Matinee Mice

Some came to be frightened, a four wizened few, the creatures of darkness, that matinee crew. We stitched our own stories of plot, scripts anew, twelve movies of summer, the acts we boys knew. Red balcony cushions and arm chair delights, the clandestine features of lovers wrapped tight. On now with this scripture of tales of the brood. That Friday of summer, ghost entered the Allen as sharp as a Shrew. What four boys in mischief, mixed life for the giving, on bar stools they still sing, of that troubled day scheme, the beauty of mind games, the day we rose matinee mice.

One Friday in August, the thirteenth seven one, our plan in the making we watched the dawn come. The prince of all darkness his scar making teeth, was entering the Allen for a long August feast. As lads we were pupils of what ole Lee did, his movies were golden, we watched his teeth kiss. The maidens had rich blood that spilled from sized cups, caused trouble in waiting with an R rating, the issue determined, what we boys should do.

On Larry, and Jacob, myself and Trey too, the whole plot in waiting to do what lads do. The Allen has Showtime’s of two and of four, the Hammer of Dracula offers you more. There was still this matter of age to view sin, we were boys most craven to enter the den. It was then a bright youth, myself so indeed, mentioned the exit vent from theatre to street. I bet in conjecture no one would know why, the large door was open with four boys inside. It could be were mice like, Trey said with a grin, avoiding capture, we’ll say that we’ve been. And so it was whispered with giggles and glee four boys, would crawl inward to see a movie for free.

What dark clouds swarmed inward with full guts of rain, at ten before two, four shadows did play, upon alley walls toward trouble did they creep, four lads with a mission a movie to see. Like mice we did make stealth, removing a door, as lightning crackled and rain soon did pour. We crawled into darkness, a tunneled abyss, behind Jacobs’s movement we moved as a list. Up on a ladder we soon made our way, the tunnel grew wider, our excitement at play. Beyond some veiled wall the undead did speak, our goal of fulfillment would soon find its peak. The door stood between us and rapture of sin, no longer as mice we moved forward as men. Into the pale we strode one as in four, the thunder of Vlad Tepes upon us did roar. Four boys with ambition, adventure and game moved in front of watchers onto a theatre…..

Stage….. 07.01.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Writer

Throes of Creation by Leonid Pasternak

I sat to write to keep me warm, I toiled with pen some bitter scorn. I spun a shadow, I felled a tree, in awkward syllables I wished to see, and still within me something grew, an inward soliloquy that shook the room. What if, in color, I wrote a fate, a detailed sonnet, an ode to hate? While hearts fell shaking in earthbound flight, a penciled journey on a starless night, I wrote in earnest, I drew in glee, strange lyrical verses by six and by three. Dark words on parchment not meant to be. For written in breath between the lines, there was a curse, a scribble scribed, a poem engraved in broken time. An omen tempted upon the page, a rhyme, a token, an author’s rage.

It was a summer when I wrote last, the gods of wonder let me pass, took me to heaven past some gates, phonetic magic in clear glass lakes. Described in narrative by angels worth, a book of novel a writers birth. I was the novel alive in light, an untidy journey scrawled in block type. A cast of millions filled my mind, ideas of magic that seemed to align, a story forever that staid the heat, antagonist fury that rid deceit. In tense and medium and style of design, I lived with my characters, and made them mine. Forgotten was anger, and black words of lore, in genre and motif, I jotted for more, and as summer went, I entered a plan, I’d write about days and the love of G-Ds plan.

The writer of darkness, she is what she sees, a stranger to living, a jailor in need. A writer for fortune he spins tales of woe, to heighten his margin and shill all his gold. The writer of romance she favors a war, where sex has no balance and envy wants more. A writer of mystery, he marvels at crime, afraid of his conscience and what he might find. The writer of days of what I can see, wants balance in writing, and all that can be. I write in fulfillment of grace in my hands, my terror is over, Hashem guides my plans, for over and over, inside what I see is writing forever, a dance within me. – 06-20-2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

I Never Wrote That Song

Some day’s the wheel goes round, and I look at the paper and sigh with relief, for part of me is tattered in G-Ds harmony. A bereaved melody that fell inside me became me, while the universe played a different song. Part of me, looks to see, what syllable will make me feel my home, a rare key, six to three, when every element, emotional, makes me bleed. Beside me, a world is free, but not in me, the only place these lyrics seem to belong. What do you see, when all those sounds come out so wrong, is it me that played inside me so long. Converge on me majesty, something misunderstood in melody, counting the breaths around me, I never wrote that song.

Descant in methodical math, a place to hide when I discern the worlds black wrath. This place in rhyme alone, when the sound of words alone leave my spirit ticking. A place on one knee beneath the branch of a crooked tree, where questions call to know what’s inside. A cold, a destiny beneath an alcoholic freeze, words, that fall like lightning, without a need. My paper’s ready, crying, daemons rising, it’s part of me, accommodation of something wrong. When I’m sad, a shell that displays my terrible wrong, a chant hopelessly internally, intuits to me, and there I freeze, I never wrote that song.

Line in air of pitch that speaks liquid harmony, a part of me that tears me, sometimes off key, a place of charmed gone wrong. Voices living, inside me pointlessly, still determinedly, I deliver lyrics that sing my song. Could it be, antiphonally, unnaturally in destiny, some old music stayed inside me too long. No matter, I’ll gather paper, and out of range I’ll become something that no one believes, and when in character they come to see, I’ll deliver, but in all that carnage that stayed inside me so long, please believe, I never wrote that song.


“I Never Wrote That Song” inspired by that rascal Alice Cooper, “I Never Wrote Those Songs” from Lace & Whiskey. – 05.19.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל


How are you there, dear neighbor, why Mr. Carter I’m doing fine, did you try that new ice cream down at the five and dime? Did you see that Ms. Pickens no longer sings at church, she fell and broke her ankle, stepping off that dang ole curb? In the morning, I’ll drive her where it is, she needs to go, I know she’s frail, and lonely, and she needs our help so. Hello Mayor Phillips, I heard your cars broke down, can I give you a ride, to the business side of town. It’s the best a soul can offer in 1959, shelter me from the carnage coming down this timeline.

It could be Dr. Mike’s a rich man, I don’t care, and I don’t ask, when we can’t pay him, he still does his task. The city park needs cleaning, nobody need get upset, the boys they got together, and in no time mowed the grass. There’s a place by the river where I take my favorite girl, at times she lets me kiss her, and I feel my heart unfurl. When we decide to marry, and I promise her my life, there won’t be no one other, for this ever, she will be my wife. It could be rain is coming, in a time where devils speak but now I’m just living and my soul is real at peace.

Sharon Keeley’s theatre runs the best show for a dime, each night before she shuts down she looks at Heston one more time. She knows a dream before she sees it but it’s life just the same, the actor makes her feel like she walks in star like grace. The children of a small town walk to and fro from school, never thinking of a stranger who might want to break life’s rules. Officer Rumford is a good friend, who plays his best when the summers hot, when the church league is shy a player they just know they can call that cop. There’s a ship that’s taking water on this ocean up ahead, but for now were treading water, it’s not too high and not too bad.

At nine o’clock we just get sleepy, and we think our stars it’s late, and we drink a glass of orange juice, Aunt Louise eats some cake. In the nighttime not a nightmare, from the mayor to a child, as we enter sleep filled union with a balance and a smile. It’s a sliver of an era built on time that will not last, a year of 1959, and soon it will pass. Can you see it in a time machine built static in these words, built special in a town of rhyme, before danger strolled the earth. It’s the best a soul can offer in 1959, shelter me from the carnage coming down this timeline. – דָּנִיֵּאל

Blessings of the Writer (Psalm of Tiferet)

Poet, you chase me, contain me in a breeze. Creator, a story, that’s born in me to believe. Wonder, first footsteps, a child you must first feed. Chastened, by darkness, you lose your mortality. Listening, stirred inward, your desert takes its toll. Hear now of a fever, a story never told. Haunted, by a sonnet, of a ghost that thieved its soul. Spirit’s, drunken soldiers, the pleasure’s still untold. Firelight, in a canyon, a pen it scribes of love. Silent, before magic, the rum it finds my blood. Tattered by the critique, the one who cannot see, the blessing of the writer when lost in mystery.

I defined G-D casting lighting, felt summer when it’s cold, written of assurance, with demons in control. Old men that were Merlin, have written in my sleep. Valleys, retained by witches have sown the words I reap. Candles, in leafless forest have chased me with a rhyme. Daniel, you have dominion, Bel’s prince has summoned time. You helped me scribe the starlight, from high born desert nights. Etched my thought in shadows, and led me to the light. The ode of throne and sapphire, a dreamed that stopped my strife, the blessing of the writer, the sparks that changed my life.

Compose, now I a changeling, an alchemy not taught, a summoning of fusion, tainted by some thought. Write I, now the sound unmade, deficient of first light, reform it to its bed now made, and ask to have real sight. Honor me with writing that changes form and deed, give me striking wisdom that grows this tree of peace. Let delight seize me, and write down song in me. Constitute the psalm of sea, and let me sail away. Establish on my forehead and arm for time to be, the blessings of the writer, my familiar trapped in me. – דָּנִיֵּאל 04/16/2014

White Robe (A True Story)

They wear a white robe in virtual euphoria, telling their secrets in all of its Gloria. I know a woman in trinity rapture, worships her kingdom in fashion forever. Plastic blood gods, forgiven here after, afraid of the old world, immune in her stature. Her kingdom in antithesis story, assumes a white robe that decrees a false glory. She stands now in licentious magic, dealing a false card, taken from shadows, written on dead skin, two thousand years, of sin forgiven, how?

I know a man that wears a white robe, speaks to the angels, reaches for kingdoms, tells of the unborn, begging as tears flow, his eyes go inward, psychosis given, his sin is living now. Roman, covered by secrets, parchment and leather, canon of ritual, taken from old ways, how? He speaks of his love for one G-D accessed, by blood god possessed, shame of the ages, come now to save us, how?

It is a strange way, declaring its favor, outsourced sorcery, torturous wisdom, blood on a strange wood, nephilim stranger, born of a woman, mystery unspoken, how? They enter underground from various places, wearing a white robe, clothed in their virtue, talking as warriors, crimson to do good, how? In G-D’s love they place their judge of hereafter, take from the old way, say it’s a new way, lost in black vision, preaching in one way lost in a three way, how?

Real life, dollar loud saviors, watching in crimson possession by business, pornography vision, how? Warfare, witches in heaven, balance is given, light turns his face, torn from the shadow, now, the true story, now. Ark of the living, hidden from Esau, how? They wear a white robe, stolen from glory, a destiny hidden, an alien forgiven, how? They seek a real light, Shekinah of Yisrael, Solomon’s protocol, the well of G-Ds wonders, sound of the holy, how? They wear a white robe, plastered in diamonds, numbering the beast, counting the minutes, numerals of knowledge, how?

This is a safe place, with white robes forbidden, where love is not hidden, blood is not needed, life is still heeded here. There is forever one from beginning the ark of unending, a balance defending know how. There is no new way, when constant is flowing, sapphire is glowing, sphere of pure light is clear. Endless, in cyclical union, compassionate fusion, no cover, forgiveness, a judgment of reason, now. – דָּנִיֵּאל 04/13/2014

Whispers by autumn (A Prayer of New Days)

Whispers by autumn, they rise and they go, no voices just writing and bearing a witness of the light that raises my soul. Sweet gift of the union, the magic of man, the budding reunion of Torah, a kiss on my forehead and hand. You take and you sing me, like psalms of the heavens, a child’s understanding, a deep heavy rhythm, incredible numbers, the wording, for glory like comfort when sleeping in the seal when you gently pass me by. Adonai-Nissi, a breath worth chanting, a ratable cleansing, a curse or a blessing, the words are written in autumn by my hand.

Whispers by autumn, like shadows of love, your gaze in my fallen hands, suddenly, that critique so old is commanded in shades of sapphire. Scores are summoned, who will understand, impulsivity, the wind of YHWH reeling like thunder in the cortex of my passion. Now my pen dances, and will not harbor what used to be me. You will not judge me like some forlorn spirit disgraced in this electrical fallen age, rather you consider me immortal, and my sin you consider equal in phenomenon to your compassion. My autumn saves me with vespers enchanted, and in my thought I write the wonder of you.

Whispers by autumn, beholden grace in syllables reserved for the nomenclature tangled in the wakes of angels. Sight well hidden now risen, born and elaborated, given to numbers and directions, measuring figuratively by given perspectives this new temple. That building of written psalm that Teit-Vav has considered constructed under autumn sight for me. What was silent, has disappeared, a phrase believed is written living, a word holy, committed deeper than any living memory. Now invade me, cast me to that place of living, and I will praise you in rhyme. Whispers by autumn, they rise and they go, no voices just writing and bearing a witness of the light that raises my soul.דָּנִיֵּאל 03/07/2014

The Familiar










Touch me when you feel relevant once more.  Come into my heart when you are healed and play like a child again.  With difficulty I let you go, and like a hard habit that breaks my back you raze my bones and then you float silently away.  Snowing on Saturday and cold, this wilderness I am not sure I can take.  Yet, a word similar to therefore or however, there exist a possibility that with the release of you as a disability I find my way.

No one needs to hear about burdens, there are too many heartaches we all own.  Self and longing belong to the same god, a dogma that beholds the sinner to disbelief.  Candles that are self lit die in just a little shade.  I have to fashion new familiars that will help the exhausted want to wait.  Please give me black liturgical entanglements of words that limp then dance on a minor score that’s played.

The word that brings ideas to the criminal, the word of nothing that creates the end of decay.  No longer must adjectives describe, sounds they must utter, glory exalted in play.  Is there a need to describe harmony, are not the sounds you want to read in the chaos of what you falsely believe you cannot see.

Is this private pathological conversation with my familiar leading others to language that will help them find their way?  What psalm glides in silence across my paper when I choose not to obey.  This writer bequeaths his freedom to a stranger he thought he released yesterday, a noise filled proverbial that diffuses and threatens to take my sanity away.

Touch me wanderer, you feel relevant once again, paint my crooked sky with confused signs of magic, so that I might write and charm a familiar that leads others to play.

A good writer has a familiar. In truth that familiar must be released from time to time to help the writer maintain his or her soul.  It is known as writer’s block!  The reunion with a writer’s familiar upon his or her time in purgatory is filled with dark magic and deeds, and it is in that reunion that the most wonderful words are released.-Daniel Swearingen 02/01/2014