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. – 01.22.21-
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

 

Magnum Mysterium Phantasm


“The unknown is not that the soul never changes. The mystery is that the spirit does.” – DS

I thought myself a haunted house in a deep darkened wood, and every December I changed and became whole again.” -DS

There were angels dancing in shadows. There were angels darkened in shape. Singing magnum mysterium. Magnum mysterium. Awake!

Magnum mysterium phantasm is a spot in my mind, a haunted memory of pictures I cannot find. Darkness, darkness hello my old friend. A world floating with numbers, where does reason end. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living…

There sits in a wood a house broken, scarred, and battered and worn. It has eyes on an inward soul searching, haunted on the eve of a storm. The snow it falls on it duly, the ice it makes its way in. There is no way to know if now truly how to separate the ghost from within. So long ago its construction, upon faith and a matter of fact. Articles concentrated by a convention, signed by a builder, his cloak the color of black. This house has a foundation laid in the winter; its windows sealed by the night. What is one to say of this haunting, what is one to say of this errant decay? Can a house be a home really, when absolution of night rules the day? Failing the lack of an answer, the house will let phantasm take it away.

Oh, house that could be a mansion filled with light and magic within, on the eve of a great holiday glorious, how you sit there shrouded in din. How it is you, revel in stillness, pushing magic farther within. Forming union with all the legions, the darkest daemons of unconscious sin. Your inward walls collapsing in terror, your paint peeling within. For the lack of a coherent answer, the only sound is the noise of the northern wind. Did your blueprint not hold some passion, a design of song to begin? Was there never strength in your timbers to hold you up when the darkness began?

As I set here writing this missive, in the sunlight on a bright December day. Thinking how the dark words flowed so smoothly, I was shaken by what they relayed. An insight of a fool really, I am the house, and it is time for a change. I am the house, and it is time for a change.

Magnum mysterium phantasm is a spot in my mind, a haunted memory of pictures I cannot find. Darkness, darkness hello my old friend. A world floating with numbers, where does reason end. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living…

There were angels dancing in shadows. There were angels darkened in shape. Singing magnum mysterium. Magnum mysterium. Awake! – 12.17.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Spirits of Bisti (Patiently)


“The future for me is already a thing of the past –
You were my first love and you will be my last” – Bob Dylan

So long ago, first man, first woman, first love a song sung so patiently. Stars and angels, ruins beneath the eggs of Bisti, let what we do be born patiently. My love, my love I will love you eternally. My love, my love, I will see you again in Bisti eventually,

She, moves and summons so patiently, in threes, sixes and nines, the Bisti moving she on bended knee. Moving these images throughout these dreams. Swaying in song so delicately, her whispers dialectically. While Steve Perry wails, she kisses me, under rocks above me, oh another world that beckons me. Ruins that spin, while she touches me, here to live eternally. Sand pouring methodically, the notes of stars above fall melodically. The universe outside my car, our score that no one see’s. Just the spirits of Bisti so patiently, in you and me, moving, eyes closed, incessantly. We burst, worlds move, so patiently, light shines incandescently. Inside and outside of me, only this once. I succumb patiently.

Night winds fly higher than we can see, desert moon in November touches the ground in prophesy. Your hips bare the secrets inside of me, together, first woman, and first man, mythically almost tragically. Still there is a song forever, I keep gloriously. Later I learned you died, on a highway knowing what you did not see. No doubt your eyes closed, just like in Bisti, so patiently. November 29th so early. The morning star falling on a frozen desert sea. To your grave, in my head you kept me, so no one could see, the trail we blazed patiently. The spirits of Bisti, a covenant in immortality, tall columns of rock of relevancy, that watched so quietly, while we shared so patiently. So patiently.

Spirit I summon thee, so patiently, just like then move with me, let doors open like her with me. First man, first woman, let guardians shelter us in this moving desert sea, while we move too. Her to me. Me to what I cannot see, above these ruins, where shadows recede. Let what we did bring immortality. Let our love be patiently.

So long ago, first man, first woman, first love a song sung so patiently. Stars and angels, ruins beneath the eggs of Bisti, let what we do be born patiently. My love, my love I will love you eternally. My love, my love, I will see you again in Bisti eventually. – דָּנִיֵּאל – 11.29.20

Valiant


“You cannot give me my soul and take away my heart” – Prince Valiant

Upon this terrible eve of difference, that between the dragon and me.  His, the daemons troops so terrible, that which brings the fear I see.  So it is, in that great battle, that which quakes inside of  me. Move I unto my great lady in this darkness comfort me.  In this darkness comfort me.

Oh, hallowed place oft with no sun, to drench the soil of goodness done. Why here I pray, and ask someone in shadows come and cloak thy son. Bring grace in step and purpose some, make inside stronger than outsides sum. Know thee to me, my ladylove, one life, one soul, I will not run. For battle rages, I know it true, it rises when the sunrise is through, and I will not have glory then, for all blood spilt, is mortal sin. In truth right now, when darkness comes, a slight chill uttered on thy light tongue. Kiss it to me, and I to you, become we one in ghost and shadow too. Lay here with me, and know not my tears, take now my thoughts for the coming years. For here so cold on nighttime’s shore, we know each other in skin and more, and share a shimmer of what might be if on the morrow I cease to be.

Light here no candles as if I am staid, a token monument while breath is weighed. Still laugh with me and breathe in true and call the muses to sing us through. One life, one soul that parts nowhere, even on that morrow when blood flows everywhere. So the question asked between us two, are we finite now, in what we do? Tonight, tomorrow when the battle is through. To know this eve of that to come, will be enough when sleep is done.

Oh, sprite, thy torments everywhere, thy flurries dark and teeth still bared, to rent my grasp from what I do. To sow the doubt within my love so true. To split my will as if it is none, to change the mystery of what must be done. To show this place where we now lay, to describe its hollowness as my shallow grave. My sword to me, my strength renewed, the stars above fall, and show me to you. For in my heart, laid deep to test, one life, one soul, will pay to rest.  One life, one soul will pay to rest.

Oh, hallowed place oft with no sun, to drench the soil of goodness done. Lay down thy time, look not ahead, for what is future could already be stead. In this black place which knows no sun, bring light to me, thy will be done. Know thee to me, my ladylove, one life, one soul, I will not run.

Upon this terrible eve of difference, that between the dragon and me.  His, the daemons troops so terrible, that which brings the fear I see.  So it is, in that great battle, that which quakes inside of  me. Move I unto my great lady in this darkness comfort me.  In this darkness comfort me.

For Queen Aleta and my wife, both who have put up with much the night before a battle. – 10.26.20 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Sandpainting


“They find joy in motion, which transforms their lives into unending odysseys. Their souls are brightly burning streaks of light across the universe—constantly traveling in an endless dance across space and time.” – Zita Steele

We are two chums in the high desert, out near the dump, near the dragon!  We are here to paint the sand to seal our destiny, and to travel far away, on this long dark night. On this long dark night.

From the center out, we brushed our way through, colors of the earth and sun, with our own different hues. A painting under constellations that gave us clues. While first man talked, first woman brought us through, to the other side, on this long dark night. On this long dark night.

One by one we turn to two, dark filled Ravens by a cobalt blue, folding dragons our wings non flew, an ark from heaven, my friend me and you. Desert stories while young men sleep. We paint the colored sand from deep, to deep, drawing lines between our times, closing out the devil and the evil eye, on this long dark night. On this long dark night. Bended shoulders to what may come, the better we are, when we count as a sum, first the planet and then the sun, drawing a labyrinth where we may run. When time has ended and the world has stopped, we will step through the doorway, where our painting plots. To a new galaxy, a different moon. We will draw our new lives to escape our doom, while there is still time, and the sand is cold, on this long dark night. On this long dark night.

The mesa vultures, and the scorpions too, came and surrounded us while we drew. All dead creatures of things to come from the twenty-first century, when time is done. Dark angels, and soulless men, depraved demons in the craft of sin. All the past and the future too, hovered nearby but could not come through. Our seal of lines, on this long dark night. On this long dark night. First the pollen and then the corn meal, the San Juan sand, and the gypsum to heal, the universe of layers within us we seal in a turquoise bind. His brown eyes open, mine open too, we chant then we sing of the bridge on through, to the other side. To the other side. Boys translucent to the dead of night, a new moon existent, it will be all right, on this long dark night. On this long dark night.

From the center out, we brushed our way through, colors of the earth and sun, with our own different hues. A painting under constellations that gave us clues. While first man talked, first woman brought us through to the other side, on this long dark night. On this long dark night.

We are two chums in the high desert, out near the dump, near the dragon!  We are here to paint the sand to seal our destiny, and to travel far away, on this long dark night. On this long dark night. – 10.18.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

Shéy


“Lost boys almost always do need a good witch of a wife” – DS

Shéy does sing,

“Sing my name among the cosmos, the stars that drop to earth, and the ones who bear the wolf mark lost upon their birth. Dance, within the circle, make sure that life repeats, as it was from the first day desire makes breath complete. Count the many numbers as often as you can, oh great one you made the angels just a little lower than just I am.”

The Mr. finds her by the stones at dawn, her still radiant body warm to touch, wet with perspiration. He holds her close to him, feeling her breath against his grizzly cheek. “You are the most stubborn man Mr.”, she says to him, her voice carrying both wit and seriousness to it. “Could you not leave me to my tendencies for just one night”? The Mr. thinks about it for a moment and feels himself flush. “You give too much of yourself to this place”, he mutters, his brow growing stern. She thinks for a moment he looks like a wolf, not quite as lean and handsome as the ones who had surrounded her the night before. Still, The Mr. carries that glint still in his eyes, just as when she created it in him. When she brought him over. That was a long time ago she thinks. She wonders if she could do it again. Summon the craft, and give…

She writes on slates of Sandstone transported from some Moon, the images in her mind act out as if they are a rune. She sees the stars of Caledonia raining from the sky, painting her white naked body with the symbols, as old as Sodom and the tombs where stories lie. A pleasing aromatic of olden sage burns between her feet. An adoration of unseen tongues makes words she cannot repeat. An ancient revelator bends to what she seeks. She gives in to all temptation, as the dark angels sweep. The shadow of her book of sorrows burns and then it dies. The heavens open duly, and deep cries out against the sky. The sound of many spirits parade and march from ancient steeps. For there upon the Highlands, sums magic only secrets dare repeat.

She summons all her sisters, on the Southeast winds they ride, bringing rain and lightning, intermixed with starlit skies. The Bean Nighe and the Kelpies, and all the Wulver too, gather to the circle that spins in a darkened hue. For unto all that is madness in all that witches do, to bring forth life from that which is lost, and make it life anew. The earth is now opened. Between the times of man, as Whitby Ladies from all moments join the Clan at hand. And she who forms the circle, to bring forth someone new, screams her name into the chaos, as a new man walks on through.

The Mr. dances with her just beneath the circle beyond its still pulsating heat. “You gave again, didn’t you”, he whispers hoarsely in her ear. He is jealous, and to a certain extent, he feels his envy is righteous. “Just to the lost boys”, she whispers nuzzling the rough skin upon his neck. “You will always be my first”, “You will always be my first”.

Shéy does sing,

“Sing my name among the cosmos, the stars that drop to earth, and the ones who bear the wolf mark lost upon their birth. Dance, within the circle, make sure that life repeats, as it was from the first day desire makes breath complete. Count the many numbers as often as you can, oh great one you made the angels just a little lower than just I am.”

Shehanne Moore is an amazing accomplished author and I say with all intentions of being a namedropper, a friend (Please do check out all of her wonderful books). You can find Shey’s blog at https://shehannemoore.wordpress.com/  Welcome to The Whitby Lady’s my friend.
דָּנִיֵּאל
09.29.2020

Below Hague’s Peak (Eve)


“She is your before, sawed from your spirit, formed before, you were an atom, she was an Eve, before you.” – D.S.

She said, “I have always been above”. She said, “I have always been below”. He said, “I have found myself in each place, you go”. She said, “That’s how I found you”. He said, “It’s a dream of clues, isn’t it? A sweet dream of you”. She said, “No my love, it’s really you”.

It could be a refraction, or a dream from our birth, climbing ever northward from the highway where it curves. Around steep stones and cedars bearing snow crystals, beneath the Mummy’s range, strange dreams of deeds forgotten, your dress a long wedding train. Carrying us both laughing, your lips upon mine, shadows moving aside from where we tell them lay. Lay shadows lay. Oh, I could have been a lyricist that wrote of wrong love’s pain. But no that’s not the way we hold each other when life begins to rain. When it pours. When the screams come from where ghosts have lain. When it snows right here on top of a mountain chain. When piano keys tumble down, sounds my love, my eternal love for you.

It could be an essence, that leaves us here, scattered among the mountains, somewhere our love lost, somewhere standing together solid in the altitude, near Hague’s Peak, so cold. Our lines draining from our hearts, old places our lives together, familiars, no longer alone. Scattering, and hovering through this winter and last summer too. The windows of this high house breaking, opening, speaking. Frozen tongues, warming where eagles show, speaking to what has become me, and what will form you. For Darwin has not made us, nor are we of an archeological mold. Petrified angels, our stories just waiting to be told. More we are more. More we are more.

She came speaking my name near the rocks, close to the high stream, and she became a part of this everlasting poem. In a haste I asked her, her name, and I was blushing. She looked at me from high above the Colorado Mountains, those eternal thrones. She sighed, a sound which is of eternal syllables and symbols, and she said, “I am you”.

She said, “I have always been above”. She said, “I have always been below”. He said, “I have found myself in each place, you go”. She said, “That’s how I found you”. He said, “It’s a dream of clues, isn’t it? A sweet dream of you”.

She said, “No my love, it’s really you”.

For the spirit that has always been before me, created in that light that holds us both. For Susan. –08.03.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

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

 

By Thanks


“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues but the parent of all others”. – Cicero

He comes inside the morning, flying with the heavy snow. Spirit of an effervescence warming, dispersed with no place else to go. In the gloom of all his essence, in the place’s memories go. He awakens me in his presence, revealing to me what I should know. He stands me by the hours, ticking clocks in hallways bare, colder in November, he tells me something of which I care. I travel in a nightmare, I speed my moving with special care, I go beyond the frozen tundra to the bosom of all time that’s shared. A ride that goes always, sending my soul into gray, and what is always there. A reminder of all that’s present, of beating hearts and taken dares. Before I leave all with abandon, I look around me at all I share.

For by thanks this life is glory, in gratitude believed, not with such a perfect setting, but in much I have received. For a man that feels so broken, terrorized in so many ways. My life has been made more than a token to stand in all of G_D’s light and be okay. For by grace to understand it, what is in my heart alone, a simplified yet complex commandment. By reason on its own.

She turns in all directions, bringing in a newborn day. She spins in apparitions, G_D is much the all to which children pray. In all this I wonder the mystery, shrouded in a darkened place. Why it is that I’m awakened by the signal of a cold embrace. Should not there be a forgiveness, a warming in my tears. An atonement in emotion going back for backward years. A relevant salvation, an its okay, that makes it clear.

But nothing ever happens that way, not for me anyways. Life is life when it’s lived to a fullest in the dark snowy morning on a cold November day. The continuum of the minutes, the seconds of breaths relayed, to know that all of G_Ds judgment and compassion is not past or future delayed. For the past holds much sadness. The future much angst that no balm can sooth. But by thanks there is the moment, and that is where G_D knows you.

For by thanks this life is glory, in gratitude believed, not with such a perfect setting, but in much I have received. For a man that feels so broken, terrorized in so many ways. My life has been made more than a token to stand in all of G_D’s light and be okay. For by grace to understand it, what is in my heart alone, a simplified yet complex commandment. By reason on its own. – 11.28.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל