“So I said I am fallen, sweetly into this dark stormed sea, from those others, false accusations, those beliefs that terrify me”. Those words came from something beyond me, baritone, maybe, sexually sweetly, “do you not see, that fallen taste, I would love infallibly, that beautiful form I would, make sheen, strip away all the pain that surrounds belief. Breathe, sweet surrender to me”.

Oh who is it now that would judge over me, just G_D in all raiment, my name is indeed, for all sweet surrender in sheen and in storm come join me remember, one judge is its form, for you do not need a religion or peace, you do not need those men who breath death in their grief, for sweet, sweet surrender is all when you breath, it’s all when you breath.

Every, oh everyone says to me, your life should be this or it should not be. Why you should not have her or you should do this, it seems oh Daniel your life’s not of bliss, and if you would be poor, for poor you should be, and you should want something, but something you need. And voices they come, from those who speak while dead, there spirits with Jesus, that place of guilt dread. Oh I say of what there is respect of me, that part in endeavor that part you don’t see. But still they spell on with their Munchausen eyes, there daggers of pity, those Christian dead eyes, and bellows and billows of false sense of ease, I see it when they come to characterize me, for it is a time of dead dawn that is past, that person that holds there sense unwilling dread. For what is the truth of what you don’t see, the G-D you deny, that watches on me. Have you thought your soul so secure in its rest, while marching ore others those who know your best. What oh adventure when you come to die, to know you were wrong to know you lived less.

And now like the watchman that watches ore me, the daemon of purpose that changes with ease, would you know that now I surrender my rest, I give unto others the thing I know best. It is with a still grace and change upon dawn, a sweet near surrender to fly in a storm, a recognition of who holds all keys, a spirit indigenous, to damn theocracy, a billowing storm of all matter and rain. A gift of the purpose, creator all things, a light that moves, and catheterizes me. Reaches for you and ask you to see. A sweet, sweet surrender not Biblical form, a treasured of timber, ghost spirit no forms, and the one that drops down when you’re on your knees, I see that in you and I know it’s in me.

Oh who is it now that would judge over me, just G_D in all raiment, my name is indeed, for all sweet surrender in sheen and in storm come join me remember, one judge is its form, for you do not need a religion or peace, you do not need those men who breath death in their grief, for sweet, sweet surrender is all when you breath, it’s all when you breath.

For those of the select that are fallen, you are so beautifully made in G_D’s eyes, and I might add mine. – 10.11.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Red Feather Lakes

Running Man in Snow – Thornton Walker

There are seconds, days, the snow comes in, when the howling smell of winter spins, then like a saved voyage for the old and the lame, I bend and stretch and remember what happened that day.

By the rock of upper Eden by Red Feather Lakes, I began a lonely run on a seasons day, by the trail of frozen Aspen far from spring and life come new, I watched the sun rising, as I ran my way to you. It was eighty six of hundred feet of elevated play headed up to ninety two odd four of rock, where the lions lay, and the breath from all my fury past flittered away, when the snow pack of the timber suddenly gave way.

Said an angel to a child, watch him slide upon his back, watch him slide on to Lake Erie, but watch him come on back, for in a second mystery for the humble and the grave, it’s just a little journey to help him love G-D today. It seems in revelations like apocalyptic doom, and this poor child of the future is wasting his time too soon, so will of all that happens and what is delayed will bring this runner higher, and bring him to grace.

When you fall through time of sorrow and you bend your back on ice, it takes from you great arrogance, and it doesn’t feel so nice, you think a lot about dying and you wonder if you’ll cry, when you sink beneath cold waters, in the mountains you will lie. Rolling and skidding like a sinner feeling scorn, resting above an icy water like a shadow on a storm. Breathing ever harder grabbing life in its quick play, what a blessing is a second, when there’s none to give away.

Said a light upon the snowy field of war over man, leave your footprints altogether, and don’t grab his hand, in the blood that’s freely flowing from the crack above his face, I cement ‘EL Elyon as judgment and I send him on his way. For there is none all the better, that will call out my name than a broken man of service for the Ancient of Days. For whom is worthy judged a man, than he who has tried, better man I love in judgment, than one covered for life.

It is not seen or known without how, I came to be pulled, from an icy shadow with a love, and my death was annulled. In the winter of my deluge when ‘EL Elyon judged me, I was taken without wanting, and with that I am free.

There are seconds, days, the snow comes in, when the howling smell of winter spins, then like a saved voyage for the old and the lame, I bend and stretch and remember what happened that day. 10.15.2014 – 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! – 😉

Tides of Light (The Confession)

This is the longest walk I’ve ever known, this path that brings me to a place, where I must atone. Some words have been floating by me tasting the breeze, but for once I’m getting ready to just be me. Some know me for my laughter, others think I have skill, the truth in all this chatter is I’m not honest still. For me to walk the tides of light, and be judged free, I must pull out some thoughts of war that rule over me. A broken man has no place that matters still, for deep inside his shattered life, deception has will. I do not wish confession on an altar pain-built, I’ll make my own admission before G-d at his will.

A word or two of caution for what you would hear, is not sin built on malice of that I am clear, but still I do remember what defines sagacity, a purse full of dollars from dishonesty. I wish there was a map of who I should be, a chart of holy markers defining personality. I regress from my purpose stalling this road to my goal, a few more words about me places few choose to go. For me to walk the tides of light, and be judged free, I must pull out some thoughts of war that rule over me.

I’ve seen the world’s compassion in a short crooked frame, it does not fit the picture of what most doers say. The words of crying darkness roll like sounds from a quake, but weeping doesn’t matter, just the words that I say. You see I stole and borrowed from what was not mine, I took and claimed tomorrow with my love undefined. I went into a kingdom that was not mine to keep, I made those ears that listened follow Balaam’s belief. So there it is in English and I need not say more, the terror that you’ll leave me, makes me walk even more. For me to walk the tides of light, and be judged free, I must pull out some thoughts of war that rule over me.

In a roadway, in a puddle, in a faraway sigh. In a goodness, light left standing, the still on the tide. Here you listen, here you bind me, and my madness does die. In the moment, all around me, I am given, I am human, I am owned in your sight, I am owned in your sight!

For me to walk the tides of light, and be judged free, I must pull out some thoughts of war that rule over me. – 08.22.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Shirt (An Anecdote of Recycled Redemption)

New matter, in white, thread gleaming in dim light, a story, a tale of wearing’s now not known. What sought you this day, recycled since May, a rich man’s shirt with fiber left blood stained. St Alban’s thrift shop, for those with less than not, what just released from detox has he bought. Some slacks would be nice to go home and face the wife, her disappointment balanced with her care. His head held in grief, a drunk but not a thief, he finds his shirt and shoes, his pants with pleats. There seems now a plan to dress himself a man, to take his sober life to be complete.

There’s now this white shirt, a stitch so fine, it makes it journey hard to find. A minor washed out stain, that’s hidden and misplaced, what threads are loose are going to be okay. He wonders what king on K-Street left his queen, did she in anger draw his plasma as he ran. It matters not what, he has his own sad lot, a taste of drink has made a fallen man. He thinks of his own, his wife and child at home, his chemical need has thrown their love away. What now as he walks, by statutes and wealthy lots, the rooms of power they seem so far away. It’s all that they own, their need of power, conceals a loss of home.

He stops in Bryce Park, it’s really getting dark, he changes from his soil into his thrift shop wear. He looks to see, if his change is seen, his mind a whirl of something that is there.

What passes through his arms, a genetic like charm, from power to woe in man a place is given. Inside it so seems, what really counts is gleaned, a gift of life is evenly given. A shirt from a liege, a bullet weaned, a gift of sorts a well of royal redemption.

He turns his face gleams, unbound from chains it seems, an equal man from drunkard to a king. He makes his way home, atonement now sewn, his scar in life is seamed and now forgiven.

She waits by the way, her face alight unfazed, she knows his gait, she knows he’s seen his vision.

What road do we wear, does it seem to care, if our soul is royal or what dominion. Created the same, born to know no shame, what vice or crime you bare there still is vision. Come find your way home, wear a shirt that’s sewn, stare your breathing heart into the given.

On Monday, March 30, 1981, President Ronald Reagan was shot and wounded as he exited the Washington DC Hilton Hotel after a speaking engagement. Reagan was taken to George Washington University Hospital where before examination his thousand dollar suit was cut off of him (much to his consternation) and his shirt was removed and taken against his staff’s wishes by the FBI along with all of his personal belongings for evidence. The belongings were returned two days later, the clothing items were kept for evidence in the trial against John Hinckley Jr the following year. It is rumored that the shirt that Ronald Reagan wore the day he was wounded, disappeared shortly after the trial, and has not been located since. – 07.29.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Crooked Tree (Something for Nothing)

All rights to Image Michael Bennati

Under the sun near the crooked tree, I came to find a discipline that would set me free. It seemed a cold labor on a frozen fact would be the text book reasoning for what I lacked. What about the sunshine, and who made my breath, what about the rigors of a spiritual attack? Is smiling on a social network all of who I should be, telling all my victories of G_D in me? Is pounding in illusion ecological false facts, a time bomb of delusion on a new age attack. All about the outer shell while inner lacks. All I want is something and reality intact, well something for nothing and your grace is free, a simple line of lineage on a crooked tree.

Omen of a summer when I thought I’d died, looking ever skyward my whole life a lie. There were little children who counted on me, a simple deadly father who was lost at sea. I saw a moving shadow that laughed at my dreams. I fantasized a flame filled coven by some fallen leaves. What was all so simple in all I lacked, inward fallen symptom when I could not turn back. You spawned something for nothing by a crooked tree, enchanted simple love in beauty you in me. You’re something for nothing for the things that I lack. I will not follow deadwood on a stolen tree, I’ll fly raptured like eternal, indifferent, laughing, something for nothing, living Torah all together spirit, a simple line of lineage on a crooked tree.

Years of watching strangers lie and scheme, days of knowing that your faith was free. There are winds that shake me and try to deceive, those frozen ever chosen by a covered tree. You have given something as far as I can see, you have judged the living by a crooked tree. I will follow footsteps that have helped me grow, something for nothing, in the great space, wide open, something for nothing living by a crooked tree.

Crooked tree theology is not lost on me, a wind that blows in winter till it bends belief. Shallow is the timber that is straight on sight, cut and used for purpose, covered in a shelter, of a primed dead night. Crooked is your love born on great delight. Great and full of favor in a full mooned light. Something for nothing while you bend me, something for nothing that sets me free. דָּנִיֵּאל 05.22.2014

Bathsheba the Morning After (Pull Me Under)

My wrist uplifted, sliced in light with a blade of dawn, my conscience tender, human filled with defilement from my slumber. The night, the dragons, the fears where daemons cry. My weakness before sunrise, in thoughts, a failure in darkness, the thorns that made love cry. No psalm right now, my creator before me, indigenous shame beneath dry sky. Pull me under, lest I kill me, your judgment before me, these sprites inside me, lost from grace inwardly misplaced. My mind a warrior, my soul a prophet, now ruined in shadows, unreasonable in its passion, my spear inside me. I am pulled under, spinning before your face.

Pull me under, with skin that falters within the moment, in moonlight, Azazel in passion with lips before me, a fire of wonder that marks me blind. In sighs, in minutes my spirit insipid, a man her other, my destiny, forgotten, this light of a new day, another I called out, and by a summoned, a clay filled pact, by that familiar did Uriah stumble and die. Opened now by my eastern window, noise, and divisions in diver’s places, this sorcery unending, ethereal and wicked. By my eye, I have traded compassion to another, in this coldness, I am pulled under, spinning before your face.

Bane of a tempter, that lightning that thrills me, her body in water that judgment controls. Pull me under, that morning might not find me, these covers in kisses of rapture, these whispers of soul. This light how it burns me, and makes my heart quiver, this place by my window, where your flesh has called me wait. A deception, a strange essence I have captured, an infamy now held forever, these acts now behind me, I am pulled under while I awake.


David (מַּלְכוּת)
awoke on the first day after the darkness was gone, alone a murderer and an adulterer, separated from the light, all predestined and a part of a strange and balanced plan. – דָּנִיֵּאל 04/10/2014