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

 

One More Try (For Yog)


It could have started with a simple little question, a stare in a mirror to something over there, looking at reflections of a lifetime, a moving shadow asking why. The words in a tumble, it happens when we are weary, we stumble over answers, and try not to lie, we wonder if it’s worthwhile reaching for an angel giving our breath, “one more try”. I expect it happened on the morning early, after a night of supplication, oh loneliness, thy cost is high.

Teacher my teacher, it appears so cold, so empty outside, and would I be so small as to ask, that you ask me not to try. And if I ask for absolution, ask that pain not enter my heart, for not to know love is too strong a challenge for me to ever know or try. A scattering of applause, that turns into rivers, smiles and wanton stares, all the world a stage or a highway, somehow my inner rooms don’t care. For nothing is stronger than a life of illusion, voids and lowliness terrors, ever I come to try an end or resolution, still for me I’m still just scared.

Silence, such silence, the room so silent, and at last the careless whisper caused by the whisperer has gone to sleep. A different angel came, his eyes the color of many waters, his kiss not shy and when he finally spoke, he didn’t say goodbye. “Yog“, voices, so many voices, resonating across the weightless sky, could be shadows dancing, no doubt smiling, having released the hold, having found the peace. And the uptown boy has made one more try.

Know this now, there’s changes in the atoms, changes in the air that we breath. A voice is gone, it’s joining in the heavens, praying for time in release. For Yog has sailed a boat on hades waters, though that sea he went on, knew some bounds. Now that one more try has, netted him eternal, the question has been answered, a heart with many questions has found peace – 12.27.2016 –
דָּנִאֵל

Integrity (Orlando)

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might, for integrity.

Integrity it finds a soul in not what is new or bold. Across the electrical currents of media, it’s not bound up and sold. And if you think that it is found in left or right your political goals, your deluded in your ideology stop reading go back to your soul. I ask myself a question, when I pray at night, do I say please protect me, from my enemies I think aren’t right. Or is a better prayer said, Oh HaShem you are as is, from back beyond primordial to the time of future tense. Would now as all the world swims round me everything so tense, where there is both good and bad, and there is ego spent. Will you come down to this desert, life that’s ever spent. Will you fall like reigning fire and right the spirit bent? Will now oh legend all who worships, dark and light, crescent. Arced upon the grave and life the world that we pervade. Will you in all the storms of tatters, liars, norms and depths, in deathly faces.  Will you for those who think wrong and right, stifle their mad matter, let them think with insight, in integrity.

A warrior, you said, a warrior makes right, here in hard deserts where the wind blows with right, and all around me caters to wolves and the sheep, all around me fortresses of thought and deceit. And G_d of many ancients, Adonai oh Ruach of leads, Shekinah of  my dreams, you who with your breath makes Orion and the seven stars, come so still, bring them now still.  Come unto the willing, those in pain without creed, those who here tonight, care not of ideology. Make now a potion, of your right and left, send now a matter to those with no heart left. Fill now a prayer not against enemies, take this spell higher to integrity. When this all is over, make death even less, make no one with thought, think their right or left.

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might for integrity.

Psalms 25:21 – 06.13.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Horsetooth (04.20.2000)


For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

There was a shudder felt last night, around the windows the wind so light. Came an apprehensive sort of feeling when things aren’t right. Said one spirit to the next, can we fly inward at 6:00 take his soul, no one is watching, they’ll just think he went. Though one might think that this is done, that a gentle man died under sun, that’s not true, that’s not the way he went on through. For according to us on site, his family that watched that night, from all of us at 12:31 came a different view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

So it was around the appointed time, the skies did open where a star refused to shine, for it was a pathway for wings of ancient blue. And they flew enamored with him, knowing his vestige was with them true, came they through the passage of the rocks they knew. For Horsetooth opened to them, gave them rock burns on their lack of foreskins, brought them down to escort a gentle fellow through.

And we watched him sail away of angels, through that portal new, Horsetooth split Precambrian waiting for these angels to come through. Of angels, without cause of death or torture, he lived life no one knew, and it could be such a gentleman reached G_D without a clue, for she liked him for his spirit that harbored love only Jack knew.

For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

My Dad passed away on April 20, 2000 at 12:31. When he left, it was of angels, trees scraping the side of house with complaint, and the wind rolled down from Horsetooth rock, and simply took his spirit away. – 04.20.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

At 3:00 AM (On Death)


At 3:00 A.M. there’s whispers there, such secrets crawling some unseen stair, and when I awake and look outside, fully expecting to see dreads eye, and it’s not there, no it’s not there. At 3:00 A.M. I watch her sleep my sweetest angel, of love’s known keep, and sometimes not to be rude or weird I touch the small lobe of her ear. I breath with her, while rhythm’s sleep, in an unconscious keep, I whisper rare, my voice so deep, I’m going to that window there, the one with glass that often stares, I’m going to look outside and then in spirit I’m going to leap.  It’s time to fly.

At 3:00 A.M. I’ve heard it said that witches dance and Satan winks, it’s that time when sages say the whole world has gone to sleep. I would not know if this is true, I’d dare to think it might be could. Oh well, oh well, whatever comes I’m awake well before the dawn. My skin so cool to touch the glass to look upwards and see the pass, to see footprints of daemons past, those good ones too, but oh those bad. Those sprites that chase the star known charts that bring my body into the dark, at 3:00 A.M. to know such joy, of dreams that come to pass, not forward and not past. Just here, all around this shiny sphere. I don’t want to go back, no, I don’t want to go back.

At 3:00 A.M. for nights on end, it’s like a passage that never ends, my eyes outward so old and black but inward sailing my soul does last. And on to thus fairy land of dust, an original place where G-D brings us, and in the prayer at 3:00 A.M. right out of my clothes, and all of my skin, I fly to places filled with love, imagine all of this for us, a wonder land when first we jump, when no one’s looking, and there’s no fuss.

At 3:00 A.M. there’s whispers there, such secrets crawling some unseen stair, and when I awake and look outside, fully expecting to see dreads eye, and it’s not there, no it’s not there, then at 3:00 A.M. my breath will stop and I’ll learn to fly. – 0315.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Animas (Dirty Water)


(Dirty Water)

She don’t need no government, she responds only to wild reeds, and forever gravel and sand, this Animas will roll. She will roll. I never thought this day would come, has G_D forgot a part, has man done what man does best, has woman let him. These places in levy’s, where the EPA came to play, oh my freedom, laws and locks, those chains, that makes us all lose our souls. Now it could be that G_D will change the laws, it could be those waves will not stay still. And my friend if that should start, that there, like an orgasm from a spark, that there contains an ancient ark. The beauty that memory retains, that farmer’s valley how she lays, legs spread, asking Shekinah to water, to roll down like a man on her needs. Then it could be that heaven starts, then it could be destiny starts, then it could be the poison in this river rolls on.

(Dirty Water)

Magic you bathed me, in the Animas, when I was low, when I was a child, there near Farming Town, there in New Mexico, you washed all over me. And there were others, adults with fishing rods and farmers with bills, who knelt to you, and now that control that cannot need, that coldness in DC, comes in oil, poison that’s real. Lord of the rains that wash away, come and take this soil unclean, come and ruin that thing that men of government, seek to control. And I will ask in dignity, this place where dirty water washes down, I will kneel naked in belief, to plead for laws to change that which we cannot see. For what was made in yesterday, this Animas that rinses, this espiritu that longs, this rolling water beneath, what held my childhood creed, let her roll, in her bedroom soil, let her cleanse her mate, with a weightless toil.

(Dirty Water)

She don’t need no government, she responds only to wild reeds, and forever gravel and sand, this Animas will roll. She will roll. I’m so sorry for the little ones, our children who come to cross, this dirty water, this place of spill, this poison, we’ve allowed, without rebellion, without a sound. So Animas, my old friend, I let you go, it was my sin, and this government, it allowed, for the people, we all did bow. These places in levy’s, where the EPA came to play, oh my freedom, laws and locks, those chains, that makes us all lose our souls.

(Dirty Water)

For the Animas of my childhood, which this government has come to kill. – 08.12.2015 –
ָּנִיֵּאל

The Flame (Goodbye Yellow Brick Road)

(The Dream)

We come together by the ponds, near the flame, that flame so high. The vodka and tonics are like an infection, seeping through my soul, taking my boyhood memories, scaring me. Flame hill looks smaller than it used to, the winding road, the stirring yellow dust swirling, making pictures in the lights of the Anadarko Gas trucks, it looks gold, yeah gold, kind of like it’s a “Yellow Brick Road”. The pond to the north of the hill sits silent, dark, green, it looks the same, and forty-two years haven’t changed it much. Its okay, I suppose, it won’t be changed much in the story either. Behind me there’s another pond, that one a little larger, that one with the dam, the leaky dam. It has a different color, the reeds around it bent, making soft sucking noises, when they get caught in the water and the sand.

The touch on my arm, my right arm is cold, it’s a child’s touch I suppose. I look back at the ghost, somebody I know, somebody that won’t let me sleep. “Is this the yellow brick road”? I think I say that out loud, but I’m not sure. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter, the blonde headed spirit is shaking his head up and down, almost too fast, affirming something for sure. Something ready, here near flame hill, something that happened. “Did we catch him”? My question is answered already, the presence, is grinning, those dimples, I’ve seen in too many dreams over the past year.

There’s a wind kicking up out of the north, pushing the colored flame above me back and forth, it’s threatening it I suppose. That flame on the hill. The ghost is looking intently up at the fire, the body almost transparent, shimmering, and moving in tandem, with the wind. The yellow dust is moving too, throwing itself like a curtain from where I stand, I can hardly see the road.

“We did this didn’t we”? It’s a convergent question, based on historical knowledge, actual experiences. I look back, finally daring to look through the darkness to see the Southwest pond, it’s the one that holds the memories. I take a few steps, toward the base of flame hill, the shadows casting long in the darkness. The colored gas flame up above, shoots through the air, lighting the darkness, arching, it extends and then like a flickering torch it retreats leaving the truth of what I saw laughing in the past atop the water of the southwest pond.

“If I write this, it’s going to be goodbye, you know that don’t you”, I’m speaking to spirit, a dream may be, something that shouldn’t be, but is. The figure is looking intently at the flame, the blonde hair, my friend, my childhood friend. He looks at me, his smile, the same, the same grin, from the first day we met in the Grace B. Wilson Elementary School Library over a pile of Hardy Boy books.

“Write it”, he whispers. – 08.08.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Bobby


“Giardia”, he laughs, like it’s a proverb discovered. A simple word, description, hell even an action word that should be not only defined but lived. “You had it”, I say, knowing the answer already, knowing the full story to come, the psalm of life, that music, coming from a man about to die.

Spill me a sample of life in your tears, sometimes in laughter, overt without fear. Bobby do tell me of all those old times, I’ll just listen and not know why. It doesn’t matter, what you’ve done before, a silent film critic, with pain you ignore, it really is something these times that we sit, and keep your attention astray. I’ll let you ignore, that shadows are asking you to play, outside this door.

Momma you think she’s keeping you down, the truth of the matter is she wishing you found, no longer lost but heavenly bound, it’s okay, she’s wishing her son would stay.

Tell me of Pickford, of that old great train, it’s robbery in silence, the cinema of gray, those sounds not spoken, and maybe it’s just like your AIDS, a Potemkin treasure while the theatre organ plays. You’re quite a Chaplin today, funny man looking for stories while your breath goes away, Bobby in silence it goes far away.

“You’ll always write great things”, Bobby’s eyes are snapping, looking bluer than the gulf, on fire perhaps with some ancient star. “Why ruin a good conversation with flattery”, I say. He’s actually made me smile, with the flamboyancy of his announcement, delivered with the flourish of his weakened hands. Those hands, that have been typing for days, typing the old fashion way. “The truth is a fire”, he snaps, looking at me intensely, his gaze that of goodbye. “You’ll write of this someday, promise me”, he says, well really he demands.

Bobby, let’s talk of things that are old, immortal pictures, Faust, and what you know, Bobby don’t leave me without saying why, a silent majority has to die. He’s moving and talking his lips that don’t speak, and telling his friend, secrets that, I’ll always keep. You better believe, I’ll always keep.

“Giardia”, he laughs, like it’s a proverb discovered. A simple word, description, hell even an action word that should be not only defined but lived. “You had it”, I say, knowing the answer already, knowing the full story to come, the psalm of life, that music, coming from a man about to die.

Bobby Klepper passed away on February 2, 2000. As promised him, this is goodbye. 08.02.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל



Murmur of Angels


He heard the murmur of angels, as the shot entered his head, from predestination, from the order we all dread, and what with all our questions of why, we enter dead, perhaps the murmur of angels, is all that need be said. A thousand boots they echo on a dark forest floor, with swords and certain weapons, a reason for war. A question of the ages what’s worth dying for, a life in some short cycle, and then breath, breathes no more. A diamond or a woman, a dollar or a crown, some die throwing proverbs, some succumb without a sound, yet the murmur of angels lays constant in four by two. In parsec by league circumference, someday they speak to you. The dead or the living, they know which to choose, for the righteous of a calling, they sing and murmur too.

A baby with a tumor, a man without a clue, a body filled with heroin, just surviving to buzz on through. A ghost he stands on winter grounds frozen beyond blue, in envy of all he sees the angels flying through. A claim they come from upper worlds, in truth its lower too. Eschatological words of time, cannot stop them when they fly, falling spinning, just to dive, to enter worlds they most despise, just to sing a murmured song to you. Summon ye of innocence, claim you of a power, but the deed of death it comes to most when G_D ward takes the power. The list of all you worship here in thought word and deed, cannot detour the murmur chant, when that G_D decrees. And when it falls, like the same, of rain a tide most gentle or in flame, know it now or know the same a murmur comes indeed.

She heard the murmur of angels, as her cells they flamed, as a witch she heard her accusations, as the song eternal came. A cry a scream for most unseen, an inner humming in self esteemed.  For such a time from past before, to time we now can see, the murmur of angels is bonded destiny. And if we hold our heads to sky the killer we won’t see. For flash and sighs and gentleness a rush like love when it is blessed, a way, a light, a song known best, it murmurs to us free, it murmurs to us free.

Eschatological words of time, cannot stop them when they fly, falling spinning, just to dive, to enter worlds they most despise, just to sing a murmured song to you. – 06.18.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For the families of the dead in Charleston, South Carolina tonight.– 06.18.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Regina (Angelspeak)


She said I did a lot of thinking as I drove down 25, and the thing that you were claiming what you saw as your dad died. Seems to me it is a pickle of what you should say or do, I’m thinking deep inside you my friend, he saw the better side of you. For that she was a wonder only twenty-one and rare, from Alaska this soft angel, kept my mind from desperate terror. The curves of this Regina, she was sexual like the heights, of McKinley on a cold spring day, she blossomed all out right. But she never bode me go there for she knew, my promises, said baby in the next life, you’ll take my body there. She kept her figure distant, and she gave of her insight what a friend I had in Gina when my world was not upright.

So it was I cried a cold tear on an early May morn light, and I told her of my father, who had been a greater right. When the wind it came down sweeping, from Cheyenne it rode a plain, and she tucked me in her small still place and in her grace she sang. Yes it’s true you’re like an older friend that for a while, will cry, but listen to your little Gina, and loosen your disguise. For I am not here to kiss you, and I’m not here to take your heart, for it is unto another, where there is that faithful spark. So I tell you, your daddy, knew you better than you are, you are like a chosen sparkler, an apostle of the stars. I can tell you how I know this, I can tell you how it comes, but you listen to your Regina, you are brighter than the sun.

She said I did a lot of thinking as I drove down 25, and the thing that you were claiming what you saw as your dad died. Oh I think he knew you were magic, and from your words you would someday rise. What a lesson she was to me, as we sat and talked that May, and it turned me into something, I would need for coming days. It is true I wonder many times where that young girl went, for I would just like to thank her, she was a friend, when life was spent. For it could be she was vapor, brought on by a risen flame, from my tears for my daddy, may be for that thought she came. So it is now that I write to her, and pray this special word, may you know more than your happiness, for indeed you sowed its worth. – 3.16.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל