When the Moon was Silent


“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.” – George Carlin

I started dreaming of him two days after he died in October of 2014. A shimmer, a king, a marine, a boy, a friend, a memory, a voice and of course a ghost. He came from the back yard usually around 3:00 A.M. trailing a breeze that floated off the Devil’s backbone. Unusually cold no matter the time of year, and in both of his hands, bone white, coated by the spells of the deep earth, he held my deepest secrets. Those I told him when we were but ten and eleven years of age. When the moon was of its fullest, he made it a blood moon, and he boasted our best stories. When it was at its darkest, when the moon was silent, he was hushed. It was that stillness that bothered me the most. That space of no quickening, the reality of man against the ages. Reality versus the equilibrium of alternate universes. This world against the moving vale of the other side.

These are final days. Those signs about us, those earthquakes in diver’s places would tell it so. The end of a cycle, the epilogue of a long series, before the transformation begins. He tells me that upon his visits. I never dreamed it would be so, not while I still have breath, and I think it unfair, and I tell him so. He laughs, not uncaring, but with a mirthful knowledge, of what awaits me on his side. I wonder why he can’t tell me, why I must guess, but as these final days pass, I think I know. It is a mystery, a puzzle to ponder, when he does not visit, a labyrinth of undead knowledge, when the moon is silent. A secret of Pandora’s box that only the whispers in my most private dreams.

He visits me, one last time, as the moon disappears into April. He laughs as I complain about the infirmities of age and the politics of a modern age. “Shit always rises to the surface“, he says grinning, looking beyond me in my bed. The stars beyond him seem to disappear into a black triangle ruled by beings that rule dimensions, and uncured vestiges. Twelve signs of the zodiac are ingrained upon his face. A star a diamond, a seal on the back of his hand.  Symbols of our youth. Places we left secrets when the moon was silent. Doors revolving, as it is above so it is below my friend. In my dreams my friend.

I started dreaming of him two days after he died in October of 2014. – 04.30.2022 – דָנִיֵּאל

Davis

“Life without a friend, is like death without a witness’. – Spanish Proverb

Sunday, January 11, 1975

“What are you drawing”, I ask him, bending my neck over to get a better view of the pencil scrawl, Davis is working on. “Just our lives at the end”, he grins pulling the piece of paper away and holding it up to his chest, where I can’t see it. “How does it go”, I ask him trying to sound a bit miffed at not being able to see it. “Well,” he says slowly before laying his artwork out before me. “It’s like we are the last owls, all the other owls are gone, and we are late for the sky”. One of us must fly and see what the other side looks like. “What happens to the one of us that stays”, I ask looking at the picture that shows an owl in a mirror. “The one who stays”, he says slowly, now no longer grinning. “The one who stays, looks for the reflection, to show him the way to go”.

He flew into the Western sky, one companion true to the other, knowing one would become a Yeibichai, knowing one would be left alone without a brother. The heavy sound of knocking, the forceful wind, in fight, the traces of burning wings, the death on high that makes me shutter. Oh you, just you, have crossed somewhere, left me to live without a rudder. Flew you alone, late for the sky this world has cha cha changed, oh how I stutter. Those sounds of ghost, the holy host, left you to go my wings can’t flutter. My world has changed too many times, I shriek I cry, so empty now, one owl alone, oh how I shudder.

On, phantom tides, the darkened queen has come. She picks your name, while I sit by. She calls you her bird of prey. Oh, is it that you are me? On that dresser of hers sits a mirrored reverie. One in which she pitches your name, the feathers fall it’s never a game. She mixes a cup, and life fills her up, but still there is destiny, the two of us fly eternally. For if I were to look into the mirror, see the high desert flowing all so clear. Know I am the last owl, and the hour is late. Experience the shadow of your fate, then I will see the pattern of the sky, know every reason for why, and then I will fly, so high, then I will fly so high, even though I am late for the sky.

“I think it will be me, that flies first”, Davis says. He’s grinning again, and it seems if I look close enough, he does indeed, seem to have a light down of feathers. “Don’t go to early”, I say, not feeling like grinning myself, for the hour is early, much too soon to be speaking of such things. “Yeah”, he says, “still, still, it has to happen someday”.

Davis Begay flew from this world on November 22, 2021. He was late for the sky. He was my dearest friend, and blood brother. I shall miss him so much. I think he would want me to find the reflection, he drew all those many years ago, and chart my own flight someday. For where he is there is only sky, and in it owls fly both day and night. – 01-11-22 – דָנִיֵּאל

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

Night of Things (Mayhem)


“There are methods to creating a mayhem that sounds different from your usual mayhem. Because mayhem and a heavy drum backbeat end up sounding like Green Day or something. But if you put a different beat within it to create some air and lightness, the chaos comes through better.” – Nick Cave

It was mayhem to drive up the mountain at midnight, to visit my father’s grave. A night of things, both describable, and some not, that guided me up the sliver of a winding road to find my better angels. Perhaps daddy spoke to me, perhaps he did not, but something did. Something deep and dark, that deals with mayhem in the most effective way.

Whisper’s whisper all around me, from the mountains, crags and high plains. Whisper’s whisper ere, thy name. Blessings to this night of things, ere mayhem love is still the same.

Ere these feelings, ere these symptoms on this highway, underneath your heavens a spinning shell. Ere I am dying, awhile I am driving, ere I am dying, silence around me I die so well. For mayhem finds me upon your starlight headed toward highlands, beneath crosswinds, nothing happens, when something happens near well. It has been a long while since I came here. To your graveyard, here upon this highest vale, oh daddy you brought me, to speak of mystery of shine that blinds the heart when mayhem the truth will not tell. What a fortune, what a beauty here near your buried ashes, the book of secrets the night does tell. In the snow shining by car light night of things save me from the tides of hell. Ere I go up on this mountain, sing a night song my troubles fail, in the gloom of skyward shadows of timeless winter trees so pale.

Ere oh purpose, why I cry out, begging mercy from those who sleep. Laying snowbound in all their ashes so frozen here beneath my feet. Ere the circle turning faster stealing secrets from this a keep, just standing before Ezekiel’s wheels all I can do is weep. Ere the mayhem of the signal. Ere, what is hidden beneath cross beams? What comes from all around me before one A.M.?

Whisper’s whisper all around me, from the mountains, crags and high plains. Whisper’s whisper ere, thy name. Blessings to this night of things, ere mayhem love is still the same.

For something here is me, something comes on this night of things, and through all nature, begs me bind, thoughts of treasures beneath frozen vines, I think I finally see. That for all mayhem that stays inside, it reveals the signs of life indeed. For where there is death there must be life to see. – 01.23.21-
דָנִיֵּאל

Victoria


” Sing your death song and die like a hero going home”. – Tecumseh

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face. Moving G-d like before me while angels wait.

In and out of minutes, heartbeats slowing, I see her dancing upon a dawn filled sea. Planting footsteps that are visible to only those who would see. And it seems that she would kiss me nicely. And it seems she would fly with me. For she is of the beginning. The beginning of my eternity.

If I should hear her if I should go to play. If my shoes should not fit and stay unlaid. If voices should become a second place. On a present morning before the sun has thought to raise. If change should happen, music and light replace my pleasant grace. If G_D should find me willing to ride the wind on her beckon of faith. My heart broken, my breath that can longer taste. My taste for earth fainter than my fading face. Oh, then Victoria I will ascend in numbers across this water so chaste. While there are seconds moving, time that I no longer make, my soul moving, into spirit beyond the tides that break.

If moving morning shadows should bring me angels. If their high notes should barriers break. If I should find myself willing, to touch her face. A distant journey, now a present place. No longer a question, indecision, or an unintelligible race. If I should no longer suffer, descend to a stoic held together by man’s science or medical case. Know that I am moving upon that water, my eyes wider, no terror left to shake. If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me while angels wait. In death I trip, but so quickly I reach and touch your blessed lace. That which makes you in me. That which you let me take.

If I should walk in mystery, into thy ark with such an airless ease. If their would-be Seraphim that fold their wings when I, upon my journey make. Touching syllables, that only immortals make, crying holy, while she dances for me. If I am growing lighter, closer than, closer than my G_D to thee. For here there would be no lessor freedoms than what she has made in me. If she would make an equation, a variable to a prophesy, it would be that I am with Victoria, for in Victoria I have come to be.

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me.

Jovine DeMarcus’s daughter carries his thoughts and blood deep within her. I am married to her. Jovine taught me how to pull wire, hammer a nail, and put together the most intricate electrical wiring equations. I taught him about the mountains. He wanted me to call him dad and I fought it. I fight it no longer. Jovine went to his Victoria, his woman of the water and mountain on December 23rd, 2020 at 4:15 AM in the morning. Sweet travels Dad. Sweet travels. Miss you much more than I ever thought I would. 12.31.20- דָּנִיֵּאל

 

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

 

Midnight


“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.” – Edgar Allan Poe

A voice cries before midnight, and he hears it as a “Hermit Thrush“, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still before midnight. This is mystery.

The weaver comes to finish work, that is of his own hand, in the darkness from near Boat Mountain the seraphim walks so fast. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He bathes before midnight, in a dream that’s of falling sand, like a curtain from lost ages, that last barrier to the promised land. With the whispers of angels that ask for his hand, bloodless in their quiet talk, they shimmer where they stand. They whisper with lyrics from the “Hurdy Gurdy Man“, derived now, while praying six stars to Neverland. He murmurs, he whispers, “I do think of fathoms of distances without end, sometimes before midnight, it scares me if I Am.” “How far up Jacob’s tree, to the mother that sews, the end of purpose, from my life of promise, here in the gardens of G_D’s shadowland. This rocky earth soothed by the blade in a farmer’s hand.”

The weaver moves like a danseur, counting a six-pronged display, the seal moves around the bowing angels, their inner eyes on display. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He thinks of time like a battlefield, in life’s journey from end to end, all day breathing blood and fury, until the dusk arrives on wind. All his thought from his first day of wonder has been, a catalyst, a catalyst to this very end. All around his valley moves, his valley moves within. Sulfur Springs rising evening vapors, near Boat Mountain where life began. The soil cries out unto its maker, I cannot produce again. Minutes leading him from faith’s beginning toward midnight to turn again. Demarcation in a weakened body in a movement by a hand, pocket watch stopped at midnight in the crossing with no bends. Turning in his bed clothes, to begin all life again. Turning in his bed clothe, to begin all life again.

A voice cries after midnight. He does not hear it. It is a “Hermit Thrush”, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still after midnight. This is mystery. – 10.10.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Thunderbolt & Lightfoot (1997)



“Hey. You stick with me kid. Your gonna live forever.” – Lightfoot

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, lets on the range go, therefore unto heaven, in stars of Montana our ghost goes. And you can be like Eastwood priming, the preacher lessons told, I will look just like Mr. Bridges doing yoga on the road. We can star in pictures, with the high grass in our toes. Mr. Lightfoot, says Thunderbolt, we’re actors on the road. The evening is self-serving, the stars fall overhead, it could be new souls entering the universe, or the exit of the dead. The two they come together, sitting closely side by side, the front seat of a “73” Eldorado, with the “Big Skies” up ahead. Oh, my old friend, my dearest love says Thunderbolt, as he looks up above, for once in our lives, let two old queens enjoy the road ahead. I’ve dressed for you in long gone years, you painted your eyes to absorb hurt tears, and when we hit Montana, the burning will finally end.

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, the shows we have staged within, the glowing purgatory, hallelujah, as the curtain would ascend. But now it seems a higher purpose, breaking harder on life’s final whim, the fire of something killing me, our last show must begin. My dear Mr. Lightfoot, Thunderbolt’s voice begins, we’ve just entered the gates of heaven, Montana, home, where your life began. Look beyond the script of the movie, your life a cycle spins. I know a fire burns in you, my love my dearest friend. The ghost of a thousand angels, is beyond that sunsets rim. Wait just a little longer till we reach “Wolf Creeks” bend. There’s a place in all dramatics, your life can come to end. And what I’ll do for your sweet memory, for all those folks that you have known. I’ll “Break it to them gently”, I’ll tell them that your home, I’ll tell them you’re the best lay this angel ever had.

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, his smile a disappearing grin, if you would hand me a different cigar, like Mr. Bridges smoked in the end. Up above this mountain, this steep road, the sun is glowing but it’s midnight, on the watch in my head. The spell it is upon us, the final lines have been said, the fire of what kills cells inside me has left its ash instead. Oh, my old friend, my dearest love says Thunderbolt, as he looks up above, for once in our lives, let two old queens enjoy the road ahead. The silence is between them by moments, as the silence of the dead, as the silence of the dead.

For Angel & Bennie (Daniel 7:10) – 06.11.17 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Dusk (a·da·gio)

“It is dark, so very dark”, said Dante, “yet you fail to speak, and I would say it not impossible that what you’d have to say would not replace that disappearing light you still claim to see”.

So here we are at last, you and me, my reader and me, and it could be that as the night comes, it will be so hard to say, I see.  A darkness comes, like none before, a fortress that holds no shiny keys, and with these two feet, I walk ahead, blinder, no memory, save the elongated dusk my shattered mind, would allow to still be me.

A “Sound of Silence”, in D minor, still whatever does it mean, perhaps Paul and Art could enlighten me.  But still no difference does it make for here in the West, alone, so by myself do the dusk I see.  And if I write for the world what’s inside of me, how selfish would that be, indeed maybe I a narcissist to tell of this grief.

For their against that granite stone, that sky seeking temple of geology, weakens a sun in timidity.   And woe it says, what you have taken for belief.  This night cometh, indeed it rest here now for you with no reprieve, and you are singular, no better light, than your last memory.

“Did you come to walk with me”?  The words whispered, skyward, unaccompanied and in darkness do I breath.  Still, so still, only Dante resting cold inside me.  For now it is a rolling obscurity, that’s colder, then any wound that has ever bled me.  And it does not seem right that darkness, should belong alone, to the death of me.  For that last light, the one that loved me best, somewhere, to make eternity last, it dies with me.

“Perhaps I should go too” I hear Dante say, his words fading fast, for unlike the last light of day, I should not think that even with him inside, they will probably last.

*Authors note – Dante has been a fine muse. – 08.31.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Red Cliffs (Absentia)

“The end of life is like a stage under red cliffs, except I’m absent”, he said, his words a mere gasp, his watery blue eyes staring nowhere.  “Who’s the cowboy”, I asked?  I was curious about the reference.  “Just some clown”, he whispered, and then repeated, “just some clown”.

I saw a mirror of my heart, it lay in a basket, underneath the red cliffs above the arid floor.  While all around me flew the dust of time, and I thought what was this meme meant for?  Far above on the ridge there was a cowboy, and he rode like a concrete stick toward the dawn.  And when he glanced beyond the red cliffs, he smiled, like he knew the devil owned the door.

There are times in this life when I feel absent, and those times it seems to me come more and more.  While I long for more attraction, that place of being, I knew before.  I know it seems like this is one big paradox, forever clinging to aloneness like it’s a shore.

For all around me minutes are passing, racing through my empty soul to reach its core.  And the red cliffs up above they seem cerebral, like a dying brain, can’t crumble anymore.

And absentia whirls around me, while I’m still breathing, and it curses anyone, who laughs or is a bore.  While the red cliffs shudder above my skinny frame, till I can’t remember how to breathe no more.  And those ridges up above, where that cowboy rides with no love, turn too steep to attempt to climb anymore.

For my mind births desolation, in it, prions come to feed, and when they jump for the last time, my contractions give pause to disaffect.  Under these red cliffs I see no reason, such bitterness, no content, and when I look upon that ridge one more time, no cowboy rides, just emptiness.

And then here I go, in a sunset glow, just laughter everywhere, red cliffs they disappear, and up and down, my lungs so full of oxygen, my breath, and absentia here I go, over the ridge to find my soul.

This is written for the absent, with minds consumed by Alzheimer’s, Dementia, or like my own dear father, with the watery blue eyes, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.  May they find their soul over that last ridge. – 08.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל