The Bluecoats (Evermore)

The bluecoats were a mighty force that held the highland, from the driveway to the dried mud hill near the weeds. They had a town and village and it was made of tuna cans, but their fort made of tin foil, was the pride for all to see. They took up their positions with their plastic weaponry, and in unison, they beheld what they could see. And, they called their mighty plateau “Evermore”, for with their mighty fortress, they would gain immortality, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

Upon a very sunny day, when the air stood still and hot, the bluecoats looked down upon the driveway called a sea. There arose a string of makeshift ships from a cardboard box, with a green army that numbered infinity. The flag that they mustered was cut from old cloth, painted black for misery, and they made their home for war upon their fleet. Stood they tall with axes high, as they looked at “Evermore” said this too belongs to us or so we will see. And the greens set their catapults upon dried mud land near the weeds, and said let us wait for dusk, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

The bluecoats of the highland, looked down upon the greens, and they found themselves filled with pride and practicality. What is violence without reason, when we have our fort so strong, in “Evermore”, we have been here for eternity. Let us throw down rocks like bullets rain our war upon the greens, for in our souls we have superiority. We shall hold our mighty highland, we shall stand for “Evermore”, our enemies will become but a false dream, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

So the bluecoats rained down rocks like bullets upon the greens by the weeds, and the greens dodged their pellets beneath the thick leaves. At a point in time, the sun did dip, and the greens counted their deceased, total losses amounted to twenty-three. We have slain them they are conquered said the bluecoats on the hill, let us retreat to our fortress and watch them leave, it will be a sign of our true wealth, or better yet our “Evermore” superiority, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

In the valley by the weed growth near the driveway called a sea, crept the warriors of the Greens an army. Looked they up onto the highlands in the dusk all they could see, was the tin foil fort of the enemy. Bent they back their plastic catapults held by rubber bands tightly, held within the cups of each a gas-soaked gravel, to fly when touched by a match lit carefully. Up above in “Evermore” not a bluecoat could be seen, tucked away secure not afraid of that which lies beneath, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

In the evening on the highland, that looked over a driveway sea, came a rain of fire that was birthed from near the weeds. Burning gravel falling terror from the green army, hit the tin foil keep of the bluecoat infantry. The foil it held the fire for just a little while, but the shards of gravel pierced it through. The wooden sticks that held the fort began to burn as the embers grew. The end the end, the bluecoats sang, as the tin stronghold ripped in two. Some boy said, I know, some boy said.

But what has legend taught us, of battles that we fight, just when we lose our fight, there comes a faithful rite. For just as when the bluecoats fell, and recognized their plight, they called upon compassion from a holy recognized light. The boy in his compassion, of all he did control, sent streams of dribbling water down from a bucket near the knoll. His role was like a being, that looks upon a land, and brings about a miracle when nobody thinks he can. Look up, look up, ye bluecoats, from the highlands where ye stand, your G_D is like a boy, with a bucket in his hand. Some boy said, I know, some boy said. – 1.31.2018 –דָּנִיֵּאל

Louie and I (1978)

“A wise man fights to win, but he is twice a fool who has no plan for possible defeat”. – Louis L’Amour

“It’s okay to call me Louie”,

Louie said, “if I was you, I would not choose the Strater, with its feather pillows, and it’s golden chrome, it’s not the best place to eat, too noisy to enjoy the room, and you just can’t talk to the moon there”.   “You know young buck you need a ground, a high place where there’s room, to read a western novel, like a book I’ve spun on a loom. Indeed, you’re just a young man with a back that can take the ground, there’s plenty of altitude with coldness, and starlight, without much sound”. “If you buy “To the Far Blue Mountains” a read that will take you there, there’s a hill just south of Fort Lewis, you can go, and find what makes a writer there”. I looked hard at old Louie, then lowered my eyes, my face in flame, for its true he was just a cowboy, but in his soul was something that built the western plains.

We stood awhile then in Maria’s, a different bookstore back then a different name. Me with pimples and a dream of glory, he a writer, who had dealt with all his pain. He said, “well now, I’m a man whose been defeated, known the bottle, known what it is to feel real shame, still now that is part of the best story, when you know it, and bring it to a higher place”. Well the truth of the matter was it was Louie, the actor who had built a western stage, the glory of all my childhood heroes, the painter of all the mountain sage. All of my past a six-gun hallelujah, a bloody fight, to pioneer a just and fallen rage. While young boys were lost without their heroes, Louie wrote mine in sunsets on a stage.

Such a short time we talked inside that bookstore, such a brief encounter while the desert bloomed, knowing something inside of me was growing, listening to the man who’d written “The Man Called Noon“. All my life I think I might meet people, those who walk and write, all talented in what they do, still I wonder have they ever talked to the moon and have they ever been defeated, and if so, what did they do? What did they do?

“It’s okay to call me Louie”,

I met “Louis l’Amour” in a small book store in Durango, Colorado in April of 1978. What a man he was. – 11.03.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

I Said, He Said

A healthy planet I said.

Frank’s Red Hot Cayenne Pepper Sauce he said.

Ying than yang I said.

Judgment than compassion he said.

The full moon is bright I said.

The beggars eyes are light he said.

It is a cute puppy I said.

You are blessed with breath and children he said.

The blessing of music I said.

Led Zeppelin, he said.

War and bitterness I said.

All is vanity he said.

To know virtue I said.

There is hunger he said.

To fly like a bird I said.

747, he said.

To know peace I said.

Is there one honest man, he said.

To see your face I said.

Meet your neighbor, he said.

My faith is weak I said.

Reality is not of the spirit he said.

So many in need I said.

A sadness to talk of he said.

So many rebels I said.

They become tyrants he said.

To love myself then others, I said.

Narcissism, he said.

To find the true path I said.

It forks many times he said.

To make it to heaven I said.

You live in Colorado, he said.

To have prayers answered I said.

To not ask he said.

To study and teach I said.

To do in silence, he said.

To not worry, I said.

Tomorrow I made too, he said.

To be left alone I said.

Six feet under, with garlic, he said.

I want to care for others I said.

I want you to not care what others think, he said.

To walk in Torah, I said.

To live Torah, he said.

To take care of my body as your temple, I said.

Again, Frank’s Red Hot Cayenne Pepper Sauce he said.

To live my days for you, I said.

To live, he said. – 02.01.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

הכל (Everything)

In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave birth!

A fissure of water, that before time, a raw blink of heaven that follows this rhyme, and there in the canyon, a soul of some kind, that ask for your blessing, when dust blocks the shine. I’ve climbed on the ramparts of Merovingian kings, danced with a beggar who thought he a queen, sponsored addicts in circles so round, ran through the mountains where ice makes a sound. I’ve held fallen children with wounds in their minds, traversed her body with love for my mind, and oh forever, sun ever shine, it is everything, you’ve given everything….I’m born everything!

In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave me birth!

Enter the dragon, who cannot shine, earth sowed with salt, a demon not kind. A rage of depression, decision within, a kinship of sinners, a cousin of din. Its bite with a vengeance, I bite it on back, a cousin of judgment that fills something lacked. A balance of needing, of wanton pure ill, all canyons have snakes now, because of his will. I’d tell you a story, you’d not believe true, until you’d sat wanting and weighed yourself through, and oh forever sun shine, it is everything, you’ve given everything….I’m born everything!

In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave birth!

Sand filters water in canyons so deep, water produces a cleansing replete, and from my seed children that produce your hand, a lifetime of climbing to fulfill this plan. I’ve held on to heroes that died not so old, with burning judged weakness, their stories untold, I’ve become a servant to those who fight back, and filled all my kingdom with those who have lacked. The canyon of your love has held nothing back, its talons and healing have broken my back, and oh forever sun shine, it is everything, you’ve given everything….I’m born everything!

In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave birth!

For my fellow traveler and friend Momus who is seeking everything! – 11.17.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Eric Carmen – Everything

Beautiful oh Beautiful (Leary’s Psalm)

Timothy Leary saw lightning in the desert, he said beautiful, oh, beautiful. Testing hallucinogenic, thought by drug a master, Neurologic telepathy, Exo-Psychology. Was his life disaster, or did he find the answer, when the sun goes down in his Mexicana town, he said, no authority, question all wisdom formally, do it dutiful, be equivocal. What now you telegenic prophet have you heard from, Richard Nixon, you are dangerous, your thought outrageous. From the thought, of cell you have risen altered vision, synesthesia, spoken pharmacopoeia, tell your children as you leave them you have seen their spirits moving when their dead.

Still you say….

Hollywood in color brings Winona, as your god daughter, he said beautiful, oh, beautiful. Respond in kind you’ll see people treat you as they see. Act so natural, not artificial. Yet we wonder reason, did you live for just a season, did you structure your rebellious thought, were you a tyrant or savant. Flashbacks in your mind, Psychedelic Prayers online. Did you think that life extension comes from biological convention, when the chemical intervenes, falls through neurons and screams, and you hear your voice outside you say, beautiful, oh beautiful.

Still some beyond you say….

May be superstition far away from mind or reason, may be addiction, could you think of it that way. Could be natural creation comes and takes hallucination, could be G-D or Autism could be anything, of being that blows you away. Say there Mr. Leary who took a synthetic to reach beyond the stars and still what did you say. “Hearing, breathing sucking, light dark and laughing, what is come is in the past, beyond my mind”. What about a star that falls from the sky, do you not know that cannot replace your mind, and he says….

Beautiful, oh beautiful!

I first became interested in the writings of Timothy Leary after spending some time, with one of his students who had mastered Leary’s Personality Indicator, a combination of the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI), the Myer’s Briggs, and a whole lot of LSD in the Mexican desert. I found that once I got beyond the psychobabble, the addiction, the beatnik, there was a mind, which was multifaceted in its brilliance, and uncanny resolve to find the light. I hope Leary did, for in many ways he was Beautiful, oh beautiful. I have taken some liberty with a couple of Leary’s poems above “Hearing, breathing sucking, light dark and laughing, what is come is in the past, beyond my mind” I would encourage you to read them for yourself here. I think you will agree they are brilliant! – 10.28.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Curious (The Path Home)

A liege now, here he sits by my gate, his looks disheveled, his fingers long as stakes. He is devolved now, from his kingdom and his throne, a wild beast driven, unraveled and alone. What king come down, why did you seek, describe your thoughts, on what you’ve seen, and you still grazing by my gate, what have you learned from your fate? If I turn round and peer through you, what diadem of fortune did you choose, and low you speak unto my sake and tell me truth of treasures made. In turn he moves without his bounds, and brings me closer within his sound, and walls and writing our eyes once seen, and with an effort he does forth speak, and I am curious.

A seat perched higher than all the world, sat I from memory with gold made curls, and there from beginning I made king, did call down thunder for all my needs. In blood filled Nephilim’s from the deep I strode in Babylon from my keep, there rode I steeds that moved with speed, and all in all I still voiced need, so envious. A move of thought and empires died, I smote illusionists with my eyes, and my force of labor built on high, my ever need, for the envious. In hanging gardens from sky wells, I reached for heavens with my spells, and I told you as I never fail, I’m not curious.

Across the earth before this time, you called from ashes from this rhyme, and then before this gate appeared, a path awakened with your tears, and I’m curious. In all the world you shook at awe, in rites rebellion did you call, and burned before him with your cries, and you were envious. Here we are now, beast and time, in all within you that you find, have you come now before Adonai and your curious.

A path upon you oh my lord, for I was bound to serve you fore, and in instruction have you brought the key, and it does hold no jealousy. For all divine has called you, spoke you free, it places time in energy, and creates emotion harmony, a blend of love and curiosity.

Have you not wondered why you cry, been found wanting, when you sigh, have you been envious of days gone, are you curious. Do you ask questions of your life, remand your reasons you do not die, are you a victim passed from strife, and are you curious? The search eternal from a sprite who once ruled fortune from his site, he loosed his boundary with his plight he was curious. I am curious! – 10.12.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 Hello my old friend we meet again! – 😉


Ecclesiastes flowing from her red lipped mouth, dripping into my fulfilled sea, wrapped her wet abundant joys, north to south, and spirit in my body free.  My muscles cannot utter or my eyes reveal, my hearing of your raptured pleas. What we do together has already been announced, approved under the sun repeatedly. Some will say we knew of love when we were young, touched by a generation free, I will say I took your wisdom in my mouth, it’s clear that G-D gave you to me. I cannot saturate you with an earthly power, my vanity it frustrates me. Vexation with your knowledge leads me to announce, I’m missing what only madness sees.

Ecclesiastes, poured herself out in joy and wine, she sucked, her moisture off of me.  Her pools of water laden with her pleasure swelled, a mixture that possessed my vanity. It seems that if I came to conquer all the world, and owned, the treasures of the seas, my toiling would be wisdom that is gained, in self, my eagerness for spoil, I could not keep. For if I gain my knowledge and I know her heart, and if I lay with her substantially, it will not be enough to know what’s of her flesh, I will in lust be never free. For of her knowledge in this bed I would know joy, with recognition that it’s temporarily. For occupation comes to one who knows no heart, a frustration built on vanity.

Ecclesiastes said, that I have given birth, a still-born child, birthed out of eternity.  I know that with our love I must first cast out, and watch it come back to me. For it is true that silence and a rip in time, brings about life’s prophecies. There is a happiness that dies and brings forth light, a hunger that is toiled received. When we are two together reaching loves full prime, we rise above our vanity.

Ecclesiastes takes me in an open field, her courage in her love I feed, we cannot characterize or write our names as one for in that would be vanity. She tells me fear this matter till the end of time, for it is judgment, based decreed. I’ll love you Ecclesiastes when life’s undone, and finished with all my pride and greed. – 08.20.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Lucifer’s Opus

All Graphic rights: Socar Myles (Lucifer in The Violin)

Two armies in speed approach, one upon another, two lights between the northern skies, mine, and then one other. For every death, is thought one more, pain from one another. You dash your heel upon my shore, a shame, a shadow, a shudder! What instinct has traveled by your mind, that seeks to find its owner, have you not seen me act sublime, and turn a frozen shoulder. A thought of interest from your face, when you look at fallen grace, how it tempts you, when I cry, beguiling spirits how I lie, shining teeth so open wide, misguided thoughts in disguise. Oh song, never has a night been so long, opus in the darkness sung strong, fairer than the morning that comes, better learned of anger than none.

Two flowers bloom, in desert sand, their petals shadow each other, like balance between the sun and moon, one over lights the other. A balance beam, on one eye, continued thunder in jaded skies, why let us fear, my thoughts draw near. It could be true I love you dear, after secrets, spurned and scorned, fallen daemons from false storms. Do you not know me after time, we’ve shared proud envy, fallen pride. Across this prism, my refrain, a trial given, and still I sing, your host in heaven, Sheol knows well, I the mourning have grief to tell. That while your trumpets they do play, I’ve stolen lightning from its way, and in this opus I do sing, I am your wayward brother.

Two poles do reach across a stage, in time they seek to turn away, and if by night he calls me near, my song of death he still holds dear, an opus strung upon the lyre, of sickles burning among the tears. Yes he calls me, like chosen need, to chart the deadly with disease, a critic most willing, to stage a play, my tune in killing on judgment day. Two ones of two and then one more, a composition of just one score, a blade in light it holds more heat, an opus in heaven has one seat! – 7.17.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Should be a River

Across the street from the Rosemont diner, food a plenty served with love for two, sat an old brown man holding print paper, rattling bones his luck not holding true. It seems to me, I said for endeavor, this river street runs a title true, across it seems, there’s foliage deemed for wet lands, please tell me is it true? Should be a river I think over yonder, should be a bank with water running through, contemplate this old man, you’re not a stranger, is there a river across there running through? The old brown man, holding print paper, the old brown man looked me through, and then his eyes thinned, laced like a rapier, his life of longevity shook me through and through.

The truth young sir, is something you can’t live with, the fable of life is where you find you’re own, in life I knew there should be a river, across the street it should run through, across this bow its water running new. His voice like death dyeing on dark embers, his face a mask of something gotten blue, you see in truth he’s never seen a river, that water of life so close to me and you. Right across the street, so close that steps should walk it, a bird has seen it so far up in the blue, but that brown man, the one with print paper, the one rolling bones he seems to have no clue.

On Ruby Street he was born a poor son, a beggar of a thieve in 1942. Six blocks west, there should be a river, but pain came first, a way to make it through. Bottles and bones, a culture of a fiefdom, a caste, Americana, red, white and blue. Demographic shame, father, son to reaper, a place lost from conscience, well hidden from our view. Truth it seems, is hidden from a river, a shelter it deems should help us through, how often it is, across the street there’s water, we die from thirst watching it flow through.

The old brown man, the one outside the diner, the one you’ve seen calling, is it really you? Hail now friend, there now should be a river, across your street have you seen it running through.

The old brown man sitting outside the Denny’s right across the street from the Des Plaines River in Rosemont, Illinois, had actually never seen the river itself when I asked him how to find i he seemed confused. He had lived his whole life no more than eight blocks from it. If eyes tell the truth his did. His words I will always remember, “There should be a river over beyond those trees, may be a mile or so but I’m not for certain”. The truth was it was no more than a quarter of a mile from where we sat and talked. – 07.15.2014 –דָּנִיֵּאל

Milton Erickson (American Warlock)

There now, the distance of your arm now, that miracle you seek, to touch, inches total numbers from lengths you can believe. Deep there, everything is seconds, everything is heavy like your sleep. Listen, you’re always fair and hearing, always contemplating, always accommodating, rest you can’t share, home bound inward need. Values, experience is believing, assumptions predeceasing, integrated pleasing, you don’t need to, and you’re just asleep.

Does a Shaman trump a prophet, does a seer know a dream, what of high turbaned healers, and medicine queens? Now sit you tight inductee, and think of what you need, I’ll heal you of something with what you now read. Predictor of unseen and untrained of sight, from Wisconsin his spirit was born in foresight. Inscribed of pure logic of healing of binds, a cripple a walker, hypnotic in rhythms. This could be a young boy, a son who barely sees, indeed he is a color blind, in summoned tight hypnotic wells he heals thyself by light. Three doctors told his mother, by night you see he dies, not so for this young warlock with death he will not abide. Bring me now a dresser mirror and lay it on its side, oh mother dear, the sun will set I want to see its light. He did delay his still death with sketch and paper fill, for he did block the dead of night with what he drew surreal, for it was he that drew the sun that died and held upon that hill. He would that sun would not set for ever till one day, and in it, was his last breath that paper went away.

Now so many stories, but now let’s make time still, for it can last for hours, with what you want that’s real. For you live in an unconscious world that plays upon your soul, you speed through all your joys and life, your pain in time congeals. Let’s move that time like clocks that shift and bring your hurt to nil. Your love and bliss is more than time, your hours it should now fill. Is that now something that you believe, the time you now command, to choose your seconds indefinitely, lift pain by your command.

Now this old man with polio, the one that staid the sun, he delved into the mind of lore, and made dark nightmares run. He pulled induction from the space that held where time stood still, he bent strange habits and made them fade, with man’s unconscious will. In everything he taught and saw, in everything fulfilled, healing by the minds own eye, a composition sealed. Parts and space, and neurons run and paths of parts now healed, juxtaposing heaviness, he made joy standstill. We bow our head just as he said, hypnosis habit real, in ghost of rhythm where he now lives, I’m sure he’s laughing still.

There now, the distance of your arm now, that miracle you seek, to touch, inches total numbers from lengths you can believe. Deep there, everything is seconds, everything is heavy like your sleep. Listen, you’re always fair and hearing, always contemplating, always accommodating, rest you can’t share, home bound inward need. Values, experience is believing, assumptions predeceasing, integrated pleasing, you don’t need to, and you’re just asleep.


For those who have never heard or read the works of Milton Erickson, now is a good time to try, It’s remarkable the magic placed in mortal eyes! – – 07.06.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל