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

The Perfect Place (Absentia)


“Once there was a way to get back homeward” – Paul McCartney

“There’s a place I like to hide, a doorway I run through in the night”-Chris DeGarmo

“Is this the perfect place”, he asks, his cheeks glowing a perfect dry cold red. He looks the mixture between a loveable afternoon with A.A. Milne, and the darkest shadow of Dickens. “It is my perfect place”, I tell him, my breath blowing a long icy cigar looking shape. “I come here often”, I say, thinking my voice sounds younger, more adventurous here. I sound a better kind of honest. “Am I the first to come with you”, he asks, his bright eyes reflecting the red winter moon so close to where we stand. “You have always been here Ryan”, I say, my voice almost a murmur. “Always been here”, I whisper again, “as have I”.

In Absentia…

The grains of sand drop from the sky; falling in unison, they fill our eyes. Above the valley past eventide, the blessings come on a ghostly ride. We pray to G_D, G_D prays to us, in quantum travels on angel dust. From these twin peaks, we watch time tied, to a perfect place, as numbers fly by. There are tunnels here and dragons too, what is one wild-eyed boy when two will do. From a map inside drawn by eternal clues, one that talks to me now it talks to you. In absentia from a present gone, to a fourth wall fallen, without a magic wand. Oh, eternal womb that speeds us thus, to this great place in the two of us, to see these hosts of treasured years, these paths I once walked without present fears.

“Where might we go from here”, he ask the red moon of the desert sky descending, to halo his face. “There are rivers and ruins here”, I say, “and adventures”, he asks, a slight smile starting to form. It is as if for the first time he can taste. “Yes, I say, “Adventures too”. “Then in this perfect place I will find me”, he says, his voice suddenly filled with confidence. “Indeed”, I reply, “in absentia” great spirits we will certainly be.

In Absentia…

The gust blows, turning by, resolving time. We go two stars to the left what do we find? Standing there in Neverland, quickened in our newer minds like my own Dad. We wander the desert in directions I have known. A porous man, a psalmist, a child now a man. Our footsteps translucent as wind spills the sand. By dragons skeletal within our hands, we form a genesis that turns our mind and in turn makes us a man. Back to a place in time where my son can become what is me. A better version born of G_D in this holy desert sea. The better place to question all of what is she. The perfect place to be. The perfect place to be.

In Absentia…

“You have always been here Ryan”, I say, my voice almost a murmur. “Always been here”, I whisper again, “as have I”. – 02.13.2020 -דָנִיֵּאל

 

Beneath the Leaves (Ever Dream)


“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.” – Arthur Conan Doyle

“Would you do it with me”*, lift the wood that brings mystery; fall forever with me, through the portal where phantoms scribe magic free. Feel your breath leaving air, your body writhing in an orgasmic sea. Trace the hand that you see, draw its lines around your heart comfortably. Be damned to be, would you ever dream with me? Beneath the leaves.

My Dad used to say that what comes before us has always been behind us, and that which places itself at our side has always been around us. My Dad used to say that gates that swing inwards are willing to be pushed outwards, and all doorways into heaven, were beneath the leaves, when we went to an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We discover the door near the river. It is 0.3 miles past the Fruitland Trading Post, pretty much where “Brigham Young Jr’sHouse would have been. We sweep away the dead leaves that hide the door in the ground. Their wrinkled husk make a scratching sound as we sweep them from the dark rotting wood of the door to the surrounding dead grass. “Shouldn’t be leaves here”, Jason say’s. “Yep, yep”, I say, “Shouldn’t be leaves here”. “Not a tree in sight”, Jason says, a hint of a grimace on his face. “Nope”, I agree, a little vexed myself not a tree in sight. “No way to get this thing open that I can see”, I say to Jason a little relief in the tone of my voice. The truth is, sundown is near, and there is a chill in the air, that fits right well with the nip that is beginning to well up and down my backbone. “I think we owe it to ourselves to try and get it open”, Jason says. “There might be money or something valuable under there”, he says. “There might be something”, I agree…

My Dad used to say that the mystery in life is life itself, and that which is a pattern leads not to G_D but leads to mediocrity. My Dad used to say, that which leads the head must lie beneath, that which is deep. That which calls unto deep. My Dad used to say would you go with me, go beneath the leaves after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We brace our cold knuckles against the grain of the heavy wood, the splinters digging deep into our fingers. We kneel opposite of each other. Jason to the top of the door, I to the bottom. From the heavens, we no doubt look like cherubim’s our small frames bent in labor, looking for the covenant. Fulfilling the covenant. The evening shadows move over us quickly enveloping our effort. “I think its moving”, Jason says, his breathing heavy with exertion. “Yep, yep, I say, trying to concentrate on our effort, my fear of the unknown replaced suddenly by the thrill of adventure, for the door is opening. The door is opening. The door is opening.

My Dad used to say, that there is nothing unseen, that has not been seen by someone, yet those who say they see do not, and those who say nothing, see. My Dad used to say, all doorways into heaven were beneath the leaves, when we went after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

Authors Note: The two boys were real, the leaves over the door were real. The door in the ground was real. The opening of the door was real. What was discovered was real as well. It was all as my Dad used to say… 11.06.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

* Would you do it with me – Nightwish

Innocence (Hedges & Fireflies)

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows. Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows. Quite canopied over with luscious woodbine. With sweet muskroses and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania sometime of the night. Lulled in these flowers with dances and delights.” – Shakespeare

“But I know a place where we can go and wash away these sins.”- Henley & Hornsby

Titania watches him with interest before the dawn breaks, a round of leaves within her mussed hair. She thinks to let him go might be a good thing, but she cannot. He has come to her on a mid-summers night, at the end of his innocence and he is alone.

Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, stolen by the name of ruin. Hips withdrawing, pants still falling, injustice by these fates not bloomed. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, finite too soon. Find the hedges for your hiding for the nighttime is coming soon.

He hid among the hedges, in a tunnel of which rabbits made, a long leaf filled burrow between the house and the gravel roadway. In his mind, he pictured safety, a sanctuary of play, and though he hid his body, his soul was on display. The world of summer was risen, with the night falling in, and somewhere there were angels. Watching in interest over his boyhood den. He looked through tiny windows at the darkness. A world so warm in gloom. He interlaced his fingers, and felt himself traveling further outside his self-induced cocoon. So, it was there in the twilight, far from his desert moon. He thought of all that had happened, an indiscretion born so soon.

For he hid among the hedges, in a tunnel made of thought, watching fireflies dance outside, for in truth they are more than spark. Near the point of total nighttime, when monsters bare their teeth. Silent shadows, silent wisdom, all is hidden beyond display. Not a sound in all creation, like the very first day. He lays himself still burdened lost in thoughts of the afternoon. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, stolen by the name of ruin. Hips withdrawing, pants still falling, injustice by these fates not bloomed. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, finite too soon. Find the hedges for your hiding for the nighttime is coming soon.

He hid among the hedges in a place of hideaway, watching fireflies go to heaven for a purpose in which they stayed. In the glooming, in the hedges, came the silence of the break. Just a moment there is reason, nothing happens by fair mistake. He wraps his arms in loneliness and watches his soul begin to fade. For the want of its own amusement, it hides away. Softly crying to the nighttime such a movement of a score. Led by mercy, thoughts emotions and the life we are purposed for. In the hedges, in the hedges, a place of no mistakes. In the hedges under fireflies, asleep as the dawn breaks. – 08.01.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Dragon by the Dump


“No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith.” – R.A. Salvatore

The night sky ripples in my dreams, a mixture of sun, moon and stars. Something stirs in my bloodstream, and awakens me to whom I am to become.

The spine went from west of the dump in a half circle, unapologetic in its bending latitude, king like, under sun, moon and stars. The jagged edges whispered to us as we climbed them by day and moved tilting inwardly as our feet touched them by night. Although the rains almost never touched our hidden sacred find, the winds often came ripping away the night clouds that formed a curtain on the summer sky. We ran, we walked and we sat upon the back of a dragon, and its form entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever be.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

“The fires never go out”, my friend say’s from the shadows of the dragon’s tail. He signals towards the dump with his nose, but I know he is talking about the warmth beneath his feet. “They never shall”, I whisper not sure, if I am back then, or here now speaking in my sleep. The sky seems to ripple, perhaps the fathoms of the days heat being released, more likely it is gravity protesting the movement of great silent wings. “Is it a ghost”, I whisper, thinking it might be. “No” my friend whispers back, his voice beyond my reach. For a brief moment, a bit of time that is deep in me, I see us moving upwards upon the spine of a great sand filled sea. A dragon has entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever need.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

The head of the dragon, resting so still, one eye glazed over, under moonlight, may be it is granite but still. Sometimes it was more than just a rock on that hill. Guarding that dump, that manmade swill. “Sometimes it was us”, I hear my friend whisper, and it gives me chills. For now as back then, I can still feel. The rush of the dragon, the knowing so real, there in my bloodstream, from then on until. From then on until. – 07.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

4th Night Studies


And G_d made the two great lights: the greater light to rule the day, and the less light to rule the night; and the stars. And G_d set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth, and to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness; and G_d saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning, a fourth day. – Genesis 1:16-19

Once upon a time in the west, on the 4th night, before the 5th:

I left you at your doorstep, with your taste still in my mouth, and I stopped in Flora Vista with the moonlight all about. In the ruins I walked transparent with all my single lonely doubts, and the daemons reached unto me, to divert me from life’s route. And I wonder as I wander what this night is all about.

Oh, moon my moon on this dry ground, in hallowed whispers, come on down. In the night still, flies caped burdens, bringing night songs to the ground. In cloth I stand a human, watching stars they do abound. Is this night to be divided, or am I forever drowned? Oh Lord of syllable and Lord of sound, beyond my eardrum I spin around. For deeper still you come to reach me, like some lonely spirit found. Be gentle here by this ruin known, how many times have I come here alone? Still I wonder as I wander which light, I carry to my bones, still I wonder as I wander which light will shine if left alone.

This fourth day, is upon me, as the night before the fifth. Something borrowed deep in memory about the light and how it splits. My mother said, my mother told me, oh I had so far to go, oh Thursday child, was really Wednesday how that night was filled with woe.

In the ruins there was a lessor light, an angel on display, said she how it is you left me just a moment or two today. For that girl you left past star ward with her taste still in your mouth, cannot contain what G_D has for you in all your secrets and your doubts. It was a question that I wondered from that night there in the ruins, for what it was on that fourth day in the creation of my youth. Even now I walk division from the night unto the day looking forward to the greater light, not found deficient in anyway.

Once upon a time in the west, on the 4th night, before the 5th. – 06.19.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

When Men Read


“Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself, to become what he potentially is.” – Erich Fromm

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said

When men read, they think of miracles in what’s concrete in each word. Not a thought about the whys or what fors between the lines they see no blur. When men read, they see an angel, not a one that has the curves, just a heart that has a calling, that joins her noun to all his verbs. When men read, something dark calls out to them, like a carrion sitting so adorned, they find themselves like Caesar taking Vercingetorix down in a storm. For the words float unto many a man, atop an altar made in mind, a beginning and a continued end until the angels say its time. Take you now from what is your calling, in the reading that sought your eyes, take it now and dwell on thoughts of Emerson, on the metaphysics that you know will rhyme. When men read the devil’s in the details, and that’s where the answer shines, like an oracle that calls up concrete answers, a man charts his course on time.

When men read, they remove the shadows and they use them as a blind. For when a man is hunting, he ingests what he might find. As Plotinus, said upon his return from Persia, “The world is knowable, harmonious and good“. Each man reads this as a calling in any word that breaks his mind. What of the calling you might find. When men read there are no answers, may be a sound, is all that’s near. But somewhere deep inside a man’s consciousness, they look to find a plan in fear. For if they trample most emotion, they leave just one small tear, then from that they raise a mighty reason to understand the life that appears. For a man is all incarnate in the words he reads today. He knows in all the sounds there is a calling, and that calling cannot be delayed. That calling cannot be delayed.

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said. – 5.28.2019-דָנִיֵּאל

Lonnie & Truman

Sometimes when you have no better sense, and you are seeking a lonely place, you can drive out past Akron, where Highway U crosses the strait. A place that has not changed much since 1948. A murmuring of spirits, a train that digs for bones. What you hear when you listen closely is a couple driving home, and a voice that is heard from darkness. A voice that carries no gray. “Come for love has earned you, a leaning to my arms, for here you’ll be together, no worlds can do you harm”.

“Lonnie” say’s Truman, “there’s a full moon tonight, hanging upside down against this steel bound track.” “The world is shimmering yellow and it brings a truth to the facts, of where we are tonight.” “The devil’s in the details but the moon paints your eyes.” “Oh Lonnie it is such a lovely light. Well Lonnie just smiles and points her tongue at the sky, and with the light wind blowing, it makes her dress blow tight. In truth, she looks just like the fair girl that he kissed one April night, long ago, when the full moon bathed the night. In the distance leaves a thudding sound of a workhorse pounding might, over Eastern Colorado, moving grain throughout the night.  Its lone light sweeps the scrub-land, painting a long row of cross ties, twenty miles on to Brush and then turn right.

“Truman” says Lonnie, “it seems so cold out here, and I know we are feeling April, but it’s January in here”. Truman watches Lonnie draw with fingers around her heart, and he says, “Now there, now there, my Lonnie don’t you fear”. The scene it plays beneath the heavens on a lonely stage, of dark, where Lords and Daemons come to judge and swirl under stars as they spark. Destiny and choice, they barely talk from the start, as they watch the couple where they lay. Decorum holds its head above all that is displayed, and watches a single second hand upon a universal clock in play. For nothing holds to purpose until the day breaks, and this single hour is weighed.

“Lonnie” say’s Truman, “I thought I heard a train, it seems even now the whistle carries through my brain.” I know it probably not the time to tell this or explain.” “I love you with all my heart”. “Truman, oh my Truman”, says Lonnie with her soft smile, “I feel my cold leaving with your words, oh so worthwhile”. “I think that angels might carry me right up from off this track.” “Forget all explanations till our Lord brings us on back.” For it is with these last words and smiles, that rise from a human dismay, that a voice is heard from darkness, with words that carry no gray. “Come for love has earned you, a leaning to my arms, for here you’ll be together, no worlds can do you harm”. – 04.26.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

While Playing Hooky


“How can I possibly be expected to handle school on a day like this?” – Ferris Bueller

“We’re off to the witch, we may never never, never come home,
but the magic that we’ll feel is worth a lifetime” – Ronnie James Dio

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left in this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

Two heads we see, headed west, down a sunbaked path; one with brown hair, the other a black mess. The sun falls fast on this single day of spring, shooting down through the heavens, bringing something on its wings. It would appear the burdens carried from a year of math and art. Now are loose without a feeling. For these boys walk without an arc. Why there shoes made by converse, leave hardly a trace. As they carry sacks of lunch and knowledge to the place of secret things. “School is not made for the living”, one boy cries unto the air, and they both laugh without smiling for the truth is there somewhere. For a moment, let us watch them still frozen in time. In their purity shimmering, moving onward in this rhyme.

Let us look at the picture that is painted from above. A numbered highway in the background, beyond it scrubland wild with yucca, dryland arroyos, lie open, writhing with their scars. Down the path that leads us westward lies a rusted oil tanker and two old cars. It is a graveyard of a shadow of another place tomorrow. For it is tomorrow where they go, a bit of yesterday, and as the clouds flow from the east, they turn their backs, and begin to walk to stray. Indeed, we see them avoid a snake his triangle head of spotted gray. “No matter it all”, one boy he brays, the other sings out, “we missed our school today”. A matter of steps a slight incline, the scrubland rolls out, and dips and divides. At last we watch the two boys much slower, reach the rusted oil tanker, the place they know they will soon grow much older.

For here, it is we cannot grow nearer, the picture shimmers, dances, and glimmers. A place were two boys search for cracks in what is sutured. Finding doors that open, on order, past and future. Ruins discovered in place. Veils ripped from openings, alien voices calling out from deep to deep. It is the discovery of the last of days. It is here they come to play. If we could venture a thought of what they find, inside compartments of an old oil tanker way past its prime. Could they go where one has not been, could they find the way past when? Is there blackness beyond the divide, or have they found the path to the divine.

“That picture looks like us”, one boy says, a film of cool perspiration resting upon his brow. The thick darkness inside the front compartment of the tanker surrounds the thin beam of the flashlight. It gives the feeling of a tomb. “It could be us”, the other boy says softly.” His voice carries a soft echo through the oval opening into the next compartment. It is there; we look and see a sudden wind created. We watch as it lifts itself backwards through another opening, and then upwards through the open hatch, as if with a sudden relief.

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

For my eighth grade English teacher Mrs. Howey, who charged me to read the classics fearlessly, and to write as if I were mad. I will forever carry the guilt of disappointing her by playing hooky on the final day of school in the spring of 1974. In her aggrieved state, I have always hoped to share with Mrs. Howey that I was indeed engaged in research for how to do both of the charges thus listed above. – 03.22.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

 

The Blue Forest (Two)


“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” – John Muir

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for myself and a long forgotten youthful twin!

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin. “The late hour it whispers, is over, the morning is never to have been, and nightfall has come forth to show you a strange forest”. “Rise in your place let’s begin.” I wondered at this kind of slumber, awake or a dream held within. For surely it was as a time I remembered that happens over and over again. For just a second, I thought it illusion, a discording thought of dissonance within. But then the sweet kisses touched all my body. What inner wounds inside sewn, a healing began? As soft sounds sang, I traveled millennium, both forwards and backwards, my spirit extends. To see that place a child called a forest, blue with light, a place I had been. The two of us stand in our glory; mist about the mystic begins. A thousand lights the magic starts again.

Day upon day, my life seems to tremble, so shy in its way, so much trouble it seems. An opera plays Faust with marching daemons, sticking their bloodthirsty knifes in me deep. Suffering thoughts of infinite worry, anxiety, fears there seems no relief. Still, still a thought pervades all this darkness, making its way to the core of my belief. Two is you, tied to survival; night has come, now learn to believe. Night has come, fly forth to receive.

So easily thought of in childhood survival, the blue forest hides as each year passes by, but somewhere in mercy, there sits a kind angel. At night she arrives in my memory she fly’s. Goodbye, I go, the journey enabled, to the blue forest, a memory of trees. Open clock doorways to worlds and their fables, journey I journey with the boy, I know just beside me. Ever this land has brought my heart nearer to something or someone G_D means me to be.

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin, that sleeps next to me. It is so cold outside but here it is like April, teasing and pulling me saying come please. Arrayed by sight, led until I am able to know what is right, in front of me. Paths that gleam white in the blue forest. So many trails, which one shall it, be. A moment a knight, a sword on a quartz table. A sign that says pull forth and be free. Be stronger now and let the child see. What’s two in one G_D has set free.

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for I and a long forgotten youthful mind! – 01.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל