. Night has come, fly forth to receive.

So easily thought of in childhood survival, the blue forest hides as each year passes by, but somewhere in mercy, there sits a kind angel. At night she arrives in my memory she fly’s. Goodbye, I go, the journey enabled, to the blue forest, a memory of trees. Open clock doorways to worlds and their fables, journey I journey with the boy, I know just beside me. Ever this land has brought my heart nearer to something or someone G_D means me to be.

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin, that sleeps next to me. It is so cold outside but here it is like April, teasing and pulling me saying come please. Arrayed by sight, led until I am able to know what is right, in front of me. Paths that gleam white in the blue forest. So many trails, which one shall it, be. A moment a knight, a sword on a quartz table. A sign that says pull forth and be free. Be stronger now and let the child see. What’s two in one G_D has set free.

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for I and a long forgotten youthful mind! – 01.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Whiteclay


“Civilization has been thrust upon me… and it has not added one whit to my love for truth, honesty, and generosity”. – Luther Standing Bear

“What must we do, has become what must I do?” – DS

And he looks away!

He sees Whiteclay as immortal sometimes, and perhaps it is. A Northern Nebraska indention between the world of his ancestors and the fifth of Wild Turkey he holds in the very palm of his hand. He feels Whiteclay as an empty faced angel scorching the earth in January, alkali and snow mixing, bringing death to the valley grounds. So cold in winter, there’s not a sound, except the sighing of the last breath of the defeated.  The indigenous, such a nice progressive word, for the itómni man leaving town. The mist it rises barely, over worn blankets hiding flesh, their bottles around them giving unto them a twenty-second century rest. And for the record Bruce Springsteen you can go home, for your song Nebraska, does not come close to atone. Your culture of murder, and thrills. Nothing is real in these Nebraska hills.

And he looks away!

For a million stars that have fallen from this cold sky. A million spirits that failed to gray and die. Look away, he sometimes hears them say. Born to die, die in Whiteclay. And sometimes late night, when he’s so drunk, his greatest grandfather comes riding bareback on the back of a thirteen-point buck. His eyes are smoking, and his feathers gray and black. He speaks in languages that the old ones hid away. Sounds and syllables from way back. In his tongue there is no variance or broken sound, just a rushing river of the winds from the south. The questions he wonders the ones he should ask, always seem to stick in his mind, as his greatest grandfather looks back. For in the morning when he awakes there is no greatest grandfather, only the empty bottle in Whiteclay, and his headache.

And he looks away!

He sees Whiteclay as a metaphor, for the coming future for the whole damn war. For the differences between what has been and the future apocalypse for agnostic sin. He knows it is a place in a state of mind for the drunken Indian that has lost his mind. But somewhere in the springtime when it is not so cold and bare, sometime when the first grass starts to bare, then if he’s alive, he will start again. To drive north from Whiteclay to where this war began. In the dead of night, he will sing a song, do a little ghost dance till the dead of dawn. And from the point of past of where he might have been, he will look away from demons and try to rise again. And then he will toss the bottle of his greatest sin, and he will look away. Finally, he will look away.

And he looks away! – 01.14.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Shekinah


“I am the mother and the daughter. I am the bride and the bridegroom, and it is my husband who begot me. I am the silence that is incomprehensible and the idea whose remembrance is frequent. I am the voice whose sound is manifold and the word whose appearance is multiple. I am the utterance of my name.” – Sorita d’Este

“I am beautiful with you” – Lizzy Mae Hale

She said would you try something with me, a favor of a curiosity of mine. A wager between a man and something, I think I read about this in one of your rhymes. Would you come in ecstasy with me, and ride your way across the great divide? All I need is for you to lay your soul down beside me, and sleep with me through your night. She said my needs have built up like your phantoms, those daemons that stroke what they find. Nothing can be built on indecision, and to be without you I would lose my mind. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

And I looked to see the falling mountains, the ones that had been inside my mind. In front of me, there stood no dark valley, just a land of milk and honey and sunshine. Then she came out glorified in me, like a gift of pleasure given in kind. There were spells, sounds, and the feeling of her breath, carving hallelujah on my spine. The chills of a mystical lettering branded from past times. Something that dwelled deep within me beyond the X’s and the O’s. Moving so far beyond my boundaries, a warmth in passion and grace undefined. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

She said would you marry Shekinah under moonlight; know the light of my body, it’s by design. Take a branch out of David and fill me up, know I am beautiful when you are inside. For my ways are in love with your shadows, your hurts are scars, that I heal in your mind. Come bath with me, do not wait until tomorrow, make one out of two, it is more than a rhyme. For we are much more than lovers, we are greater than lust of the world that binds. From left to right, I am a source inside you, make me beautiful, and now is the time. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine. – 01.11.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Owls


“The owl,” he was saying, “is one of the most curious creatures. A bird that stays awake when the rest of the world sleeps. They can see in the dark. I find that so interesting, to be mired in reality when the rest of the world is dreaming. What does he see and what does he know that the rest of the world is missing?”  – M.J. Rose

“I am an owl“, he says, his eyes taking on an oval shape, as he stars down the sandy slope at the empty dark highway stretching below us. “Me too”, I say looking up hoping to catch a glimpse of one. The moon a waning crescent above us looks like a perfectly clipped finger nail. “What do you think’s going on tonight”, he asks his eyes still carrying the look of the night predator. “Death”, I reply to him, not sure where the reply comes from. I look down the dark highway and see faint lights coming from the West. “It’s a blue Pontiac” he says his owl eyes knowing. “That’s one”, I say as if we are counting. The New Mexico night opens itself, as if a barren womb, or an open crypt both asking for occupation. I know this as an owl.

“I see something”, he says his owl eyes suddenly becoming more human, tearing up. His Navajo cheeks glisten with two competing tears rolling parallel to each other. “Hush now”, I say bending forward to hide my own glistening eyes. “Owls do not cry”. A wind picks up blowing its way from the Northeast, from the twin peaks, from area’s Northeast of Farmington. “Smells like death”, I say, my owl senses burning with something like fire. “We should be able to do something”, he says almost a statement, still it has the words of a question.

“Another car coming from Shiprock”, I say, the light breeze having boomeranged carries the faint smell of exhaust. My owl senses are alive. “It’s a blue hearse”, he says, his voice carrying huskiness, suddenly he no longer sounds like a young owl. “That’s two, I say, feeling a chill through my down, that spirit which surrounds me, that which will soon be feathers.

“Is it too early for chokecherries”, I ask, knowing that it is. Still a hungry owl might ask a question. “Owls don’t eat chokecherries”, he grimaces, his owl eyes looking distances beyond Farmington. “Some have been known to die by the stems”, he says. Some would die tonight, I think, my owl mind feeling sad, and not so wise, perhaps it’s the sudden distant sounds of screams, the smell of blood. “Perhaps its chindi“, he says his owl eyes turning creamy. That yellow that reflects the falling stars, while we die. That color that wonders if the Great Spirit will catch us as we cross-worlds, wondering what we are, wondering who she is.

“Are you still an owl”, I ask, it is colder now, morning of a new day. He waits a moment, perhaps waiting for the driverless blue Ford pickup with one headlight to pass in front of us. “That’s number three”, he says, without answering my pointless question. “Three died tonight, while we counted cars”, I say sweeping the span of my wings upwards toward the moving sky. He is moving with me now, my friend and fellow owl, our spirits moving higher, reaching to touch understanding of that which can never be understood.

On Sunday, April 21, 1974, the bodies of two men, Herman Dodge Benally, 34, and John Earl Harvey, 39 were found partially burned and bludgeoned in an area Northeast of Farmington New Mexico known as Chokecherry Canyon. The men’s heads had been crushed with rocks weighing as much as 16 pounds. One-week later two children riding bikes in the vicinity discovered a third body, David Ignacio, 52. All three men were Navajo. Some 11.2 miles to the southwest of Chokeberry Canyon two boys played in the darkness near 550 highway while the horrific events mentioned above played out. I still remember that night; we became owls and counted cars, all of them blue.

From the first moment I heard “Counting Blue Cars” in 1995 I knew I would write this story one day. Thank you J.R. Richards – 01.08.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Christmas Hallows


“And so, at this Christmas time, I greet you; not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem, and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.” —Fra Giovanni Giocondo

I prefer to think of “hallow” in a verb tense, to honor as holy. We all deserve that I believe. To have our special times, thoughts and loves holy, hallowed. A special place between death and the awesome light of G_D’s plan, and what better time than Christmas to celebrate this moment. – D.S.

When I think of Christmas, I’ll think of this day, Mr. Clapton singing, how somehow love can’t stay. Still it seems a mystery, a divining plan, how in Christmas hallows, love can take a stand. Every truth is wonder, how we struggle to find, a deeper love or meaning, when its in us all the time. History revolves around us, here in peace on earth, the myth might be a baby, still we celebrate a birth. For something in these Christmas hallows is something with each of us that stays, perhaps the prayer of memory of tender moments strayed. Falling cold around us, I wish it would snow today. That would make these Christmas Hallows seem like Christmas day.

Somewhere there’s a story written on one hand, I think the inks still drying, it’s a dream I don’t understand. Of a place or story, a certain promised land, traveled to on Christmas. Lost and found again. May be Mr. Clapton found it on a day when his son went falling his spirit went away. Now in Christmas Hallows a round and round it goes, asking for our memory, saying don’t let go. Asking for our memory saying please, oh please don’t let go.

When I think of Christmas, I move as if to stray, suddenly, it’s a far time, long so long away. I am just a young boy in 1978, looking through a glass darkly, so much I can’t say. Wandering through a long hall, one without a way, is it just a dream, knowing that I’m changing, loosing childhood memories in hallows, gone for good on Christmas Day. Every moment meaning, a skip a carol unsung, do you know this feeling, to leave this earth? Rise yourself in Christmas, watching all your memories in reverse.

We are all just children beyond our age, thinking we are special near Christmas Day. Bringing forth our hallows of one time delayed. Yes, it comes at Christmas, a ghost, a space, asking us for something to give away. Just like Mr. Clapton, our sorrows in hand, asking for forgiveness from a light which draws us with it’s plan you see, draws us everyone with its plan. 12.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Zuzan (Banrigh nan Witches)


“I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, send the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer’s sky.” – Tibullus

In the act of prelude…

They burn her in the evening near the loch, an inward sea, hairless pilgrims from the Romans, who cannot abide what they cannot see. For they know not love of difference, nor the signs of transformation, so they burn her near the sunset, to set their superstitions free. Maple red it lights the skyway, like her skin in faire degrees, with the screams of a thousand angels as above and below deceived. For she is the heir of hierarchy, the share of all unseen. The voices of her sirens cry come forth thou, my craft it is aggrieved.

First act of the evening…

First I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve, with the air filled full of wonder, lights around her face and feet. She made me think of some wickedness the kind that is so grand, where you watch the pleasure of a lady, delivered by a softened hand. It seemed she did not notice me, where I was or what I am and it led me to a reason, that I was dreaming or a familiar, from an ancient tribe or clan. In the garden there were statues both alive and some were dead, and not alone some were speaking, and from those her mind seemed fed. And, she laughed in grand gaiety, and smiled her lips so bloody red, and she brought forth life from a cold stone woman, with a kiss upon her hand. Above the snow had stopped falling and shown bright north stars in those snowflakes stead. Not a sound from this garden except the laughter from her mouth, forming spells in passion noises, eagerness building all about.

I saw her look back shyly, her hand it waved my way, the brown ringlets from her brown hair fine, glistened as she swayed. Come with me sweet surveyor within my mind a voice. She led me to a crypt nearby from in it came a noise. She bent the handle without effort and with her hand, she waved, back through time, we entered through a doorway once her grave. The night sky seemed to follow, well before the dawn, down through magic passageways, from whence ghost travel from whence they come. Her body moved so lightly, as so as if to say, nothing has ever owned me, not ever without my say. For with this in mind I traveled from a present course, and arrived back in time so ancient she led me without force.

I came upon an altar in a sudden winters gloom, with ashes it still smoldered by a loch under a winters moon. The queen of all the witches turned to tell me of the ruins. Of all my crazed filled travels in dreams of rare displays. No nothing not of something had ever taken me this way. For it was her in this travel, that I learned of simple things, how the body burned for living, can never be decayed. In the simple act of hatred, in one act of just one play. The building of the sovereign spirit by craft can find its own way. For her story is the cosmos, her travel by air woven sleighs, and she has made her world in forest cathedrals, and there her book of shadows stays.

First, I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve.

For my Whitby Lady my very own, she who I followed through a garden – 12.23.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Pathways of Faith are Never Free


“…someday…, we’ll medicate human experience right out of the human experience.” – Dennis Lehane

“Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.” – Carl Gustav Jung

He writes a story in me, humming in words as he steps around our Christmas tree. Nothing of logic is key, though he answers the question of what it takes to be free. He builds a lion in me, hunting through the puzzles of his mind decisively, turning instantly, moving from mood to mood, nothing is broken if you can finally see. The picture of his sweet mind, the character of the essence that makes him love me undefined. For if, he should ever go away, I would weep without stopping and there I would die that day, my heart in darkness, blind. For he cannot go, while he stays, oh no he cannot go while he stays. He gathers from a different world he sees. Breaking down a fourth wall, dividing black out of white decisively. Fomenting conversation that draws mystery, he means everything to me. Oh, my son you mean everything to me.

The orbs of his eyes create a sea, a brown warm emotion that stops the worlds freeze. The mystic how it forms, layer upon layer over history it swarms, taking our discussions to the how or ever when. This world has many doorways let us open them from within. My son you are a fortress that no one ever sees, a stronghold of magic that forms a mighty keep. Weaving in and out of love like it is on a time release. The ways of G_D are strange to me. You whisper in my ear, “The pathways of faith are never free”. You say it while I sleep, “the pathways of faith are never free”.

He spins such ominous ghost, according to our dialogue they have established in his mind a host. Words a Psychiatrist plays, let us try this little pill just to get him through each day. For what is an interest to him, the opening of a beautiful mind, or the compartments we define them in. The days are passing quicker; before you know it, time will lose its way. So on the eve of winter when there is snow upon the ground. The sign of mankind’s judgment a line of demarcation all around. My son he rises holy and he points up to the winter stars, he swears upon his body, and he loosens his minds scars. He writes a story in me, and it will not go away, for in his own belief he seizes what is day. For nothing is of logic for in that is the key, to answer the one question that it takes to be free. Who is me? Who is me? For as we know, Faith is never free.

For my wife, daughter and especially my son, who has over paid the price of faith to gain the light. – 12.21.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

  • Over 80 million Americans took a Psychotropic medication in 2018

Whereby Shining

“Whereby shining, I have been, hunting Cibola, inquiring of angels, and I have found an ancient spirit in shiny metal, that brings me this winter from where I used to be.” – DS

“This is my winter song.” – Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson

Whereby shining!

He stands there a shimmer about him, unaware of our presence around him. He stands there beyond himself seeing mystery. He stands there receiving a word from the Lord, tilting his head to the left, listening. The ice-coated whispers enter his red cold infested left ear. We stand there too, you and I. Interested readers, voyeurs. Watching him. The boy surveying the steep snow-covered bluff above the ice filled river is nine-years-old. His brown worn jeans shift as he moves from one leg to another. He looks suddenly at a spot high above him on the bluff, and he is moving, climbing, and we watch him you and I, whereby shining he does go.

Whereby shining steeples in rows, frozen sand, some under snow. Climb the darkness, mount the helm, bring the shining and cast ahead. What child inside would make this climb, gathering snowflakes in his torn jeans behind. On upward, over ford, ice where no bridge, a stick as his sword. Somewhere here now higher, be still now his thought. For tracks in the snow, show something, what is not. The grace of elders, the crown to find. Saint George slew the dragon. Above in Eden, his dragon he will bind. A boy this day, O give us this day, to know, to grow, to climb on Saturday, December 21, 1969.

Whereby shining, half way to the top, a cold wind blowing in languages long sought. Each foothold a lesson, what has begun, can never be stopped. The object of mystery, the one at the top, the interest of passion, that is all that he’s got. The owl looking down says that is all that he’s got. To build legend in arid air cold, speak with ghost from society so old. A shimmer of metal from a place so high, an interesting shadow casting brilliance to the New Mexico cold sky. No time for doubt with the secret so near.

Whereby shining, the translucent moon is near. A waxing gibbous to the boy a sign is here. The icy waters of the San Juan below, he stares back at water, and watches it flow. His wooden sword it leans against his knee. He thinks he is better now, then he has ever been; the world of old has come to him. For in his hands he holds a meteorite, the sum of the heavens, and the source of his light. And from the beginning of what was him, the boy feels the light with what he holds within.

Whereby shining! – 12.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Boxcar

“Hell is empty, and all the devils are there.” – William Shakespeare

“There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.” – John Lennon

What I saw at dusk was a boxcar with ageing wood, sitting under cold stars in shadowland. It appeared misunderstood. It spoke to me of empty men sleeping there while traveling across these plains. Their minds bringing darkness to this boxcar. To the boxcar they were all the same. For what I saw bore no life to see, just an empty craven wasteland with a hobo hotel for the damned, by life’s decree.

Hollow whispers from a spirit; where zero is the sum, once a part of family now this boxcar has none. Should we whisper stories, should we tell of times, drug beyond a great and mighty engine destined toward the mountain mines. Once upon a far place, joined by groove and tongue, now a ghost and empty, humming words of rhyme. Thy will be done. Oh yes, in time, thy will be done. Shush, a spirit says to me, think not of things so lonely. Has not your life been better still, not pulled by inhibition rather you have been this boxcar staring off a hill. Have you not been given much, in so much more have you not gained?

Snow it stirs in cold wind driven across these plains. Empty features in the darkness all looks the same. For this boxcar declares itself a vacant, vacant shell, a metaphor for emptiness when nothings there. There is nothing left to tell. Somewhere in this cold dry, wind a coyote sighs. My hope for him this deadly night is he make his scavenger find. Still what is this stand about, outside this boxcar? How does it shape the future or is it reminiscent of the start. Is this a visual for learning or a lesson from the past. Or is it about being grateful for everything I have.

Still here is this great image that last unto this week, of that dark wooden boxcar its foundation on a frozen steppe. That land that stretches from its open black doorway, that reaches to take me in, that whispers words of mystery, “Come forth and lie inside”. Though, there is that great challenge to test my will and try. Perhaps it is better not to wonder what it is like inside. Yes, I think it better still that I stay outside. – 12.06.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Weight


Martina Mcateer – The Dear Weight of Love

“See your star how it shines.”

“Cause the weight on my shoulders ain’t no weight at all” – Gino Vannelli

You have always been there, weight against my weight, head upon my shoulder, purpose within me. And should you know me, know me at all, you should know I never thought our love any weight at all.

Not a lifeless purpose, not a burden to know, not a hidden meaning, rather now this here, this truth, this heft in me. This weight of something, I chose to take, not much of nothing, but everything.

The weight strikes me in chasms, the strength of it surprising, different from age, more savage than emotion, supernatural in a way. The weight is stronger than battle, blood flowing in the lazy river of the Stones, brother striking brother. That weight intense indeed. A wounded weight perhaps, still asked for, still asked for. Stronger am I, that I think until this weight, this force, wind and life flowing all around it, that which comes. Something wicked from childhood this way with wind does it come. Intricate, passionate with cold eyes does it come, still this weight is no weight at all.

When we were young, we asked for more, I swore that I would take what came through that door, that endless, endless find. It was a hand that took to hold, with weights of tears, and hidden tolls. A weight I said to no one there, for you were love, that greater share. For when its now, like yesterday, and questions are asked, can this me take. Still the weight, I wish to pull, that better half, that pulls and pulls. Upon this queen, this one I know, I know the energy my half of soul. Still morning star, that swims the sky, I lift the weight, I cannot break. Not I a hero, nor muscle man, I feel your heart within my hands. Oh, weight upon me, that touches life, you are the water, now behold I the tide. A thing we talk about with hidden words, in mirrored secrets, takes flight with birds. This weight of something, I chose to take, not much of nothing, but everything.

She’s a weight of secrets, a reign of time, a purpose spell, those dreams I seek, when there is no weight at all, for that I believe. For when prophets talk, and poets cry, they will tell our story, and they will say of my love for you, that it was never a weight at all.

[For my Susan whom is no weight at all.] – 10.30.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Twisted Trail below Harmony Hill


“There is not a fragment in all nature, for every relative fragment of one thing is a full harmonious unit in itself.” – John Muir

“I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I’m lost in the music. Until I am the music–notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it’s okay because when I’m the music, I’m not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.” – Jennifer Donnelly

“Harmony, gee I really love you and I want to love you forever, and dream of the never, never, never leaving harmony.” – Bernie Taupin/Elton John

For clear eyed I will rise on the season with this night past dead.

The pathway seems as I remember it, just colder with ghost of the path, a shame it is under the hillside, hidden so well in the past. The Alder it stands in a thicket, begging for a witch’s command, saying in spirits communion, let go of something you can. Dysphoria enters my neurons, shaking as old men or young men can do, when they ready their soul, to enter the darkness and fight the terror they knew. The twisted trail below Harmony bears thorns as depravity can. It matters not the story, the season that made life stall. The cold, cold touch of the daemon, his shadow that started it all. “Remand”, I say to the forest, “here where rotting leaves lay”. “Remand, the innocent childhood” from that flat stone where my young body lay”.

The Callaway plant lights the horizon, in the cold Missouri night. It sends its radioactive burdens to light my past burdens flight. The signs on the trail say “Jesus”, he makes your sins not right, and I wonder where was “Jesus”, when the boy on the flat rock cried. For there I hid in my secrets, the shadows they ran away. Daemon, I called you in thunder, you could not look at me the next day. However, I hid you in secret, those many years ago. Now I come upon this bare night, and strike the flat rock to let you go. Without malice you must go. You must go. For in the pools of frozen water, reflects a sight. Some do their deeds in darkness. Still, natures mirror is a light that holds keys. What dies here awaiting winter will seek the spring and rise to fly the wind, so free.

The pathway seems as I remember it, with Harmony up ahead, twisting turning, leafless branches tie and untie again. The Barred Owl cries in abandon, the sky grows rosy red, ashes to ashes, from my lost boyhood, something fills my head. No matter of all my transgressions, those omissions I might have stead. Adonai, the one who finds me, has led my soul until fed. This flat rock in this forest, beneath my minor head, provided me with strength of a union that spirit, never dead. There is no surviving in union, no victimization, to shed, for clear eyed I will rise on the season with this night past dead. “Remand”, I say to the hillside, “give harmony in all I wed”. “Let this trail go its way of sorrow, behold the blessings instead”. “Behold the blessings instead”.

For clear eyed I will rise on the season with this night past dead. – 10.23.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Midnight


“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.” – Edgar Allan Poe

A voice cries before midnight, and he hears it as a “Hermit Thrush“, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still before midnight. This is mystery.

The weaver comes to finish work, that is of his own hand, in the darkness from near Boat Mountain the seraphim walks so fast. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He bathes before midnight, in a dream that’s of falling sand, like a curtain from lost ages, that last barrier to the promised land. With the whispers of angels that ask for his hand, bloodless in their quiet talk, they shimmer where they stand. They whisper with lyrics from the “Hurdy Gurdy Man“, derived now, while praying six stars to Neverland. He murmurs, he whispers, “I do think of fathoms of distances without end, sometimes before midnight, it scares me if I Am.” “How far up Jacob’s tree, to the mother that sews, the end of purpose, from my life of promise, here in the gardens of G_D’s shadowland. This rocky earth soothed by the blade in a farmer’s hand.”

The weaver moves like a danseur, counting a six-pronged display, the seal moves around the bowing angels, their inner eyes on display. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He thinks of time like a battlefield, in life’s journey from end to end, all day breathing blood and fury, until the dusk arrives on wind. All his thought from his first day of wonder has been, a catalyst, a catalyst to this very end. All around his valley moves, his valley moves within. Sulfur Springs rising evening vapors, near Boat Mountain where life began. The soil cries out unto its maker, I cannot produce again. Minutes leading him from faith’s beginning toward midnight to turn again. Demarcation in a weakened body in a movement by a hand, pocket watch stopped at midnight in the crossing with no bends. Turning in his bed clothes, to begin all life again. Turning in his bed clothe, to begin all life again.

A voice cries after midnight. He does not hear it. It is a “Hermit Thrush”, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still after midnight. This is mystery. – 10.10.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Hunting Angels


Picture Courtesy Heavy Metal Gallery

“If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.” – Tennessee Williams

“I probably listened to Black Sabbath more than was healthy for me growing up”. – D.S.

It was Autumn suddenly, without pause or even time to change, one wondered at its difference inside, one wondered why it came. For it seemed as the leaves changed so did I, as the sun tilted a slight way, different shadows came to play. Long shadows somber and without sway. The angels that had been there through spring and summer, had left, they had fallen. I waited but a bit for them to return, but they did not, so in my mind I formed an adventure to find them. For although it was fall winter would someday come, and I wished not to be without them.

Up near the blue sky where October would come, a stranger kind of blue sky then that summer one. A learning from the jet stream that Holy, Holy one, that breathes into your mind, and ask “what is it that you have won”? In springtime were the angels they danced around the sun, they whispered special spells of magic until the night was done. In drunken special spectacles they rose upon the day and dared the Lord of harvest to stay out of their way. In youth they formed a circle and chanted to the sky, even though you find us naked, we will not be shy. For life is fun and special the answer to our whys. What is the use of having wings if you never get high and fly.

In summer time when most worked the angels stayed in play, they listened to “Black Sabbath” and drunk cheap wine all day. Upon a rare occasion one of them would say, lets be like this forever, no one better get in our way. For power was a motivator, and the lie has no shame, when it is done as habit, with the truth hidden away. With many days upon us, why should we dread the shade, that, that brings the harvest, brings life and all we asked for, we will not be afraid.

It was Autumn suddenly, without pause or even time to change, and life had been granted and the angels went away. I cried aloud to the past spring and summer to release the winged spirits, for just one more day. The Lord of the Harvest answered, and this he had to say, those angels you are hunting are turning gray. Though they have been a spectacle between youth, and the mid of day, they will learn the mix of mystery, here as they near the end of the day.

So, I thought upon the matter, I thought upon the sum, and I thought it best to leave the angels, and not to hunt a one. For the blue sky of October, a stranger sky had come, and a winter would soon follow and then I would be done. -10.01.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Thoreau’s Shoulder (The Grove)

“Chaos and ancient night, I come no spy with purpose to explore or to disturb the secrets of your realm, but as my way lies through your spacious empire up to light”. – Henry David Thoreau

You wrote increasingly of the earth as if she were a mix of your judge and mother, and you spared no lack of fond adjectives in describing her both in bearable and tempering terms. You often scolded your own thoughts spoken before your ink donned the paper, whispering aloud, “the cove bends around the grove, before the grandfatherly Red Maple, or it does not”. At times, you muttered secrets, which we shall not tell here, except to say, “If man’s thoughts could be round like the stand then perhaps he would be less judgmental”. Your discourse aloud and in the written word explored heavy mysteries discovered upon the warm nights and thought out better when the winter was cold, and no sound could be heard, except that of the crackling fire.

My eyes grew bleary on occasion watching your quill move swiftly like a rapier cross cutting its way through battle. When perchance a hint of mysticism or witchery would catch your observance, you were quick to shame it in the scuffle you held for balanced thought. Your subject matter on civil discourse and that of disobedience, once carried a debate against yourself for an amount of some days. It was upon that occasion, I first heard your mention of madness, and I wondered if for that certain time, you might entertain talk of what confidences you thought might be in the circular grove.

You often brought to your tight cabin, assortments of leaves, pebbles and berries. In which each by fair lantern light you would caress tenderly, saying each by its organic name and what blessing it might bring as cure or spell from evil. For each gathered collection of abundance from the forest or pond, you would meditate well upon it, before committing its designation to publish. For when you wrote of it, you disguised each magical quality it contained, as a naturalist does when face to face with that which cannot be explained.

Your forays to the grove grew with more frequency before September in one year, and I would suspect now, it was your last one before leaving. It was beyond my ability to cross over there, but it was on such an occasion, near sunrise as you left the wood that you appeared to see me standing there. “You are either an external shadow, or I am internally with flame“, you whispered aloud, as if interfering with some magic happening within your round of trees. There was little more as you went on to the cabin, and I was with you, silent for the rest of the day. That night as you left for your faithful journey to that round of mystery below “Bare Peak“, you suddenly turned outside your door and rubbed your right shoulder, as if it bore a special pain. “I think we should go no further”, was all you had to say, and with that I found myself drifting without right, silently toward the grove and away. – 09.15.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Rivers (A Haunting)


“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.” – Norman Maclean

“Whereas we find ourselves at this dreadful yet wonderful place. Betwixt by resolve and torment. Haunted as it were, on the banks of the river of our own soul, asking which way does the river flow”? – DS

There is a flood of many waters inside of you that goes to waste, said a voice, that voice without a face. But the voice inside was something that I knew no one could fake, the one that held the storm, the storm I could not erase!

I hear the hymn in the morning time, with the Colorado sky stretching dark and wide, With the first son of morning comes a star shooting high, the chant sings a song about my rivers inside. So many empty verses, so I just cry and cry. For just these many years I have been kind of quiet, Not saying much to anyone about the water inside. That muddy moving liquid that moves from side to side. Bringing me a challenge to move across its troubled tide. Its just analogy for life that moves outside, Rivers needing crossing when the need does arise. One-way bridges under cloudy skies, and the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye, yes, the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye.

I think my souls waiting on a singular side, inside or outside me, it wants to cross to another side. From what I have come to know, or from where I have tried, I think it wants to know what it’s like to finally die. For some this might dishearten or become a frightening sight, I sure somewhere somebody thinks my G_D it’s suicide. But flesh and bone are different from what I’m about to describe, you see I want to finally meet my genesis on the river that is inside. A mean that is not average an inner fire that will not subside.

So, I move to pray, crossing that one-way bridge of yesterday, moving from ghost to ghost from a child unto a man, crossing inner Jordan jumping over quick sand. A space that grows in grace. Myself a younger man. An inner sort of question that ask to see his face, and there I see not much to my surprise. One-way bridges under cloudy skies, and the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye. Yes, the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye.

The river running in me has a hum and a grind, sometimes it seems to clean me, at other times I feel its grime, But now in this place, at this place in my life, pour on me with your mighty water, let my soul consumed, be refined, on this place, where nothing can ever go to waste. Where nothing can ever go to waste.

There is a flood of many waters inside of you that goes to waste, said a voice, that voice without a face. But the voice inside was something that I knew no one could fake, the one that held the storm, the storm I could not erase! – 09.04.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Vicksburg (Seconds Inside my Head)


If a man harbors any sort of fear, it percolates through all his thinking, damages his personality, makes him landlord to a ghost”. – Lloyd Douglas

I had crossed on over, with the darkness rolling in, and the Stateline of Mississippi, made me pause to think of him, maybe it was thirty years ago, but it seems like yesterday, just seconds really to watch a story in display.

He says the sun it sets in ragged pieces floating humid from the sky, tearing soft red hazy parts of heaven hanging them low above Vicksburg to dry. He says you might not really know me, and I would not look too far back into my eyes. You might see a little more than Mississippi lightning, in the places my tears have gone to dry. The dark birds seem to float down by the river, guarding old men fishing last meals and telling tall lies; a young man stands and sticks a needle in his arm, and curses the flies who are passing by.

He says the night it falls upon the water, I hear her begging to be fed. He turns and motions to the Yazoo, to fill the river brown than red. He says the soil above us holds a dead nation of those dumb farm boys how they bled. One hundred years and fifty-five more, all those ghosts are crazy. A million carrion in my head. The old man sniffs and looks on over at the young man lying dead. The needle sticks up like a steeple, sending signals that no one read.

The low clouds light up a candle, a low light that bask in need. Curtains of mist hang over Vicksburg, magnolias bend to receive. The old man haunts the shadows, the grave markers sink beyond retrieve. Antebellum meets the future, of deluded thought and greed. For one old man walks past burial, one young man dies in need. The past is like the present, for the hungry no food is received. The old and new look to the low hung sky, and wonder of their deeds, their many hidden deeds.

He says the seconds slow in Vicksburg, like the cliffs overhead, their lives a hundred different caverns holding the past and present dead. He says each it has it’s story, an unspoken bit of cred, that, that makes its footprint in the lineage of coming heads. A bit of South filled Gothic that’s often read but never said. He turns as if he’s ninety, no doubt he’s already dead, and he motions up from the river, to the lights dim overhead. He says the witches they are coming, in the dimness up ahead. And I know he’s kind of crazy, with the liquor that he’s had, but I can’t help but think he comes from somewhere in the seconds inside my head.

He says the sun it sets in ragged pieces floating humid from the sky, tearing soft red hazy parts of heaven hanging them low above Vicksburg to dry. – 08.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Interpretive Badlands


The Badlands grade all the way from those that are almost rolling in character to those that are so fantastically broken in form and so bizarre in color as to seem hardly properly to belong to this earth“. – Theodore Roosevelt

In the dream, I ran the badlands, the brilliant cosmos overhead, held my own toward the future, and closed the timeline on my past. The beat of sound it came from heaven, the aurora borealis above my running head. The tongues of prayers, a field of angels, the healing wound of all I dread. In the vision was the lifeblood, of what I used to be, a great belief in all apostles, their words a platitude filled sea. A youthful mind indecisive, until time crept up on me. Now a gray haired man runs through the badlands, a rapid heartbeat of disbelief.

The shifting sands of narrow arroyos, the briars and snakes held there, hard to think that in a summer storm, one could drown if still stuck there. A star lights on the mesa, alien bright it falls so fair, as if to light an earthbound altar beseeching communication from out there.

Unbound, unbound my beating heart that inhales desert air in coldest dark. Scratching illumination as I run in midnight’s lair, humanity’s close death I share. A stretch into my imagination, mixed thoughts rising there, a better night for flying a throng of bats into the air. For I am a prayer unto the union of the joining of a pair, that lessor light of Shekinah with the glory of the upper care. My lungs they know no other way, then to praise the night, for whence cometh day. Loose now these bonds, these pounding feet, bare shrub, and cacti, a thousand shadows creep. The moment stark as in all dreams is it now real, or in my sleep.

In the dream, I ran the badlands, the brilliant cosmos overhead, and stuck between the sedimentary, I thought myself somewhere. The distance marked by parasangs, a length in whispers dared, I ran between the hoodoos, and caught the spirits in their lair. For it was on this occasion, it was this vision faire, that a grey haired man still running, found the secret of things not there. The desert is a badland, with creations built with care, a fortress of our human secrets, of the kind we would not share. We think them rather horrid, a reflection rarely seen, when in truth while we are running, they bring us breathless to know our where. To know our where.

In the dream, I ran the badlands, the brilliant cosmos overhead, held my own toward the future, and closed the timeline on my past. – 08.14.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Cornfield (100 Degrees)


I went into a cornfield on a sunny brilliant day, when it was my time to die and it was 100 degrees that day. I asked there for an angel, a cool drop on my tongue, instead I received a question, with its answer to be sung, so here it’s sung, to you, here it’s sung.

Who worships breathing idols, who takes ideology so? Who thinks themselves unbreakable with what seeds one has sowed? Who enters unto doorways, built just yesterday, who makes one an apostle, in a political way? Who finds their answer in a tavern, at three A.M., when the last cover last played, is Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May“? What human lives forever, within your spirit are you that deceived? What money minds your secrets, what lust trolls your deeds, what desperateness, leaves you demanding to take all of G_D’s control? The questions oh the questions, the philosophy in modern weed. A plastic imitation, with a herbal born deceit. Second unto second, our heroes in defeat, what we think of as immortal is clay before G_D’s feet.

For here I arrive in human harvest, and march into the heat. Row upon row of corn husk, bake in praise repeat. They sing unto creation, their song I cannot keep. I let you know that in this world G_D reveals at 100 degrees. Her love is in a beggar, a child with crooked feet. I’ve seen Adonai of all formation a whore of beauty, spreading legs for monetary relief. It is in no conversation, it knows of no elite, for philosophy of all the ages, knows not of what love receives. For in this culture that we live in, round and round it goes. There is no risen savior except in pains defeat. No union of a fairness, no left nor right indignity. Human hearts barely beating in agony before belief.

Who comes into the circle, the acreage that knows no cold. The bending twisting ring of fire, where a spirt seeks to console. What sort looks for a miracle in the cornfields of a soul. Where it’s 100 degrees of pain, will you let your ego go? Will you burn your face with holy fire, from the heavens you don’t control? Will you die, truly die? Come down, come down every yearning. Lover know what you know. Here in this place, the most unexpected place, a field of corn helps me know. You are in natural places, the hurt that does not know, the most unexpected graces in heat where corn is sown. Where corn is sown.

I went into a cornfield on a sunny brilliant day, when it was my time to live and it was 100 degrees that day. I asked there for an angel, a cool drop on my tongue, instead I received a question, with its answer to be sung, so here it’s sung, to you, here it’s sung. – 07.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Rain


“You love the thunder and you love the rain. You know your hunger like you know your name.” – Jackson Browne

I should be a better man, dry and tall, holding an umbrella underneath this waterfall!

The rain it came above “Navajo Lake”, it filled my youthful eyes. It made me cry to find my way, I wept until I was dry. Before I knew what, I should be, I was older and not so wise. For still the rain came inside me, it built a graveyard to help me hide, it stifled oxygen, and it stopped belief.

The rain it came above “Navajo Lake“, it came from hell below, and it fell in sheets of shadows until its liquid filled me so. An overwhelming void of nothing, for here opposites do not grow. A changing rite of season dragging age within its tow. I heard nothing of the thunder; I guess Jackson Browne don’t know, the rain without the thunder is inward hunger that continues to grow. The water poured without and within me, a black depression calling deep too deep in the valley, where it keeps. A world in water, nobody swimming for me to see, a world in water, weightless, weight that drowns, no keys. Then a calling, my spirit disappeared in memory, the heavens met the earth, and life and death bound me. There’s more water, raining nightly inwardly. Soaking quiet, when a whisper is said complete. Silence, silence, when I can’t recognize my face I see. Silence, silence, when I can’t recognize my face I see.

Play the Hammond, in the graveyard reverie, while it is raining, from my fair youth to the muddy life that flails in grief. Inward stranger, can’t you find a better way, lift your burdens, in the soaking, constant rain. I called the storm down, how do I make it go away. All my life now, held in a constant sway, where there is reason, somebody help me pray. Inside this pale, how it does rain, I’ve seen the oceans, no islands displayed. Roaring, silence, where everything no longer stays. Roaring silence, where everything no longer stays.

The rain it came above “Navajo Lake”, it filled my youthful eyes. It made me cry to find my way, I wept until I was dry. Before I knew what, I should be, I was older and not so wise. For still the rain came inside me, it built a graveyard to help me hide, could be I am a better man, I will look outside and maybe I will see heaven.

I Am that I Am a better man, dry and tall, holding an umbrella underneath this waterfall! – 07.18.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Vapours


“I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself”. – Warson Shire

Nay maybe it is something else, a trait of narcissistic crust, from one who gloats about one’s shame. That ascribes a greater tone to pain. Aghast the pleasure of the life that is feral, the difference that shocks, is hidden in your veins. Come out, come out, awake unto life, faint not at her kisses, it is not a vice. It is not a vice.

Consume, consume a fire of dark, a midnight black that swoons the heart, come cup, come up from salt tilled soil, a highway from the sin that coils. That dearth of time when all is gone the cutting starts, to feel at all. A stranger’s mask, not strange no more, from your own mirror, the ides do fall. For on to air, for on to sea, this road this path has no reprieve. For light has come and went by fast, obsessed with grief you let it pass. This is my all you sometimes cry, like a town crier whose tongue is tied. For ribbons black they fall all too fast, you bind your arm with them, as if to fast.

Reach in, reach out, no grasp is left, of where to drive no known by pass. Into the years of bitterness, where all is false remembrance. For death to you, is death as known, from day to day, it is known as home. To brood and spite for losses lost, to expect your soul is at a cost. To hide in shadows by gray walls, to say with no tears you gave it all. To just one person, just one cause, alas the wearisome of it all, be still thy eardrums, they hear not at all. A tiresome gloomy loss does call the hand so limp will not pick up at all.

I would but try to ask you to breathe, to feel the purpose of which you believe, but alas, you feign, the weight of it all. The body not willing the spirit does fall.

Drop gracefully then or drop not at all.

Nay maybe it is something else, a trait of narcissistic crust, from one who gloats about one’s shame. That ascribes a greater tone to pain. Aghast the pleasure of the life that is feral, the difference that shocks, is hidden in your veins. Come out, come out, awake unto life, faint not at her kisses, it is not a vice. It is not a vice. – 07.07.0218 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Great American Gospel


“The desert surrounds your every step and you walk forever a thirsty man”. – Christopher Pike – Creatures of Forever

“Still” she says, “be still your craving heart within”!

The Great American Gospel begins somewhere just beneath my skin. Standing in the silent desert four yards from a railroad track outside Tucumcari, New Mexico, watching the full moon commit her greatest sin. For she shines as if to rival the sun, showing the contours of the barren wilderness, exposing its wanton skin. And the spirit speaks from the sand, the loneliness calls from the desperateness held from the deep dry well within. It says I am a great magnetic force, the gravity that speaks to heal your craving wound within. The first coming, before the second, the holiness of G_D, that never lets you go, even when you weep, till your soul is a dry cavern within. I am the wilderness of scars, always this great land force, with a night shadow, under these constellations, that tempts you in.

There is a rusty Hunt’s tomato sauce can that I kick. It hits a rock and makes a sound that echoes in the wide desert. A doorbell for the ghost both outside and within. Its colder than it should be outside Tucumcari, it could be that the daemons now have come to play. Like coyotes, no doubt the “Ancient of Days” has allowed them in. For they circle and they taunt, and they howl, as if to say “Eli, Eli, Ichabod” in this dry ocean, is the end. “Where do you now go, with what can you send”? And here while the night does move, the black sky parting, the light from those stars of Adonai, paint a seal upon my uplifted arms. Kissing like a lover from my neck, to my scars so deep within.

And I crave the touch, the unhiding of what or where I begin. For she is like a question that moves around me to where I cannot answer without craving she inhabit my every limb. And she is not in cities, or crowded rooms, neither does she know war or shame. It is the great American Gospel, that inhabits every pore of my skin. Standing in the silent desert four yards from a railroad track outside Tucumcari, New Mexico, I am with you, and you are a spirit fed familiar living time within. Still, oh still my craving hungry heart within. “Still” she says, “be still your craving heart within”! – 06.24.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Chums of 1924


I always thought my friend and I belonged somewhere beyond the late seventies. We had a way of talking, seeking true friendship that took our spirits somewhere else. Chums from another time. One night we actually went where we belonged. I do believe it was 1924.

He looks at me his eyes brown and ferocious! “Would a girl ever come between us”? He sounds as if he is gagging as he spits the words out. “Maybe not one”, I softly reply. I look away staring at the open New Mexico wilderness, the late June wind blowing from the northwest cooling our conversation. “One could hope for two or three between us”, I say the genesis of a sardonic grin appearing on my face.

We wish our thoughts in shadow-land, from friend to foe and stand ourselves on where kings stand. In stars, we want a falling phase the kind that guides our keen eyed gaze. To take us cross the Gobi sands. Our swords and minds to far off lands. Oh friend my chum though we are here, our young adolescence beyond years. To camp above on roof tops, to see the moon so near, to strive to speak our legends, to each other and the earth so near. For if we are young traveling warriors, is life’s wartime here?

We somehow summon laughter, we somehow broke our tears, and we cross our arms and unfold them, when the Southern Cross draws near. In times, we study magic, and camp where daemons leer. For under signs of heaven, our stories draw us near. To unfold a crooked omen, that crosses minds and fears. To know that something savage is made gentle when we are of cheer. Oh, friend my chum in laughter, my twin when hell doth know that we our twins in witness, to all the dark can know.

We tasted our peyote, we chased the moon away, and we brought a noonday brilliance to the places we went to play. For in the days of future, when you or I should say, was that day in 1924, or just the tricks odd seeds can play. For I know we traversed minefields of those false life can lay. But I swear we held the world in our hands, and watched it float away, into the gray, my chum, into the gray.

“My parents signed the papers today”. His voice is more serious than sad. “Semper Fi”, I say, a sudden lump in my throat, bringing my skinny right arm and hand up in a sharp salute. “Yes sir”, he grins his sixteen-year-old Navajo face suddenly looking much older. “There will be more than two or three girls between us by the time I get back”, he says. “Maybe even a set of twins”. – 06.19.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

On Sleeping (1971)


“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” – Edgar Allan Poe

“Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions.” – Stevie Nicks

The full moon swings on a wireless swing and comes to rest above my sleeping shoulder. I move as if a little too much to block its shine by pulling at my cover. “So near to summer” whispers, whisper, “come outside let’s plan an escape and count the stars by number”. Shadows move, twist, and shake, with tenderness they pull me from my slumber. “All the worlds an open stage”, sings one stray spirit to another. So how I moved I did not know, hand to mouth, a secret I stowed, and off in light bequeathed Altair’s glow. Let some dream of dancing, some devise lofty plans. Set their scope of dreaming on obtaining all they can. Faith deems I set my nighttime hours on Neverland, and fly away.

Now here I go again, I see the Crystal visions“, unlike what Stevie sings, I cannot keep my visions to myself. For there are ladders here, a way to heavens chair, a better view to share what was seen was all about. On here, a summer’s stage, with an equinox to display, the spirits hop and dart about. And back in inertia deep, a graying man he sleeps, the covers from his shoulders creep. The air in golden gloom, a hand held out just like a spoon, a breath of unseen consequence, sends out a playful spray.

For I see a window open, of the places undescribed, a familiar looking better me of what I will to try. For though I lay a sleeping somethings changing inside, and then I slip away, on sleeping it’s the only way outside.

The boy stands at the edge of the river and he cleanses all away. It looks like the Jordan, but it is the San Juan in disarray. He gazes at the sky, and counts every star by number in its place. For he means, every promise with words he will never say. And when he assails the bluffs of the mesa for a second, he will stop and stay. For the entire world is his alone, the summer present and the one he still owns. No dark valley where the winds still roam. The boy is a me, as I have never known. A full moon falls in a single ray. Nineteen Seventy-one at night is on display. Let some dream of dancing, some devise lofty plans. Set their scope of dreaming on obtaining all they can. Faith deems I set my nighttime hours on Neverland, and fly away. – 06.14.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל