Jason’s Ghost (Until Then)


“To a real best friend remember the truth! Hardy spy in the sky. (We did fly)” – Jason Waite (autograph 1974 yearbook)

Early morning my friend, eternal sails upon that desert wind, and I’m moving off with you again. Below just a topographical change, a deep, deep vale where we hid our change. From boys to better men. You come shooting up from Flame hill again. So, let’s begin. Let’s begin.

He rides the ship called Argo, the one that we fought for when we played. A tragedy born in the Ojo Amarillo, below where the Skinwalkers they lay. The character of boyhood brought from dreams of once upon a time until then. He smiles, he looks beyond what once was a friend. The clock burns into early morning seconds, well past three A.M. He summons spring. “School” he says, “will soon be out”. “Forever, and ever will never end, but until then”. For time has brought us this night, my friend. With stars cold diamonds, and hidden omegas beneath a galaxy’s far end. The mystery of the boys we have been. The rare spun change of when or then. The daemons laugh with us again, while our footprints appear, they walk without end. The flame, that sears our emotions again. On that hill, so long ago, where our souls began, again and again and again.

He swoons without blood or bone, the “San Juan River” is in his eyes like home. The color changes always. From muddy water to blue, blue, gray. His touch a cold, cold spell, he says there is another clue, by the river ruins. In the ruined Kiva where we planted staves, we swore we would fight wars on another day. So much in these words has yet to play. Oh, my friend is it another day, he smiles in the starlit darkness, and says “maybe okay”. “Maybe okay”. He rises like an Argonaut, a hero from a play. Final act of literal prose that blows goodbye with the high desert wind. By the table in the school library your face it disappears behind the ending chapter where our journey began. It could be the last time we see each other but until then. Until then.

Early morning my friend, eternal sails upon that desert wind, and I’m moving off with you again. Below just a topographical change, a deep, deep vale where we hid our change. From boys to better men. You come shooting up from Flame hill again. For now, it is the end. The end, but until then. – 05.03.2020 – דָּנִיֵּאל

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

The Ruins by the River

“Where were you and where are you going? Here I built the ruin in the stone-crushed. Sage leaves my hands scented as long ago. When I liked to press the desert against my head to think”. – Dan Beachy-Quick

“Testimony – Evidence or proof provided by the existence or appearance of something”.

When we were boys of youth, we found a secret, a rock filled wall, and tunnel that led away and yes, I know it is time to tell a secret; the moonlit ruins are calling me back today.

They came to be under moonlight, a ray a world time away, with hallow calling to hallow, what is lost can always be retained. White air it moved between kivas, lovers of smooth rock and clay. A rattle with chips of dried bone broke the silence, in a world lost to time and date. The river ran without speaking, low water a drought of malaise. The tall cottonwood bending toward; looking to cast doubt at its own shade. The tall bluff across the shallow water births the large shadow of gray. The night it could lead to delusions, or render a story or two, there could be a death by the ruins of forever, or a life born in imagination new.

They came to be under moonlight, near a tunnel, a time warp of old worlds and new. One boy could say to another, lets cross the electron tide to take a view. The tunnel it went into a new space, a fourth of dimensional view, a round room centered by an altar, with a well of water beneath its purview. The spirits of the ancient’s cried endeavor. Bring your eyes so wide into the center of our view. By the ruins beneath this center, know what every pure mind would do. It seemed as if the round room grew closer. The fortune of the night at once renewed, for the moon shifted to a small peephole, and displayed all the colors and all the hues.

They came to be under moonlight, the last of testimony, the chosen few. The ruins of old cried out for an attention, one boy looked to the other and made it true. They came forth from the tunnel into the open; they came into the light under the moon. There it was they swore an oath blood given. The ruins would be the secret they knew.

The ruins are a true story, found sometime late in the spring of 1972, by the San Juan River, by my pal Jason and I. Others probably knew of them, but we found no evidence that they did. One summer night in July of 1972, we followed a spot of moonlight there. This is a fragment of our testimony. – 04.17.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Winslow (1977)

“A true story from Friday June 10, 1977”

We drove to Winslow…. Winslow, Arizona, “Taking it Easy” as we motored along. It’s bluer then ether, how can that be? Better light up while we still can, not seventeen or eighteen, just sixteen and so full of Chee, so full of the land. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time. There’s Hopi girls slowing down to see a white and a red, slowing down, GD wee! Near Newcomb, we will get high there, before we even reach service road 19B. Old friend, young friend, someone who has always known me, it’s nineteen seventy free. And Jimmy Carter’s holed up in the white house, he with his peanuts, means nothing, on this the Navajo and me agree. Davey and I, can ride in the pickup high, listening to Bob Seger, smoking, our own brand of weed, right now it’s all we want to believe. It could be that we were something, back in third grade that old grade school known as Grace B. And right now we believe in jesus, but that’s just because we are afraid of this open highway, plain scared of what we know America will be. It’s true like prophecy falling, dangerous with the knowledge beyond where we should be.

Tohatchi, has lightning, a thunderstorm that rains, meeting our laughter, joining our carelessness, with something that we need. When you think back Davey, from boot camp, when that ass hat’s screaming at Pendleton, think of me.

I’ll be standing in a pickup, a white kid, scrawny, wearing a blue Hanes T. Sixteen, driving with that Navajo, talking shit, with our hearts on our sleeves. And when we reached Winslow, if we saw love, in nineteen seventy free, for the rest of our lives we would be all we could be. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time.

Near the Yellow Horse Trading post on 40 we forgot we were alive, from there on to Winslow we thought we could fly, and sometimes your daddy’s truck did 105, could be we were drunk, more likely we only believed, that Navajo and me. Supposed we in the great all we see, took a laugh at our destiny, and when we arrived in Winslow we were still sixteen. Damn right we were still sixteen! That was the Navajo and me.

We drove to Winslow…. Winslow, Arizona, “Taking it Easy” as we motored along. It’s bluer then ether, how can that be? Better light up while we still can, not seventeen or eighteen, just sixteen and so full of Chee, so full of the land. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time. There’s Hopi girls slowing down to see a white and a red, slowing down, GD wee! – 06.09.2016 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

When We Were Young (The Oath)


late at night I dream, it’s like an old movie, the river island, the island we said we would sail to the sea, and the oath we made when we were young….

When we were young, we saw the moon, and it was not behind a wall, a picture, or a painting, and at times we touched it.

When we were young, we made places in our minds, that became our hearts, and in turn those hearts created trust.

When we were young, joy was one syllable, sung in no small voice at all, and it echoed in the trees, the deserts, and the canyons we saw.

When we were young, we each had a name, and with that name came a feeling, and now I realize that was harmony, something every friendship needs to feel grace.

When we were young we were protagonist in the greatest story’s ever told, and when the hero died, we would say is that you, or is it me.

When we were young, we climbed, and we climbed, and we climbed so long, for to fall would be a lesson, that we did not want to learn at all.

When we were young we were mystery, infallible myth, the Pan of legend, the boys not lost, still growing tall, and yeah it was fun, we had a ball.

When we were young, we called on fear, and challenged secrets and shadows when they came all, and we were wizards, what spells we summoned to call.

When we were young, we mixed our blood, and did a dance with paint on our face, we were not ashamed when we were young.

When we were young, we loved the cold, and we loved the sun, for the touch of it all, made us feel so real.

When we were young, we placed an oath on an island, it lays there still, it better stay there still.

When we were young, we would return to play, after death to that place, after passing had made us still, so still.

Late at night I dream, it’s like an old movie, the river island, the island we said we would sail to the sea, and the oath we made when we were young………03.05.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Texas (Patience)


Friend-like in summer, stark winter, even spring, there’s fall that is brown like, that’s when our laughter sings. She says that there’s gossip that puts us down in hell, I wish to tell her, about my special spells. Oh Texas, I’m falling, and then you pick me up, a better friend to me, in patience here I’m stuck, sometimes I can’t see.  You say, “its how we came to be”.

We met in the end of days, Texas and I, she a woman, I a man. She says, “You’re such a patient fellow, when you speak, I don’t know whether to laugh or not breathe”. “A wonder, beyond span she says, something brilliant on my imaginary shelf, something childlike, and patient, something quiet grand”. “Oh Texas, you’re funny, quiet comic, beyond beautiful, somewhat of a friend, that I could never take back”. “Danielson, your dangerous, a heartbeat, that makes some breathe where some have need, but your patient, so patient”. “Texas, strong Texas, a scarf on a hill, waving my sister, alive and yet still, this patience bears witness you’re the story of will, so patient and waiting until you’ve had your fill”.

Friend-like in summer, stark winter, even spring, there’s fall that is brown like, that’s when our laughter sings. She says that there’s gossip that puts us down in hell, I wish to tell her, about my special spells. Oh Texas, I’m falling, and then you pick me up, a better friend to me, in patience here I’m stuck, sometimes I Can’t see.  You say, “its how we came to be”.

We could climb trees, Texas and I, listening to George Michael, such patience, while we drink skunky beer, and fall spinning into the eyes, of a never ending well. She would say, “I listened to the notes, I can tell you heard the words”, and Texas and I would laugh, and she would say, “your such a patient man”. I would smile, “when you say that it makes the end of all life so grand”. In Texas, there is patience, while theirs destruction, and all the world comes to a final end, and yet she’s there, my sister, my friend, my blessed friend.

Friend-like in summer, stark winter, even spring, there’s fall that is brown like, that’s when our laughter sings. She says that there’s gossip that puts us down in hell, I wish to tell her, about my special spells. Oh Texas, I’m falling, and then you pick me up, a better friend to me, in patience here I’m stuck, sometimes I Can’t see.  You say, “its how we came to be”.

Oh my friend in patience, there is hardly an uttered word, that laughter can’t feel now and bring a life filled verb.  In Texas, where nothing but grandness is ever heard, and I believe I go on smiling while she fills the earth.  For G_D will change our chatter, perhaps it will be today, a better to know you than never have gone astray.  We met in the end of days, Texas and I, she a woman, I a man.

For my friend from Texas.  J – 7.06.2015 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