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

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 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


{Abstract} In which “The Whitby Ladies” being playful and gay, go by carriage to Leeds to attend the performance of Hérodiade at the “Grand Playhouse”. In which the ladies by craft, divine a bargain with a spright hereby named Baphomet to deal for the soul of the actress “Simone Lazarre” in exchange for the soul of the Archbishop of Canterbury “Edward White Benson” who is in attendance.

“Some whisper holy, holy, but they lie. Some cry rapture sweet Pontifex Maximus, but they do not know. I lie in the secret places, where the wolves eat their meat, and I wait for the calling of my Lord.” – DS

She burns her soul on the wood filled stage. With the walls of paper where the structure of Jerusalem weighs. The balance of acts, on a judgment scale, her breast displayed, as a wishing well. Her chocolate curls fall the room does sway and spins out of control far away. Those eyes so fair that watch above, in all their lust of lovers loved, in dresses made by magic care they watch Salome dance naked bare. Oh, night so quiet in summers dusk, all ladies present breathing touch. In marionette form, they move each thrust of naked hips that bring men’s lust. From Whitby town they made their way by carriage up the queen’s highway to sit as perched as royalty does, to move the characters, as they must. In Leeds Grand room, they play to test mortality’s cusp, a skin so soft for the Baptist bloody bust.

An act in parts, a shadow of life, the ballast moves from the deep of the night. The heat, the heat some barrister cries his eyes on the dancer and her glistening thighs. “Come all who hear, for none can see”, whispers one wicked witch in the gallery. Go on, go on reveal what will, a black bird is flying round the ceiling still. Can she never end says a barmaid dark? What I would not give a Pound to have her hips of art, as the dance for Hérodiade brings a bargain in the dark. Brings a trade before a part.

She burns her soul on the wood filled stage. With the veils breathing forms all around her, face. The room it breaths transposed only the silent can trace, with each witch watching the bargain take place. For the spright has promised to release one fair, to give the gift of trading while she dances there. An eye for an eye and a tooth or two, and such a supple body twisted as her soul comes through. Oh, the dark spirit watches right by the door for it has spotted a vessel what it traded for.

For Salome dances in the play for Leeds, before the royal bishop from Canterbury. His eyes they follow each miniscule move of a turning breast of the entrance to her womb. “Yes”, he’s heard to whisper, it is not enough for he wants to trap her dancing till she’s had enough, and the wicked things he has done before to dancing women to dancing whores. For he never would imagine that above his world in a gallery of witches there is a deal explored. For as the veils fall one by one and the lights grow dim and the dancer is done. The holy, holy Vicar looks confused to see a ghostly apparition with a silver tray, with no breath he will say. “This ends this way”, yes sir, “this end this way”! – 05.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For me and the deals I have struck!

Small Steps in LA

Each step is visual memory, a compulsion of the past; each step makes sure her sensory of Belial does not last. Steps she counts in sixes, numbers scored by a test, circles of obsession, a preventive with no rest.

She finds herself in and out of the City of the Angels, the warmness invites her at times it makes her freeze. There is never a springtime in Southern California; the many tons of concrete keep season’s barren seed. The shadows they move from one cloud to another, looking for altars on the ground below. Dry lightning strikes when it has smelled an ion, rising or falling but when it dies, how cold. Hold up your head and see those red-eyed angels, when in despair they hold an even glow. Preachers mope about looking for heaven, when dusk arrives; they will paint the pavement, with anything they you want to believe. Nothing stills like the flesh of temptation, pierced and ready a Christian deceived.

She holds herself in a heavy sweater; her arms covered though it is one hundred and nine degrees. What was there is gone behind her, it is a daemon, that will never leave. Did he press you, subtly hold you, and exhale without breath when you would breathe? No doubt, he is willing to wait for you here in LA, where life’s monsters breed. So she thinks about what is opportunity, for a thirty-eight year old with a past of mental disease. While overhead, the red-eyed angels grin and whisper obsession is your need. Another day she will take an Uber may be go down to the beach, but for now, she stands near Hollywood, scratching at something only she sees.

Perhaps she finds the time going quickly, much faster as she has aged, for in the twinkling as the lights come on, she is alone in west LA. The sky above her tilts it’s features, and the clouds looks darker still, and the coastal demons are falling, none the less she will do what she will. On an empty corner in darkness, near an old house in decay, she loses her thick sweater, and her arms they lift in grace.

And the G-Ds they love her madness, and they bend to kiss her scars, from a lifetime of insanity to find out just what they are. For the queen of random tragedy is dancing in near dark. In a truth, she floats with angels, in the steps of her inner flame, for she counts off all the numbers that make the matrix of G-Ds true name. It is a rapture of pure essence, a hypothesis not known, that sends her beauty to the heavens, to escape the asylum where she has grown, in LA. – 04.04.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Angels of Gath and Bloody Jack

It’s a place where your wish will be granted
Come, you’ll see I’m right
It’s a force that will live on within you
Dark as day is night
It’s a place where your dreams will be sanctioned
And will always be
It’s a force that was sent out to win you
Just you wait and see” – Epica

The angels of Gath they came from the sea, on a March night when the ice broke free. Came they to a wooden dock down from a wooden gate that is often not seen, hidden by hedgerows and a lock without a key. Stood they by so silently could they be children who do not breathe, led they were by one so tall, a bloody Jack who sired them all you see. Came they from a land so dark before the tower of babel, before the ark, knew they each man’s own sin and even women her thoughts within. Landed all these phantoms upon a dock near Whitby’s harbor at three A.M., saw they above them cliffs of white, the harbormaster saw them and died of fright. For they came to fight and maim, to destroy, the world, that women made they came to make it void. There above the sea so cold, those ancient witches with hearts so bold. And no matter what providence or lack of foresight or evidence, knew they once, all the same. This night would come a fire would come a flame. For it was by bloody Jack the Lord bereaved. The angels would strike by air and by sea. Their eyes rolling red, their souls bruised by need. For somewhere ahead on this cold springtime eve rested a fortune in magic of deeds.

And what of the women that rose from their beds, unwrapping their bodies from sated desire unsaid. The scent of their bodies mixed of oil, of spices and musk; with pleasure their toil, so spent from their lust. The manor still sleeping from parties at dusk, Lucy’s gardens outside hiding all that it must. Not seeming aware that so far below, bloody Jack waited to claim what he owed.

For it seemed once in Yorkshire upon such a day, a bloody thief had stolen away, the book of all shadows of an abbess that strayed. In a tavern off Pickering, on Whitby Way, in drunken debauchery, beneath the table they say. A floorboard was loosened, and a treasure displayed. Of writings of secrets, of magic enflamed, of women of Whitby who receive what they say.

So it was that this man darkened his face, with envy of what he had read of this place, and at night he cut on his arms with a knife, and bled bloody circles to end inner strife, and called he up fallen, the angels of Gath. They came from the highlands their purpose in store. To follow from Yorkshire and take witches down, to learn all their secrets, while in blood they did drown.

We come back to three that hour early morn, when witches are rising to praise their light Lord, and thunder it greets them from high in the sky, and somewhere below them, they hear a strange cry. Resa sweet lady looks startled at best, dear “Mina” my mistress have you seen “Poussee Seth”. He stands by the gate, Carlotta says with a sigh, dragging a boa across her own naked thigh. The coven looks wary, as a second sound is heard, and then there is another, of which moves the earth.

The Shilling it twist and it falls to the earth, before the gate closes a dragon is heard, the summoned the called for, the guardian of Din, the judgment of angels of bloody Jacks end. The witch’s familiar, the tide that rolls in. A talon left grasping a book owned by all, the shadows returning to eternity’s call.

And what of the women who rose from their beds, looking on westward to a dawn now that is red. In coven, they call down the light from above, and bless their familiar who returns to their love. The circle unbroken by angels or man, the manor alive now, its rooms all aglow, the spring has arrived now, with sunlight in tow. The angels of Gath have returned whence they came, and bloody Jack vanquished, and all is the same, as we go onward as we go. – 03.22.2018 – דניאל

January (Silence)

Grant Wood – January

“I killed my ex-lovers and buried to my memories’ grave. 
It is January and I am tired of being brave.” –
Arzum Uzun


Cold, thy name it comes to roam, a place inside from cold darkened stone. Death thy grip too, touches bone, none the less I am not alone. Life thy grip is underground, frozen tundra where still is sound. Catacombs thy layers make, graves of takers, awaiting their take. Hope not risen from bleak winds blow, a bent leaf bare aspen with ice it tows. Ode thy note it has no sound, a broken string has fallen to ground, and scarcely shows a light this day, from a distant sun, with clouds in its way. Now sharper is that cold dark bright, which comes from dead stars that own cold nights. It cuts with precision just like some tongue; speaking into shadows that nothing comes. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.


The festive moved from where love staid, retreated to December much far away. Fog and dire it moved in slow, expecting to labor were dead leaves blow. Said I so stiff, that speech came not, where is the purpose of such this month, and why should one expect much mirth when G_Ds of old have abandoned earth. Cry out some soul, thy blood will not run, for now it stands a colligated sum. For spirit, thy strength cannot fight this month, which fights a war and fights it much. The summer sun so far away, be still the tempest her warmth delayed. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.


I have heard “Bleak Winter” within my heart, where earth stood iron, that chorus enough, for in this place where rain does freeze, my soul, my core, it cry’s relief. For every judgment, this month brings clear, in darkened clouds, and silent fears. For every tear, thy need does cry, for fire of warmth beneath iced skies. Summon this now, oh here me speak, with frozen syllables of witches creed, let now this dragon clear the air, bring down this month without its care. For by thy promise, this winter speaks, broken only by a wind that shrieks. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.


01.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Adeste Melancholia

Through the last year, I thought myself many things.  Often lost, too much a crazy prophet, and often broken, without a schematic in front of me on how to heal.  Somewhere around Christmas or perhaps a little bit afterwards, I took the time to just sit in one place still, and there in the most extraordinary way I found myself home. – דָּנִיֵּאל

The mirrors are placed upon each side, one so deep in the winter snow, tall dark firs, and a candle that glows. The other goes forward to what, who knows. The year ahead in a stranger’s clothes. But here in the silence of what is warm, Augustus Santa, and a Christ child, would you think stillborn.  So many shadows in lessons of things untried. Still here by this tree side, with lights and ribbons now untied. What is forward or back, I cannot decide. So many times, lost after Christmas, in winter tide, changing what used to be, reaching for the child inside. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

I have seen angels at Christmas time, they are like witches, and both can fly. They leave their charms by my bedside, and when I awake there’s snow outside. Still all this magic, in Yuletide, when it’s December, my mind is right. So, these reflections of one past night, an instant forward, and both are right. To be caught inside the light, of past and future sight, I cannot begin, to cry enough, to end what is held in. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

Adeste Melancholia is a dragon that eats your soul, it comes when you are not ready, and you feel so old. Your temples are not built, and your gospels just fold. Faith can’t treat the daemons of that Christmas so old. Still there’s something I will tell you if you want to be told, hiding in your winter snow. Deeper than any secret you can hold.

Time is a present not forward or past; it is built of instant treasure in the footing you possess. And when you cross the breech from Christmas to the brand new year, torn between Adeste Melancholia and the premise you think clear. Close your eyes an instant and join the note. Hear of a thousand languages of stillness that time bespoke. And to yourself make clear, one moment ever clear. Call down the heavens and say I AM here, this way, I AM here, always. I AM here!

O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide! – 12.30.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

My Neighbor the Shaman

“The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep! You must ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep! People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don’t go back to sleep!” – Rumi

My neighbor is a Shaman, I see him out at night, he stands still while his spirits take dawn flight. The grass in his yard is never dormant; the leaves in his trees never die. The deep cries out for answers, the heavens drop their stars, the wind it forms creation, with the response next door, how bizarre. The dead they come from the living, sometimes they have no place to go, so my neighbor just takes their mind, and for them he whispers very low. He tells them we are together, the particles of the words, announced before stars were shattered, at the announcement of this earth.

The night it seems to gather, with swarming of lights above, a brightness this December, from what my neighbor does. The peace inside a city, of a great municipality, of those that have gone before us, it must be what my neighbor sees. What questions could be answered, what sharing could be done, if one could enter my neighbor’s yard, and know their soul has won.

My neighbor is a Shaman, I see him living in two worlds, the next and one in which we stand. He knits no self-made fortunes; his craft is simple sweet, and often times when evening falls, we talk of what one should seek. To live within the threshold, provided from all sums, of that which gives us voyage, on spirit in which we have come. To not mix with the magic, of that which would deny, to bring us all together, from the world in which we have died. To listen to the whisper, the ghost of a still, still night, to know that all creation has fashioned our destiny right.

It is the hour of dawn after midnight, the time when spirits rise; my neighbor takes his coat off in the mild December night. He looks across his backyard to the window where I stare, and I see that he is smiling, as he talks to the whipped-up air. The word it forges reason from one world when two is there, and as he mouths together, the lights fill all the air.

Our time left here is a short one, with breath and dreams we dare, but rarely do we venture beyond the veil of our air. What gathers in our backyards, what shadows alone not shared, will one day see a Shaman, and ask for another world to share. The late fall snow will fall soon, upon a December dawn, the angels will make indentions within my neighbor’s lawn.

My neighbor is a Shaman! – 12.02.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Los Angeles Redux

“No second chances in the land of a thousand dances, the valley of ten million insanities.” 
― Ry CooderLos Angeles Stories

The principality winces only once, as he hovers above Los Angeles, and once is enough, once is enough!

It arrives a mild Thanksgiving in the ladder of the days, with the dark clouds approaching, still the sun holds them at bay. As she drives from west Los Angeles with shadows in her heart, she thinks herself in broken syllables, without language, falling apart, and she hears the sky rumble behind her. In the desert all around the palms droop from sudden heat, it could be that that they need water, or just there bowing to defeat. Over her left shoulder on the side of judgement comes, Belial carrying weights of finding, of what is dead and done.

She pulls her car over in failure, sending queries to her mind, thinking these must be delusions or else the end is finally here. Did she not feign excitement when she heard Adele sing, act grateful at the Oscars when Michelle Obama called her name? In the stark landscape around her where dead beetles come to play, no wonder Charlie Manson led his children out here to pray. However, this is no decider of the difference in her heart, is she a child of something greater, or a starlet who plays her part. If there is a real Thanksgiving, why is she in hell today, the scent of opioid’s and vitamins tint her breath as she delays.

It is not that she would deny providence, and let the daemon come; to play. His smoky figure lines Los Angeles and in her mind, she hears him say, “Did I not cast you as my favorite, and hold you to the part, underneath Harvey’s squirming loins, did you not obligate your heart”. Why aren’t you grateful to the business and the culture when your body is the art? “If you leave this arid valley, and you learn to drive away, what is it you will be thankful for when your skin is old and decayed”?

She could howl in madness as a tumbleweed rolls by. As the scorpion nears her Gucci’s it shakes its tail, well she might cry. However, the truth is ever greater when it comes from deep inside. The honesty moves mountains from the heartland until the San Andreas sighs. When she was just a small girl, waiting by her Nona’s side, a withered hand it felt her blonde hair, a soft voice whispered now don’t you cry. “Gold dust in the creek again, when you see it, is when you win”. “Gold dust made so long ago, ancient queen, has your soul”. “She has your soul”!

It arrives a mild Thanksgiving in the ladder of the days, with the dark clouds approaching, still the sun holds them at bay. She drives the desert to the mountains until she no longer can see LA, and she shakes her hair free, it the color of gold dust, and she thinks herself free, she thinks herself free.

The principality winces only once, as he hovers above Los Angeles, watching the unbroken sealed colored capsules baking in the heat on the broken desert ground! – 11.26.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל