Thy Sound

“When I’m 70 I might be a man in a park just wandering around, speaking in tongues with kids throwing bread at me.” – Noel Fielding

Grammy say’s, the tongues come to you when they are ready, when you are ready, when you are old and want to feel young again. Grammy says the tongues are more than a noise. She says they are “thy sound”, and “thy sound” is a craft built by angels.

Thy sound comes to me inwardly, so clearly, when gladness has ruptured my lungs. Thy syllables two by two, six by six, languages unknown, a word known by an angel’s tongue. Thy word by Jerimiah, thy Candance by the Acts, thy burning eyes by the end of all time, when true life won’t come back. For it seems you aren’t a poultice, an error of the heart, no longer a spoken scripture, a destiny of sparks. No longer are you a witchcraft, a demon casting art, a fair soft-spoken stranger in an entertainment art. And neither are you and action, or a seal lost in sand a verb, or an adjective written by a new wave hand. No, thy sound is lovers lost in a passionate cry, born before the sunrise when the new dawn chases sky. Tongues that meet thy sound, where the host meets the sigh,

We meet when we are different, we kiss when we are young, we touch when there is darkness, we don’t understand the start. We say there is a spirit, we say we know no heart, how can there ever be life if indeed there’s been no spark. We say there is a good will, we believe there is a need, still for the want of a language, we know not how to proceed. So, thy sound I pray thee, let it ever start. Let thy tongues roll through us, let our voices hark. Fairer than the timbre of an overture start. Let us sound like passion, bodies naked stark, wind beneath the eagle’s wing, notes beyond a harp. Come into us a habitant, not built upon a seed, rather a creator who gives and never needs. Let thy sound be music, like that which has not been sung. Creation of a mother to her daughters and her sons.

Thy sound comes to those elderly, burning age away, breaking barriers handily, bodily notes that play. Thus, is creation in thy master plan, old ways fade away. Thy sound falling from the cold dark heavens, accompanying strings arranged. Thy sound is not in error, in this moving time, tongues that kiss in healing, for thy holy name. The music oh so sensual, the craft of air arrayed, the swirling of all spirits, thy sound awe speaks displayed. – 07.07.22 – דניאל

The Boy in the Stiff Boots

I beg you take courage; the brave soul can mend even disaster.” — Catherine the Great

Being on the spectrum, is like walking in a stiff pair of boots. Your feet hurt, and you have no flexibility. Yet you can see above the heads of others because you stand taller. And that is where we both begin and end…

Upon a recent night I hear him say. “Oh Babylon, how your walls have fallen, how you have destroyed me, how these stiff boots cannot my feet contain.” And since I wonder at such his words, I move closer, for there is a haunting of the spirit, that preludes, the creation of G_D’s sweet grace. And such further I hear him phrase. “I am broken by your name, blessed be, my only shame, fill me with your flame. For it is I have seen such terrible things, my mind plays in such a grotesque game.”

He is born with stiff boots, a strength that is built on hurt, justified, by what the world has done to him, what he thinks G_D has done to him, what life has done to him, and yes what I have done to him. And he has become unconquerable, and strong, building a daemon so angry it possesses his given name. His beautiful name. And he stands so stiff and tall in his stiff boots. He curses the stars above Babylon because they never make him whole. He never fills full.

Please help the boy in the stiff boots is my claim, on the altar in your name. Bending low, patterns drawn in your image I say. Day after day, night after night let your sweet essence enter his human cage.

And how these many days I pray, and how I will bless your unmitigated names. She-ma Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad, each night I claim.

She comes in the mystery of a falling rain, and before he is born, she fills his soul. She comes in a desert place before I even know his name and claims the payment for his change. And in the city of the dead, G_D comes to claim that which I even did not know. And while he screams, and the Mediterranean rolls, this lord, this Adonai comes and makes his eyes glow. The earth opens and takes his pain, in a holy flame. My baby boy, his eyes like mine, a hazel grain.

And how these many days I pray, and how I will bless your unmitigated names. She-ma Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad, each night I claim.

She comes in my stiff boots of memory, in the archetype of my soul. She is all unto me, the mix that makes me whole. And just like he is unto me, every cell that makes a family sensory, we share the same. In your name. Oh, how I come to you, in your mystery, I thank you, while this world wanes. I know my son’s story, how you built him in all your glory before the world was named. And like him you made me, stiff boots made of chemistry, that which fills our brain. In that we walk from day to day. In that we walk from day to day. And that is where we both begin and end… – 06.17.2022 – דָּנִיֵּאל


On Ageing

“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.” – Robert Frost

All future is ageing, all present is fear of the future. All future is me. All future is me. On Ageing, I see the end of the world in me. And perhaps no one will know it, no one will see, that growing older terrifies me. For I would not be lonely with this song stuck in me.

The end of the world seems within my reach, rushing so suddenly. Dampened ideas, slower dreams, a final goal written by her in front of me. The future has changed for what I thought it would be, and now I no longer think myself as a king. I believe now I’m only me. Perhaps that is all I was meant to be. And in this is the metric, the sword without the stone, the Julius without his Caesar, in this I am alone. Betwixt a shadow and a great sea. A figure hiding along that great highway toward Wyoming by the mile marker fifteen. Between high stones, my heart baring a rare treatise. The end like the beginning is all I believe. For this in ageing is my reprieve.

Perhaps the end comes in ageing in stereo, feeling the sting. Could be it comes between a stranger’s hips, hearing an angel sing. For I think of it like a murder, that’s never been discovered, a bit of freedom from what the law decrees. Perhaps the end is the stage of comedy, an open platform of strange honesty, a darkness of my heart spilled for all to see. Oh, how even now the end it comes, and I would deceive. How wicked I could be. For it would seem that in ageing we are sums of curiosities, atoms and molecules, and strange memories. Perhaps ageing is a disease. Still a vampire I would not be. The spirit is enough for me.

Life is referred to as a great ship, a feminine, a cosmic she. That is, she is, referred to by me. A delicate bride, born by my own destiny. A creation, a genesis of my own spiritual mystery. A raging banshee. Oh, in ageing she has taken me. For this alone I will not let her be. No, she will never be. Like a house haunted for many years, I will not let her go so easily. She will hear me scream. I will draw her blood in equity. And I swear, that last breath that she draws, will come from her, but not from me. It is a spell at the end I will weave. For on ageing it is enough to know loss. Still, it is too much to grieve.

All future is ageing, all present is fear of the future. All future is me. All future is me. On Ageing, I see the end of the world in me. And perhaps no one will know it, no one will see, that growing older terrifies me. For I would not be lonely with this song stuck in me. – 05.22.2022 – דָּנִיֵּאל 

A Word in February

When God was making the months, I think February was a mistake, like a burp. There it was, small, dark, and prickly. It had absolutely no redeeming qualities.”- Shannon Wiersbitzky

The Pan he flies and dies in February. On a word he glows and goes in February. The Pan he falls so fast in February. Not really but actually!

Four and a half months on a business dime, four and a half months see you in a new eternity. And now I grieve if only momentarily. And if I had a word for this month, it would be only believe. For I have feared that which I could not see. Now faith has set me free, if only momentarily. And how I hate this month, oh I hate it so, nothing good has happened and I’ll tell it so. Lost all my dust and my flying wings on a word in February.

Deep far the tunnel goes, far from the light of the porches glow. Faire the wind the western flow, from steeps not mapped on an explorer’s globe. Here beneath a web not shown, dream a sailor on a carrion row. Bare your soul, on it goes, one world certain, one below. Taste, taste tears they flow, oh my feelings are not for show, for they are momentarily. They are momentarily.

And she was there, as he was too, the dead summoned by a word a kiss. The memories at three in flight. The Pan my boyhood gone from sight. One step than two at night, this month of winter in all its tragic might. A word spoken by both in a tainted dream. A word so small that becomes something more. A word in February. And I am lower than I have ever been still it is momentarily.

Dream er up big, that man he says. What he forgot was about the faith. What he doesn’t know is there is no church, no star or seal in February. Hash tag and love that man he says. Small man little man in his final days. For he has not seen the master screen, falling suns and angels of the lost boys that dream. He has not seen the dark of night, pivoting of eyes on a Pan in flight. And he does not know of the word in me, shattering my fear, all of misery. He does not know of the moon or stars. One word of wisdom that has come so far. In February.

Four and a half months on a business dime, four and a half months see you in a new eternity. And now I grieve if only momentarily. And if I had a word for this month, it would be only believe. For I have feared that which I could not see. Now faith has set me free, if only momentarily. -02.22.22– דָנִיֵּאל

Beyond Red Feather

“If you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.” – Beryl Markham

His spirit came upon me on a fourth night last before, and he laid out all the burdens that I thought once solved once more. And I worried all about it, and I prayed to G-D above, but it was in his insistence and according to his word that I followed my dad the phantom, on into a different western world. Into a different western world.

I set my mind on answers and I lay them at false feet. The Ying and yang of could be, the Ying and yang of disarray. And I climb that lonely mountain. Just the one I climbed before. Oh, here I stand a mountain, on it rest a hollow core. For if there was an answer in every peak, I’ve climbed than surely, I would be a wise man or perhaps holy divine. But oh, this Ghost upon me. The churning of my mind. This answer for a reason. Time to move, nothings left to find. Nothings left that’s mine.

Red Feather, was my fortune in the fall of ninety-nine, and I built it to a temple. To a mystery within my mind. And it’s true my daddy lies there with his ashes that dirt binds cold this very day. It’s all a part of history, the kind the spirit moves with time away. Oh, Daddy why all the mountains, that you breath into my mind, when you whisper out of the cold gray “Lay, sweet lady lay.”

And all I want is wonder, that beckons to my word, changes me forever, frees me like a bird. Makes me to an angel, just the only kind, that flies beyond your mountain to something that won’t fade away. That won’t fade away.

For maybe it’s a treasure, or just an extra breathe, maybe I’m just naked while an eagle makes a nest. Could be I see Jesus, in the beer from the night before, or maybe there is a miracle, laid in my inner core. But somehow, I know there’s a sunrise exploding in the west, laid out like days turned windy with time and secrets to explore. For ghost you are now upon me, mapping my seconds to the day, and what tomorrow may find me. With a grace tracing lines upon my face. On a distant shore of mystery where new muses come to play. A miracle of the day. A miracle of the day.

His spirit came upon me on a fourth night last before, and he laid out all the burdens that I thought once solved once more. But this time it was different, so strange in a good way. A miracle as my daddy bowed his head to pray, and I moved away. I moved away. – 01.24.22 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Ghost on the Bridge

“It is required of every man, the ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death”. – Charles Dickens

“Listen, listen”, the boy ghost said, “we are present caricatures of what we once knew, no better time than Christmas, to know the life that once was you”. “From this same stargate a child was born, and in that image all lives were formed”.

Blew a kiss your way in the snow of “73”, you were transparent so hard to see, a foot pointed in reverie, no one saw you but me. Just a sprite upon the bridge, looking southward toward a ridge. The bluffs above you, and down below the muddy San Juan looked like moving brown snow. I thought about you standing there, a Dicken’s character with muffled hair. What were you doing, where was your home? Were you the same ghost who whispered to me when I felt so alone? I saw you again when we drove home, winds swirling, the spirits they roam. Oh, the ides of Noel be, above a river, on Christmas Eve. Faire thee well then, from my way back when, the clock is ticking while darkness moves in. A change to shadow, the book of dark, forever thirteen, a phantom in my heart.

Beyond our house, the wind it blew, from the steeps of twin peaks, the sand it made a witches brew. And in the interest of the dark, the Christmas story had a different start. For instead of Judea from my Father’s lips, I heard a whisper about desert ships. A different story from a different arc, a previous world in its glory before our start. “Listen, listen”, the ghost boy said, I’m a reflection of you before you were dead. “Listen, listen”, to your own heart, the Yuletide of genesis was the beginning before this Christmas start. And I heard him singing inside my head, and it sounded of wonder as I made my way toward bed.

That once in a lifetime on Christmas Eve, December 24th, 1973, the ghost on the bridge, came with me home, made my life different from all I had known. Told me stories of how life had been before division of meaning was borne upon men. Told me of stars, that spelled out their names, as they danced in unison, until morning came. Told me of meaning of why we are born, to love in adventure, to love in the storm. And as I traveled so far in my dreams, a boyhood voyager, to give or receive. I passed that bridge by the one where I’d seen, the boy ghost looking, staring at me. He looked so familiar, like someone I knew, no different from me. He waved me on through. He waved me on through.

“Listen, listen”, the boy ghost said, “we are present caricatures of what we once knew, no better time than Christmas, to know the life that once was you”. “From this same stargate a child was born, and in that image all lives were formed”. – 12.20.21 – דניאל


Portals (The End of Days)

“The irrevocable hand That opes the year’s fair gate, doth ope and shut the portals of our earthly destinies; We walk through blindfolded, and the noiseless doors close after us, forever. Pause, my soul, on these strange words for ever whose large sound breaks flood-like, drowning all the petty noise our human moans make on the shores of time. O Thou that openest, and no man shuts; That shut’st, and no man opens Thee we wait!” – Dinah Maria Mulack

“It is a bad time to think about wanting baby’s”, he said. “So much happening”. “So much darkness”, “so much hate”. “Still” she says, smiling, her lips drawing back to show her teeth. Still…

And the sun hid its face…

In the end of days, the sky fell forward, rolling toward us as summer set. For the fires from California, made our breathes so hard to get. In the cities along the front range, homeless came from not the west, brought their needles, sold their spirits, laid on concrete, the only place to find their rest. Dead was color, that of aura, that which circles an Eagles nest. No one spoke language, that word of people, all was transmitted in sign or texts. For what was summoned from those that ruled us an old man, whose mind forgets. A dangerous daemon of centuries stolen. Empires fallen on rich made bets. A turn of fortune, a once held glory, in darkened churches, those once used temples, where Jesus, forgot his wept. The end of days now, a turning seraph, a plague worth noting, in our minds kept. All thine the glory, in earth forgotten, a soul of total, is judged not worthy, not on a gross but on a net.

And the moon reddened its eye…

For all who tremble looking skyward, for those who hide their dry eyes in sand. That day has long been passed. Deemed completed, to sharpen weapons to cry reset. And oh, the vale is wide indeed, barren of spirit and growth of seed, one-wheel stops, while another one turns in need. The clock no longer measures the seasons, the long grass has turned into weeds. Flags of nations wave, while Rome burns on a pirate’s creed.

And the portal was ready to receive…

In the end of days, I hold out my hand through darkness and touch you where your legs recede. The whole world is silent, as into each other our soul’s weave. A cosmic duration, that conjures meaning. Then, now, and forever, I love you. For we conceive portals, the kind each lover needs, an answer to the question, of how to believe. And the world explodes around us, the old and what was new. For the door is falling open the signs upspoken, our souls a turquoise blue.

And the day was made of lightning for the night had been so long…

“It is a bad time to think about wanting baby’s”, he said. “So much happening”. “So much darkness”, “so much hate”. “Still” she says, smiling, her lips drawing back to show her teeth. Still… – 09.08.21 – דָנִיֵּאל


The Turquoise Soul (Dreaming)

“You’ve got to always go back in time if you want to move forward.” – Snoop Dogg

“You have a turquoise iiʼ sizíinii“, Grandma Blackhorse says. She is looking deep into the campfire. The flames reflect in her aged eyes and make them look like they are glowing. “Don’t scare the boy”, Ms. Woods says. She is to my back; I can hear the sound of the dough, flipping back and forth slapping her hands. “He’s not scared “, Grandma says, opening her mouth to show a toothless smile, “he is soon to dream”. “Stop it mother, it is not their way”, Ms. Woods says, her voice lower, sounding concentrated. She is no doubt worried about the consistency of the fry bread and hoping it does not burn. “May be not their way”, Grandma, laughs, “but it is his way”. “It is his way”.

A lighter blue just before sunrise, still it is dark at 4:00 AM. Falling deep into a slumber, as the chants begin and end. Three-sixteenths a time a sliver, into a higher desert wind, high above this firmament, this journey, into your ways do I descend. Not of this world, but of this people, between four mountains that ascend. Night has fallen on the Black Yeii; let the light of holy boy begin again. Round and round the worlds bend.

So it is that I am dreaming, of the beginning and the end. Of a soul that learns from mercy, born for water in the San Juan’s
end. Star gaze I into the heavens of a universe where life begins, five billion light years of glory, while right here now I am ten again. Black, yellow, white rotates again, while the turquoise eats my sin.

A safer place has never happened, why oh why can it not be. That every grey hair on this planet should be a child with me. Spinning it would seem in a turquoise destiny. Seeing this stone ship, that which flew, with fires and ash from a deep cold blue. Now it brings me here, from time immortal, cast down by a dream so clear. Everything happens in time, a constant in movement by design. Forwards, backwards, jumping over rhymes. The answer to the riddle is those who seek will find. Floating in a dream three-sixteenths at a time. In a desert near, may be like a child the answer comes so clear. Never fear, be free, dream with me.

“Come boy, come here”. Grandma Blackhorse is motioning me over to her side of the fire, using her nose to beckon. I look to see if Ms. Woods is paying attention, but she is busy hustling pots and pans over to the house to clean. “Boy I said come here”, Grandma has raised her tone. I shuffle over to her, hesitant but not afraid for Grandma is smiling again. Grandma is holding out something in her hand, and as I reach her side, she motions for me to take it. I look for just a moment into her eyes, those eyes that have seen time, and perhaps traveled it too. When I look down, my hand is holding a piece of rough-hewn turquoise. “You have a turquoise iiʼ sizíinii”, Grandma Blackhorse says. -08.27.21- דָנִיֵּאל

Authors Note: Grandma Blackhorse’s piece of Turquoise resides with this author’s soul and rock collection, as it will until the stars fall from the sky and I fly the Shiprock home.

Never Never Land

“So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!” – James M. Barrie

Nothing had ever forbade me to dream of that home I searched for, that place in childhood where I felt safe. Still it seemed to elude me in my nightly visions, for to go there would require a balance. A threading of the needle between lack of, and want to. The summoning of the spirit of will. A belief in divination. The conquering of great adversities to find “Never Never Land” and to own within my own nature, that I was “The Pan”.

3:00 AM August 7, 2021

Left alone it would seem in ferocious weather on a roughhewn stone, in a violent sea. Dreams in phases am I young man, or am I in want, an old man deceived. What would I say has brought me this mystery, brought me this sword that cuts flesh from bone. Sold me naked in a world not my own. What would I say surrounds me in darkness, comforts me more than a warm bed at home. Standing still, I feel so disabled, lightning comes and I am alone. I am so alone.

The dragons have risen to lighten my darkness, come to demand a payment a toll. Deals made in ignorance, while I was younger, have put a strain on my inward soul. Questions unanswered, one and another, why do we search to find what stories have told. Too many thoughts lost in reflection, time owes no man what he cannot hold. Still I say it bold, a legend of fancy, a legacy behold. I am The Pan.

For what is the discomfort here? In my own thoughts, a judgment made clear. Flaws ingrained by my own instigated fear. Aged frowning daemons attack. To what I would not wish for myself to go back. To find my comfort in what I do lack. Wrapped in darkness within my soul. Not to see this storm in phantoms unfold. Not to see the rocks that I must climb, lines on my face, say I am out of my time. Tick tock, tick tock, I should have ran. Still my better ghost remind me in this late hour. I am The Pan.

So on to my hunt, with old bones creaking, tame the dragon my childhood is seeking. To find the tunnels, to enter the arch, know the secret that carries the ark. A covenant of mystery I see, an ancient rite brought to me. Count the numbers ahead, they fall from the skies and enter my head. Enter the sea the spirits forbade. The sky is spinning, my best plans unmade. Enter the doorways ahead. The seal is broken and time is unwed. For I will go on, straight to the castle, the light just ahead. To find the final truth, in G_D’s plan. An old man young in “Never Never Land”. I am The Pan. I am The Pan. – 08.12.2021- דָּנִיֵּאל‎ 

The Thin Wire

“Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance on it”. – Hunter S. Thompson

It took place by a dark bayou, the war in her mind. It raged both within and without her. It happened with hardly a sound, say that gasp she heard before she gave up the ghost and simply went away. Simply went away.

The Daemon’s eyes were lightning, seizing the warm June air about his glare, making it smell of Sulphur and musty faire. He spoke in a voice of judgment taught to him by his father the deceiver. It was his only weapon. His words formed circles around the head of the brown haired maiden, and with each syllable that was twisted; she jerked her body as if she was receiving pain. For indeed she appeared bereaved, and sadly enough her image itself began to change. It was with a ghastly sigh, a sorrow untold, a difference between the fantasy and the lie, the keeper of breath and the devil that defies. The war of the mind between judgment and the divine. The thin wire that separates the divide.

Still, lay still my faire maiden, rest thy torn, and shattered mind, gentle here by this dark water, a bottle by thy side. Gone is guile of some temptation that is to try a greater high. No more days of emulation, loss of weight the candy’s eye. Now we see you in death’s slumber, form so small beneath humid skies. Shadows summoned, wrap around you, a smaller form, have not seen I. Ere the cries of those who love you, those to whom there was no bye. Read they now of your alienation, in “The Catcher and the Rye“, and how the thin wire breaks inside. For when it breaks, it breaks inside.

Cast her spirit on the water; let her soul find comfort there. Watch it fly then into thin wonder air. There is no judgment there. Had she not some good within her, that extinguished by a rain. That of falsehood and addiction that fell upon her by disdain. Gather here, you grounded muses, those who taunt and flame. Look at her form still before you know she fell in war, that conflict in your name. For her thin wire is stretched among you, from one to each your much the same. Is it not true one less among you, and yet you feel no shame. Not one or two will ever change. For though she dies just barely, her thin wire cut in two. Something that has compassion nearby will welcome her completely and new. For wars are fought in many battles, in this world to stars beyond our own. This now still faire maiden, has moved on to take a future home.

Still, lay still my faire maiden, rest thy torn, and shattered mind…

For the faire maiden (for there on the other side you now know who you are) and the many more out there, whom embrace a battle inside all their own. It is not too late, wait but just a little while. – 06.30.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל