The Boy in the Stiff Boots


I beg you take courage; the brave soul can mend even disaster.” — Catherine the Great

Being on the spectrum, is like walking in a stiff pair of boots. Your feet hurt, and you have no flexibility. Yet you can see above the heads of others because you stand taller. And that is where we both begin and end…

Upon a recent night I hear him say. “Oh Babylon, how your walls have fallen, how you have destroyed me, how these stiff boots cannot my feet contain.” And since I wonder at such his words, I move closer, for there is a haunting of the spirit, that preludes, the creation of G_D’s sweet grace. And such further I hear him phrase. “I am broken by your name, blessed be, my only shame, fill me with your flame. For it is I have seen such terrible things, my mind plays in such a grotesque game.”

He is born with stiff boots, a strength that is built on hurt, justified, by what the world has done to him, what he thinks G_D has done to him, what life has done to him, and yes what I have done to him. And he has become unconquerable, and strong, building a daemon so angry it possesses his given name. His beautiful name. And he stands so stiff and tall in his stiff boots. He curses the stars above Babylon because they never make him whole. He never fills full.

Please help the boy in the stiff boots is my claim, on the altar in your name. Bending low, patterns drawn in your image I say. Day after day, night after night let your sweet essence enter his human cage.

And how these many days I pray, and how I will bless your unmitigated names. She-ma Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad, each night I claim.

She comes in the mystery of a falling rain, and before he is born, she fills his soul. She comes in a desert place before I even know his name and claims the payment for his change. And in the city of the dead, G_D comes to claim that which I even did not know. And while he screams, and the Mediterranean rolls, this lord, this Adonai comes and makes his eyes glow. The earth opens and takes his pain, in a holy flame. My baby boy, his eyes like mine, a hazel grain.

And how these many days I pray, and how I will bless your unmitigated names. She-ma Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad, each night I claim.

She comes in my stiff boots of memory, in the archetype of my soul. She is all unto me, the mix that makes me whole. And just like he is unto me, every cell that makes a family sensory, we share the same. In your name. Oh, how I come to you, in your mystery, I thank you, while this world wanes. I know my son’s story, how you built him in all your glory before the world was named. And like him you made me, stiff boots made of chemistry, that which fills our brain. In that we walk from day to day. In that we walk from day to day. And that is where we both begin and end… – 06.17.2022 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

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.

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

 

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!

GHOST (blessed be)


At nine years of age I saw my first spirit, a gangly woman munching on an ear of corn down near the post office in the valley. Her eyes held different colors, one green, and the other blue. She was dressed old, nothing new, and when her voice came, it rolled in riddles and clues, and she talked of confidences, of what held my feet under me. She moved suddenly and quickly, stretching limb upon limb, and her words, came like a revelator, calming me, calming me… “A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

And so I wondered, and I wandered, at night through the field of dreams. It was April, with the Hydra shining down. Smiling at me the large constellation spelling my name, telling me what I might see, and the reasons for my simple insight, that faith locked in a wild sea, within my mind, or maybe I was lost. But I thought of the gangly woman, the spirit, the words, and the revelator, and it seemed that when I looked at Alphard, that heart of the sky beast, it winked. That voice of the spirit with the different eyes, one green, and the other blue, fell upon me, calming me, calming me…”A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

At twenty-eight years of age I crossed the tracks at Burlington, and saw the presence of the old man, levitating above the ground, pointing his wishbone of a tree toward the mountains of Colorado. His eyes held need, and they were the tan of a sea of wheat. He wore the dress of the farmer, perhaps the same as my Pappy had. He spoke in syntax, in verbs, words of rolling action that moved me upon my way. He was a water witch, the stick moving, waving through the air, through the window of my heart, and his words, came like a revelator, calming me, calming me… “A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

And Meeker Meadow found me like the old ghost claimed it would, brought me kneeling chasing answers when shadows questioned where I stood. For I thought about what’s just beyond the boundary of life’s breath, and how most only settle to see who does what’s best. And the moon above November skies bewitched me till I swooned, made me reach beyond those shadows in the deeper faith of gloom. For beyond the wall of separation, which shows toward the real, were the oceans of electrons, without bodies who still feel. And the old man who led all, held the witches tree of old, waved it unto me, his voice calming me, calming me… “A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

At the change of life at forty-six years of age, I saw a ghost of a witch’s child at play, weaving phantom pictures from his mind, sitting bombarded in his special chair, while nefarious dimwits taught him, that life was not fair. *His eyes were brown and shiny like a spectral sea, those thoughts beyond the circumference of what his teachers could hope to be. He looked to me, to be, what I hadn’t seen. Called me daddy, and it was clear why I was me. For genes of fortune handed down, ghost seen, when no one else hears a sound. I understand son, why you would say, say to me between our minds to this day. Your words a revelator, calming me, calming me…”A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

*For my son who teaches me silent faith. 07.26.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Children of Color (Stillness)


(Stillness)

We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”.

(Stillness)

He prays by the garden and see’s ghost go by, and rarely does he wonder if what he knows is right, and it could be it’s an ego coming from a little child, but careful, careful doubter, it could be he reads your mind. Could it be he knows your secret of the times you hate this life. Of the time you committed blasphemy with your body in the night. So it is nobody calls you different, but this child knows your insides, and even though you lie in words, you can’t meet a human eye. It’s a little bit of faith in craft of neurons that don’t meet, but better faith in something known, than men of cloth are prone to teach. Oh he rises ever higher when he watches angles fly, and he claims he once saw Ezra measure walls that reach the sky. Oh it could be he’s autistic, or it could be he’s not real, may be doubter of this noun and verb, you’re the one, who can’t let your soul with G_D meet.

(Stillness)

Numbers, numbers, choreographed from the start of time to now, geographic petrography, to the stars of breath sublime. Schizophrenic as diagnosis from a man who hates his mom, mental health done by neurotics from a psychopathic bomb. So it comes now from a child who counts in numbers six by odd, data to the ones and zeros, dreams of summer though there not. Is it faith or insanity when he learns to tie his shoes, for the whole world has ignored him, while he reaches for the truth.

(Stillness)

We live now in a world of difference from elitist to the poor, where a leader of a people has an IQ of a decimal .04, and while people watch him with such awe, a child sits, in the dark, turning light switches on in Bangladesh, with a synapse from his core. Know you now these days are numbered, when one and one will not mean two, when apocalyptic waves of chaos will be broken by order new. For these children of the color, those that are now of the age, they will break this social order, bring an end to all disordered rage. Call it faith or insanity, time that has no end, for the world has turned in sorrow, and this G_D will have no more. For it is he sends his brilliant children, special lights to change his song, bring a world that’s hung in darkness know it’s love for which he longs. While a tree sits there in Eden waiting for its final end, a child takes the final bite of knowledge, and turns his thoughts within.

(Stillness)

We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”. (Stillness) – 04.13.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

BROWN


So it is I want to tell you from the deepest part of me, what I know about my birthday, and the love around me. What you wonder is a strange boy, and you judge inclusively, from your books filled full of knowledge and your lessons that you read. This untruth will not prepare you for what I give in luminosity, just a story from a young boy brown endeavored, born to destiny. Sweetness lullaby my daddy, sweetness sings his songs to me, and at three we talk of angels, and its angels that I see, though I know there’s education with all of its degrees, it cannot not love me like my Adonai, he sighs, he breathes in me.

So let’s talk about my brown eyes and those pupils that you see, what is there upon the surface is not what I really see. There are patterns of behavior that surround like blowing leaves, some are blessings, in depth memories, of the way it used to be. There are those that guess at what I am, to predict sociability, do you not know I have seen you in your fallibility. I am born like many others, in special mentality, it’s my birthday, time to play, and open all the world to me. Have you looked into my brown eyes have you seen anything, do you know my soul goes outward like a vacuum and it sings. What then, you think that’s magic, born upon a simple lad, that’s just brown eyes of G-Ds kingdom luring love from hate gone bad.

In the deep dark lines of color that irradiate my sleep, I am brown seeing others, and it brings me sweet relief. There are ashen thoughts of knowledge that reflect intuitively, from strange places in my hemispheres that equate so logically. For in G-D there is equation, on my birthday I have seen, from one brown eye to another, his grace given spatially. So it is I tell you something from the farthest part of me, what is brown in all its color, is the love bequeathed in me.

For my son Ryan on his birthday, he is life seen brown. – 09.03.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Ides of Parts


This time he’s breaking, while the moon turns its back and the days grow longer, his retain is cracking, a riddle is becoming harder to take, his mind its delicacy is becoming the ides of parts. Revelry broken, tangled weeds, a mind tattered, rocks in fine sand, there in fashion he falls, there alone he recedes before the raw darkness, before the emptiness of a beautiful mind. This time there’s a hopeless lonely dark spark, a soul with carved cuts in the shape of isolation. What silence beholds this dark eyed grace, held by daemons in haunting screams my heart, he falls in the ides of parts?

In seconds, moments of jagged pain, cold realities of fragile dreams are released. Words, diagnosis, prognosis of logic sifting and coming forth like dead Greek winds on the oaths of Hippocratic knowledge. Tablets to stop the rain, to paste together false band aides on the ides of parts. On his knees, his silver Magen David hanging wet with damaged cries. A misunderstanding between his creator, his Hashem, his builder and he. The long night wears on, he conceives, he breaks and still he shines in this strange dance, this bloodless war born in the mind of my son. Here, he alone, he within me, and yet so far from where I can stand, his to crawl into the ides of parts.

Like a waterfall that crystalizes and is born into quartz his mind finds sheen, and in division and ritual it creeps. The echoes of his screams will not die, they hang delicate in the night air unmoved by his father’s prayers. It is the Ides of Parts. All is well I suppose. In tragedy all kingdoms are given. What is broken is unyielding and it is like Ryan’s love, great and unfolded, he gleams like a dominion. He is like an enchantment billowing his story untold, and even in this mindless place of dialogue between logic and pain, he shines. Like the glow of those mysteries written upon runes that no mortal eye can see, he lives, suffering, gleaming in the ides of parts.

 

For (the reason) my son Ryan whom I love very much. – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Praetorian Child

Image

Praetorian child, guard that surrounds the brilliance of the soul.  Gift to the lonely, wonder without blame.  Still shooting star that follows G_D’s logical reunion, and wisdom’s final reign.  Spectrum of the cosmic, author that writes melody and places it as genius in human hands.  Forever your vision, not held backwards, or present undefined by crooked emotions or the fall of sinful man.  Graciousness shown, without expectation his soul is revealing the Torah unknown.

Praetorian child, seraphim that guards magic, molecular thunder, refinement of grace.  Contraction of darkness, deflection of sorrow, definition of love in YHWH’s eternal embrace.  Inside the numbers, the patterns of logic. The art of enchantment my son you have shown me the light of his face.  In tactical drawings your fingers striking wands of fascination divining great treasures from your preconceived plan.  Destiny of energy, my joy of beholding the secular puzzlement of knowing you can.

Praetorian child, Augustus of marvel, you guard in strange beauty, G_D’s gift to this man.  Some nights when you suffer, bad karma of others, the ghost of bad keepers they come then retreat.  I watch as you see pain and taste of its poison, but still in your essence you never concede.  In death of life’s vanity, I kneel on my kingdom, you guard me in heaven with your gift below.  Our laughter in danger it lights our way further, my guard of the present, forever we go.

Some would define certain of our sons and daughters with a “SPECIAL” title.  Some would tag them, and watch over them in awe and trepidation.  How we regress in this enlightened Age of Aquarius!  I see them as Praetorians!  They guard our inhumanity, and although some would define their lack of social expression as the lack of a soul, they are our soul, and they walk for us where angels will not go.  This is for my son, who through this life is my Praetorian! – DS 02-17-2014