The Jerusalem Theory


“We contain the shapes of trees and the movement of rivers and stars within us.” – Patrick Jasper Lee

His screams awaken me again. “You saw the holy city again”? The question slips from my just awakened mouth. I instantly regret the sound my question carries. “No daddy”, he says, his eyes filling with tears, “I am the holy city”. “I am the holy city”.

He awakes within his battles, turns an inward eye to see and it rolls an observation, of intuition around the holy city, which he conceived. For his mind, it is a treasure, built from time on eternity. An eschatology that confounds a modern world immersed in academic degrees.

He awakes within his battles, and fashions safe high walls. Thick in stone and drying mortar, higher towers to see it all. He circles round and round his sanctuary, placing angels four fathoms tall. His altar deeply buried in the center of the great all. He hums his body is the temple, he grasp the illusion of a call, an obtrusive whispering dragon woman, who says the time is his to call. For his mind is the eternal city, that withstands all carrion calls, underneath a canopy of G_Ds great favor, he watches dark large figures fall. Now center to this theory, of time, and what he sees, is the notion that his mind is a city in the Judean Mountains between the Mediterranean and deep Dead Sea. It’s a notion built in neurons and synapses we cannot believe, that the senses of an individual is in a world we just cannot see.

His nightmares are built in Babylon, by guile and snakes out of trees. The touching sounds of withered fingers scraping across a skin he cannot see. They want to hold him captive in a darkness ruled by grief, a unipolar world of chaos, the one inhabited by you and me. They want to tear down the walls of his Jerusalem to discover what it is he sees. They come as warriors clothed in confusion, not the peacemakers or helpers they claim to be. For in Babylon they do not understand the thoughts so different, or the visions they cannot see.

So, war comes against his city. In a rolling raging sea, armed with all of life’s armchair seers from the science of life that is brief. They call upon their allies from the Euphrates; bring your archers to shoot the breech. Let us understand this city’s weakness. Let it fall beneath our feet. Call down our god’s of human frailty, of science of no degree, let this be that, and that a lesson, not forgotten for all to see. Let us learn this place of mystery, let us in by self-decree. What we know from our own learning is what we worship as our deity.

In the end as all in final, in the end that comes so brief, there stands the ruins of Babylon, while Jerusalem can still be seen. In the end is still the mystery, the blessing of his thoughts to be, for the magic of his inward motion, is a city that holds its keep. Is a city that holds its keep.

He awakes within his battles, turns an inward eye to see and it rolls an observation of intuition around the holy city, which he conceived. For his mind, it is a treasure, built from time on eternity. An eschatology that confounds a modern world immersed in academic degrees. – 03.21.21 – דָנִיֵּאל

For the millions who fall on the spectrum in this alien world.

Songbird (OCD)


“My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened” – Michel de Montaigne

I tell him he’s a songbird when he’s terrified, not a simple canary, no not that. Rather he’s a Hawk, a screaming raptor, that hunts symphony, that looks through the patterns of confused stanzas, and bad timing, and finds perfection. For he, this son of mine is perfection. He has flown to great heights, and yes, he has skimmed the valley floors. Tasted clay, envisioned horror. It is there we begin.

First it comes when he’s dreaming, and it takes the dream away. In its moves insidious it turns water into clay. It wraps the things up he loves to do and binds them first with string. Layer upon layer it then becomes rope and finally barb wire that stings. It tests the singing of his angels, until their sound becomes such pain. Night after night they come until, he holds his head screaming as if he’s insane. It blocks off every open space to make a puzzle of dark disdain. “For everything there is an answer”, It whispers, “it’s a fire to a flame”. “Turn the lock just one more time to drive that itch away”. He has heard there are many troubles and diagnosis of mental ache, but nothing beats the worn-out torture of neon thoughts of personal pain.

Sometimes he mourns the private artist that person who rode his silent range. A wild boy inside chasing rainbows so playful in his games. Then it came and brought its people, the nightmares of made up shame. Twisted turned, and bound his anger made his pathway narrow and strained.

I tell him he’s a songbird, in a deep, dark mine, finding the right, tracing invisible paths of oxygen until he breaks into the light of day. Then he’s a raptor, a bird who seeks prey, and he rescues that which was long ago taken away.

I know for now he looks at trouble, at daemons night and day, those thoughts of dripping blood and agony, he wishes would just go away. I wish it too as his Dad, I wish I could take them away, but damn it G_D expects him to fly and challenge what’s in his way. For there is no amount of medicine or therapy that can heal what is a shade. That, is the road of what was chosen by another lord of judgement gray.

For now, I tell him he’s a songbird, that sings a note that’s unheard in the fray, a melody that will soon turn into lightning, and strike the fright to day. When all the world has stopped to listen, his mind storms arranged and stayed.  This thing that takes his pleasure will  bend to his vision, and he will be okay.  My songbird will be okay . – 04.02.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

The Pathways of Faith are Never Free


“…someday…, we’ll medicate human experience right out of the human experience.” – Dennis Lehane

“Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.” – Carl Gustav Jung

He writes a story in me, humming in words as he steps around our Christmas tree. Nothing of logic is key, though he answers the question of what it takes to be free. He builds a lion in me, hunting through the puzzles of his mind decisively, turning instantly, moving from mood to mood, nothing is broken if you can finally see. The picture of his sweet mind, the character of the essence that makes him love me undefined. For if, he should ever go away, I would weep without stopping and there I would die that day, my heart in darkness, blind. For he cannot go, while he stays, oh no he cannot go while he stays. He gathers from a different world he sees. Breaking down a fourth wall, dividing black out of white decisively. Fomenting conversation that draws mystery, he means everything to me. Oh, my son you mean everything to me.

The orbs of his eyes create a sea, a brown warm emotion that stops the worlds freeze. The mystic how it forms, layer upon layer over history it swarms, taking our discussions to the how or ever when. This world has many doorways let us open them from within. My son you are a fortress that no one ever sees, a stronghold of magic that forms a mighty keep. Weaving in and out of love like it is on a time release. The ways of G_D are strange to me. You whisper in my ear, “The pathways of faith are never free”. You say it while I sleep, “the pathways of faith are never free”.

He spins such ominous ghost, according to our dialogue they have established in his mind a host. Words a Psychiatrist plays, let us try this little pill just to get him through each day. For what is an interest to him, the opening of a beautiful mind, or the compartments we define them in. The days are passing quicker; before you know it, time will lose its way. So on the eve of winter when there is snow upon the ground. The sign of mankind’s judgment a line of demarcation all around. My son he rises holy and he points up to the winter stars, he swears upon his body, and he loosens his minds scars. He writes a story in me, and it will not go away, for in his own belief he seizes what is day. For nothing is of logic for in that is the key, to answer the one question that it takes to be free. Who is me? Who is me? For as we know, Faith is never free.

For my wife, daughter and especially my son, who has over paid the price of faith to gain the light. – 12.21.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

  • Over 80 million Americans took a Psychotropic medication in 2018

The Covenant (Safe and Sound)


The angel entered covered up as all bad angels do. Disjointed thoughts in spider webs, so no one understood. Came he swiftly in the form of rapid movements and times, carrying life’s nothing’s, rhythms or what should really rhyme. Came he all of confusion, bringing violence in his name, possessed he the soul of the innocent to destroy and to maim. Oh, my son you are the victim of a cruel unusual joke, played upon your gentle feelings, your mind gone when you awoke. Came the fire of rapid synapses, over running neurons spokes, and your defenses fell a writhing, when the demon in pictures spoke. Showed upon the canvas of the inner child in you. A world that is burning, dragons, while reality spins from view. Human beings pulled apart, while monsters call your name, faster spinning thoughts they come, while the doctors diagnose blame.

Oh, my precious son, I’m helpless to mend your screams and cries, even Adonai, has left me, left me only here dried eyed. I look into your mother’s eyes as she holds you in your pain, the resolution repeated loud in safe there is a way. We repeat it through the path of broken thoughts and nightmare weaves. We keep you in our arms at night as the fear refuses to leave. The motion of a moving shadow seems to bring such terror, such cold. G_D my G_D you are so quiet, have you gone away, all we hear are platitudes from Facebook people who play their silly games. I thought by now, you’d come on down in roaring promised rage, delete the noun of madness sounds, and help us face this day.

Well my son, my precious son, the promise seems delayed, another day in Hade’s tomb, while madness has her way. Nothing really matters now, for what is lost was never found, we reach the place of no sound, but whispers we have to say, “safe and sound”, our love, “safe and sound”, today.

A dawn it comes as November’s sun, and your mother’s eyes look my way, the tears they pour like a river draining from a storm-filled lake. Somewhere in this broken house, within this finite place, a power of one is seeking how; in truth, we find the way. Safe and sound is the gift now found, from what we cannot pray. In this moment, quietness comes, and in the silence plays, oh my son, my precious son, you are okay. Above me whispers a voice, I am the same, in all silence, I am the same, safe and sound still here today! Still here today!

The angel took a quieter exit, covered, as all bad angels do! – 11.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For My beautiful son who fulfills the covenant!

After All (O Daniel,)


And after all is done, you might look to me as I run, after all it’s just a chance I take. That my stars will still fall, my lightning mystery moonbeam, will still call. And I will feel the wind touch my hair, break out of this puzzle, a body left on dare, and after all, I will fly away. After all.

The kid in me would like to grow tall, leap over buildings, and watch as I fall. The joy in my ethos would like to convince you of a call, attention is a moment, but many moments make an all. For unto me, that’s born where stars fall, a creek a meadow, a kid who just saw, himself an old man in a mirror in the hall. Oh my, such passion, to climb that fourteener there, to write a Hardy Boy story, maybe one that really scares. To feel the wind just touching my gray hair, I’m not really old so there is no need to really stare. I’m the child in after all, a Trojan hiding in after all.

In after all, the moon is made of sand, it harbors Tom Swift, and his flying lab of glam. I twist and shout forget how old I am, and see the rooftop where stars imagine it’s the summer when Carter ran. Oh New Mexico a story, those summers in the sand.

Is it just old me, or does anybody else see in after all, there’s treasures that mend a soul, it could be internal, a spiritual kind of virtual, that plants the seeds that blossoms one’s mind. Why is it said that to go back is so bad, when sometimes the best lessons are free? In after all the boy in me, didn’t ever see the need to have anything but just love. And just because it feels the air, my answer still is filled with care from just in me a kid, my thoughts are random and kind. Not the same in adulthood one might find.

The kid in me would like to own all the seas, and hoist the Jolly Roger above the leaves. Of the fair immortal tree house of my mind. And when after all the stories had been told, I would like to find a secret passage and understand. Why mystery invigorates the boy in me who holds the old gray haired man in his hand.

And after all is done, you might look to me as I run, after all it’s just a chance I take. That my stars will still fall, my lightning mystery moonbeam, will still call. And I will feel the wind touch my hair, break out of this puzzle, a body left on dare, and after all, I will fly away. After all.

The Latin form of Daniel Immortal is “O Daniel,” For my son Daniel Ryan 😉 – 05.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Jack (1991)


We were running, around the bend of Pensacola bay, it’s around 10:30 the night is making gasping noises all around us. It was August and hot, that’s the way it is there always hot. He stops suddenly, and I stop too. Worried, maybe it’s his diabetes, maybe his age. “It’s more”, he says, “much greater”, “it’s Jack”. “You’ll love this” he says, the lines around his Irish depressed eyes alive and smiling, even when he’s crying, he’s smiling, the draw of the Irish I suppose, that and his friendship that never goes away.

“That boy Jack” …

He calls his old man from Tallahassee, a number he dials frequently, his voice is damned determined, waking Tom as he fights vermin, in a dream that brings him against the Holy See. Dad he says I’ve come against a sheriff, one who doesn’t understand, the lad I want to be. For if my latitude was proper, I’d drink whiskey from Tampa, to Sumter, and no law man would dare bother me. Dad all I want to do is drive highways, draw simple castles in my mind, occasionally love a girl, feel her body and her curls, should this be for anyone a crime, why is it for me. Tom he listens like a grandpa, it’s easier than the thought of the Dad he has to be, and then he brings himself awake, his body at fifty-four it aches, and off upon an Interstate he speeds. His old Chrysler, is so faithful, it goes forever, and never bleeds, it’s just like he.

His thoughts of Jack are drawn on a rune, an indescribable of a creed, the boy who in his heart wants to move mountains, it’s in his will where nothing happens, a lack of desire, or motivation, commitment or need. Still for his Jack, he flies on a spirit, and in his Irish blue eyes, he always believes, the dreamer in the boy, is a poet that’s lost in the sunshine. It’s his nightmares in darkness that causes him to bleed, if he could choke away one terror, he’d rock the world, and be all he could be.

He thinks of Jack as if he were a fable, a story that professes a certain need, and all of his life, a lesson learned harshly when you begin to bleed, Jack he always gives back more than everything he needs. He’s twenty years of spirit from a bottle, a son of G_D that dreams of favor from all he receives, a gift of charm, that gives and takes, a blessing of a child self-made, better than anything he ever thought he’d see. Tom he drives and rescues his revival, a drunken son, whose blond hair blows in the wet southern breeze. A faraway look in his eyes, Jack looks at his Dad and begins to cry, nobody ever understands, the things that I need, oh Daddy take me home, that’s what I need. And so they drive, and together their hearts receive, better than so many in this world who have need. Better than so many in this world who have need. – 01.10.2016 –  דָּנִיֵּאל