44 (My Lonely Mind, 1980)


Sometimes when I was a driving, wheeling through the dead of the night, taking 44 from Bernalillo, headed up to Farmington before the morning light. Home by morning light. Sometimes when I looked out the window, of my Pinto with its gas tank so light, I saw a thousand stars of the ancients, and a touch of belonging made me feel all right. Sometimes I felt so lonely, driving desert highways, the darkness so tight, spirit of the Anasazi, a young boy like me, could meet a ghost at night. Sometimes I thought I saw him, may be it was her just peering in my lights, taking a look at my condition, maybe it was them come to mend my lonely mind. My lonely, lonely mind.

Sometimes that highway was a portal, generating fluid to my heart when it was dry, it could be why I’d stop in the darkness, lay upon the blacktop, not a sound it was so nice. Sometimes, I’d look into the heavens, watching the cold stars, as they shifted to suffice, thinking that there was energy, building up above, just to levitate my eyes. Sometimes, I’d walk across the sand, at 3:00 AM, let G_D be my only ride, and I would still be all right. Sometimes, I’d hear the step of angels, thinking out here on this single highway, seraphs mend my lonely mind. My lonely, lonely mind.

Sometimes after I drove past Cuba, up into the air, where the rocks hide lion’s lair, I’d stop, and chase a herd of cattle, screaming in the night, feeling life was really mine. Sometimes, I’d hear the sound of voices, old ones talking to the wind, keeping frost away from them. Sometimes I’d wish that I could meet them, then a coyote would go by, blazing speed into the night, and I’d know, on 44, I’d know it was them.  It was a sign.   Sometimes I still think about that highway, driving it at night, just a young boy, oh so shy, and I know, that time back then, was to mend my lonely mind. My lonely, lonely mind.

Sometimes when I was a driving, wheeling through the dead of the night, taking 44 from Bernalillo, headed up to Farmington before the morning light. Home by morning light.

Highway 44 is now Highway 550, it stretches from Bernalillo, New Mexico, to Montrose, Colorado. When I was a young man I would often travel it driving from New Mexico State University in Las Cruces, New Mexico, home to Kirtland, New Mexico. I would choose to drive its 190 miles in the dead of night, it helped to mend my lonely mind. – 05.15.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Faith Healer and the Witch Heather (1896)


(A True Story)

The faith healer comes, his pockets undone, while Heather suns in her rafter!

A story not told, just bartered in souls, a tale of the lack of some water. From Laramie down, patch fence work and brown, the high land the earth is branded for slaughter. A drought brought by fools, those using men’s tools, those that plant what they rather. The sound of a cry, the wind high and dry, the hungry, from Kansas to Denver. The faith healer came to pray for some rain, his black clothes, Christ mourner forever. He looks to the sky, the plains to his side, and begs his dear Jesus for water. Oh the sin that man has brought, tending cattle, slaying flock, the soul it must wander forever. He preaches on stage, of judgment day, his eyes filled red hell, a pretender. Men fall to their knees, in crisis belief, they rend their clothes open in surrender. Please rain just fall, come over us all, we give you our souls as our tender.

A star on a lake, snow covered in rays, she sits and then hovers, she quivers. A small women true, a witch through and through, down Michigan Ditch her image comes slender. Down canyon she flies, her mouth open wide, the delta she opens her river. She’s quieter than sound, less open unbound, a magic that is no pretender. Some old lady prays, comes Heather this way, she’s bringing some bones from her quiver. Come water if she’s the offender. What if our lord did send her?

The crowd gathers round, the revival tent down, the preacher stands facing Ms. Heather. She shape shifts away, comes close to his face, says what would you give them contender. Can you make it rain, or those words you say, is money, or blood your sender. The crowd murmurs strong, the preacher stands tall, and slaps her face raw with a blister. How dare you mock me you wicked deceived, the rain will come when Christ wills it. He holds his hands high, and lets out a cry, come all that I pray, please deliver.

And then…

She stands to her feet, the skies in retreat, she summons her Lord and her master. The ground churns in heat, the western sky weaves, a rain that will fall like forever. What wills, or what ways, she gathers in place, and prances on past the dear pastor. The people rejoice, a land with a voice, a rainbow from Kansas to Denver.

The faith healer leaves, his pockets undone, and Heather flies back to her rafter! – 02.19.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Desktop (A Winter Day)

All Rights Winter by 3D

I would like to walk through that white stoned arch, dance in snow summon magic full of art, maybe just to sit on that fairy tale bench, and pretend I never have to come back.  For in this office chair, I’m caught quite unaware, but, still I think on this busy afternoon, I’d like to scale that pixie white gate, in an enchanted Arthur Pendragon swoon.  It could be I’m just a little boy.  Still needing knickers and a propeller hat.  It might of sort of happen, that I wish to be a wizard, wearing a cape and a stove top hat.  So if I look really hard into this picture, on this busy work day, that won’t give my soul unto me back.  Would you think me a foolish virgin to this life, ungrateful for all that I have?  If I were to jump into this desktop, ride the ghost line to the inner machine.  Take a ride of golden rhyme on an ice filled cathedral, fill my arms with immortality.  It could be I’d be like an angel, a daemon of the arts, a blessing you can’t see, it could be I’m in my desktop, and it could be I’m finally me.

Like Pan into the ice I’d fly deep, the snow filled green boughs spin me by, a light upon a lamp post there I see. The blizzard of all time has come in digits ones and zero sums lined, red ribbons tied by candle light, eternal sun that shines on even winter night. It could be just like this day at work, the clock stands still forever at 12:03. So much more time for play in time, to discover snow and charmed like finds, it could be I’m in my desktop, and it could be I’m finally me.

It could be in electricity you would find me, digital art, black code, and futuristic fantasy. When upon a sort of day, when the laws have all changed, and the spirits all allow us to be what we would be. For there as you felt and formed your desktop. Freed your hands from molding clay, let your virtual art be free. As you looked upon the clock, as you lit the candles true, holly holly, bush of magic, is that Daniel that I see. For there you see the stairs, sparkling, even free, summoned, by a wild eyed man, grey haired child in never land, what you see is where I’ll stand, it could be I’m in my desktop, and it could be I’m finally me. – 02.04.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Grounded Feathers


Davis Begay and I never anticipated we were changing the world on our last day of school in May of 1975. If truth be known the reality of what we did probably still lays unreal in the most forgotten way for both of us. I should leave it alone. Something tells me that when you dig up prolonged goodbyes, you discover them to be neither, and somehow you discover something else. The issue here is a missing piece of a puzzle for me. A lag of sorts, a nagging, a dark spot on my soul, like when you awake to find someone has died and you don’t know why. The thought occurs, that if curiosity killed the cat, then I better seek to become a lion, because when all is said and done here, Pandora’s Box is going to be exhumed and ripped to shreds.

That blessed Navajo boy, that part of my soul that will never leave me. My immortal brother. We planned it that day. There are those of you who will read this and know us, but you didn’t know this. You would not have dreamed our dark arts, the changing of our eyes, you would not have perceived. If you think deep, if you remember, a quaking reality will occur, a fermenting of fire, terrible hearts, knowing eyes, bearing witness of what two young boys knew inside. The last day of school. That day when the well ran dry, when life turned round in the sky and we ran, played hooky just the two of us, wandering the floor above the San Juan Valley. You frolicked in your childhood, you should have. We should have, rather we didn’t, and what we did, is now in motion, and it cannot be turned back.

Time is constant, it turns in a sphere, and as it takes and spins, it changes, and so as we found it we framed it to our twin souls. Like yesterday, like I could trace it, like a cover I would hide in memorial if I could. We ran as the day dawned, we entered the plains above the valley, laughing, eyes ablaze, we passed the edge of time.

Somewhere there above the valley. Above Kirtland, New Mexico we found the abandoned oil tanker. The lone piece of Americana languishing from an era of Eisenhower and Jack Benny. The rust and the revelation of steel elemental, grounded in sand, placed like a beacon summoning two young ghost home.

Now I can feel it, cool metal, alchemy in May, perhaps the smell of ancient oil, may be the aroma of time. We ran there, undetectable we were summoned there, before summer, and just as Gerald Ford pardoned Richard Nixon the previous September we found something deep beneath our feet that gave our childhood sins to forever.

We saw the ransom to the southwest of the tanker. It ran along the ground, although it should have flown. It had fallen through time, from the time of Enoch, untouched by giants and demons. A bird of the sea landing on the high plateau of the four corners. An omen, a gift to young prophets seeking the first vestibule of manhood, summoning the first rhyme. A temptation, to reveal the future, and seal the past from what we did not know.

Destiny dictates stories, death cannot be changed, silence stands still underneath the noon day light, and the trick of light made the fallen fowl appear human. A stone perhaps, a brilliant killing, without hesitation or planning. A fallen silence, dead, its eyes immortal and chiding. The blood that trickled like the Nile running to the North created a story that filled both of our eyes with shame. I decorated his face with crimson lines, he painted mine, and in unison we bowed in trepidation and tenderly kissed the kill. The feathers we grounded for the future, and to this day I believe they cry out summoning the spirit of Able to do away with time.

We sat in silence, watching the future, tasting our guilt and yet knowing we shared something deeper than our classmates’ only minutes away. We made prophecy and rhyme and cursed the day when our souls would no longer touch. We watched the afternoon turn empty, and laughed at a strange coldness that we began to understand. We were Sages in the beginning of an apocalyptic age that in our innocence we had brought energy and karma to. We settled a day on grounded feathers, and in this world nothing from that day will ever change. – דָּנִיֵּאל 03/01/2014

Davis and I met up for the first time in thirty-one years in August of 2007. Time had changed us only outwardly. We stayed away from the discussion of the sacrificial sea bird, and what we saw on that last day of May in 1975, until it was time to say goodbye. Only then as we hugged each other as brothers do, and the tears fell did we both admit to seeing the mist erupt from the ground over the grounded feathers, and make its way skyward.

The Rite

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Tonight while the weather’s cold, forget your own body, beholden your soul.  In thrilling moments while change draws near, smile with your last breath, cancel your fears.  Author your foothold on a sheltered claim, challenge, your spirit, determine your pain.

Know in the morning you’re a better man, for owning your birthright and blessing the plan.  Terrible thunder, an omen, a sign, comes now the lightning before we dine.  Treasure the stories from far and near, how the Hebrews held Masada and died in their tears.  How legends tell purpose emboldened by flame the shadows tell stories the lessons the same.

The chalice of forgiveness it comes not in blood, but strength of your wisdom, wealth of your love.  A warrior be willing, a sovereignty you will give, to build your own kingdom, and watch people live.  Your blade is still forging in mystical time, a tool of G_D’s temple, your melody to find.

I bow in your shadow of wisdom you seek, I raise you a builder, the star of the key.  What I was watching, a child at strange play, a builder of esoteric temples, a sorcerer has come to craft the way.  The fortunes of people you hewn from your stone, a temple to YHWH, a gathering home.

We sleep in the forest and wait the dawn, the seal of the starlight, I awake and you are gone.  I dreamed we were together, I warred with strong words, like David before me I sinned against earth.  Your delicate nature I found in the grove, a gathering of angels, in spirits and stones.  You prayed for sweet wisdom, your face how it shown, your destiny living in one alone.

The face of your childhood while vanished stills lives.  Incomparable knowledge born from this man, a branch of forever, scratched in your hand.  In shadows of pine trees we sang where we lay, the rite of your magic is born in this way. – דָּנִיֵּאל 02/24/2014

Resurrection

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The wind was absent, that burnt frozen January day.  Destiny forgotten like dusk when it happens forever in a lifetime the sun sets this way.  Life in a balance with weight to its own, left wanting as darkness displays.  No Savior, empty burdens, while I whisper inward anger turns to helpless stone.  Grace you fly, star born against a waxen sky, and in your smile there is day ending, thunder calling.  For the want of forgiveness you fall, and you are empty for such a long while.

Dusk this way for two thousand years.  Turning calendars spinning like wiccans at play.  You take all seasons, time familiar and register it as your own.  Tension, displacement, strange blood rimmed crowns upon your messiah.  Your king is lost while on his way.  Irrational faith twisted logic while irreverent children play.  Like Mattathias torn from the high place, you seek the dusk of all time, and praise the assembly you deride.  Familiars cry from places of deep, leviathans wait in frozen caverns, all watch while you pray, and they grow weary.

In interest of lines one bound to another, seals and points in planning direction.  Motion and stars, cycles turned to seasons, while syllables relay.  Word, simple thought,  likely felt, auditory to the cortex, ratcheting off the cerebral pumping vibration to the larynx, unspeakable, intangible turned spinning worlds and thought, idea upon fusion, wild angels free, the seal made the pact unbroken.  Direction shifting, summoned like the cedar of Lebanon, his left hand of judgment will leave its place.

In age that ties us, the day has not set, for we have watched while pirates preyed.  Sorrow, has seduced us, stolen most in our wanderings the destiny of resurrection.  That frost, that gate most frozen has opened on a clay filled sea, and creation that makes us intuitively immortal has seized us free.  Eden resurrected, tame Seer by a G-d that releases his wanderer who holds a key.  Resurrection by grief!

Dance inside me while geysers spray from their shelters in the ground.  Jerusalem has bewitched the sunlight outside this broken hearts gate.  Resurrected while my father smiles and what you have not is forgotten in the caverns of some forgotten dead.  Light filled tent by this forgiven sea, what was frozen at dusk has risen fire and ice in me.  The wind was absent, that burnt frozen January day.

Torah allegorical Psalm has always been my calling.  I realize the more that I lose myself in metaphorical magic, that I will never build the temple of YHWH, that is my son’s destiny, but I will summon the spells that will weave his seal, and becoming the man after my Lord’s heart in my chants and prose is what resurrects me! – DS 01/03/2014

Burnt Corn

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Harsh red clay, it moves a little when touched.  The contact to earth renders a heat, somewhat like a mercury field poisoning the finger.  The ground wasp burrowed in the mixture of sand and soil look to sting, no mercy given.  The brown tipped pine needles are shadowed for just a moment by a moving flat bed truck and then the low slung haze descends into the afternoon of Burnt Corn, Alabama.

Conecuh County 5 overlays the Federal road that snakes one end to the other Southwest to Northeast.  Two lane shoulder less broken blacktop burying the past of tree root whiskey and Creek troubled ghost.  Tokens of history undeterred by other worlds of progress rising in the still heat to speak of the end of days as they have seen.  Blood feuds between strangers and The Mvskoke settled by generals who go forth in record to rule a land.

Crossroads that speak spirit to more than memoirs.  Here by in this graveside some witch did speak, some Sabbat was given!  Utterances that spun the moon, and broke the ground, and gave silence no option in this new world.  Legacy and pain, and color upon shade, here in this kiln of the Alabama territory did Burnt Corn rise upon a colonial fire.  Here did these Red Sticks die and let their breath mate with one daemon after another.

Late July while fortune watches, water moves no more in crimson history from near Brantley’s Store.  Heavy hot air reaches ripe tentacles across the ground and stagnates against the cinder blocks that support the tin roofed building.  The promising sign of a past marketing age gives oath that the glass bottle that holds the soft drink inside will refresh the will of the empty traveler.  Time moves here for no spirit that bears flesh.

The ash taste, of the maize, the residue lingering on the pallet for hours, it is similar to the metallic taste of bad mash left unattended in the rusty can inside the grist mill.  Both acrid filled metaphors for the homesteaders burning the Red Sticks and their fields of corn.  Whispers cradled by strangers, pictures that no museum would seek to retrieve, are here now in the late July heat.

Rumor retreats until it lives.  It is in the story that legend is born.  If possible for words to be unyielding and reveal uncommon life it will be natural here.  Something has come to fruition in the Longleaf Pine and Black Walnut trees that surround the Old Bethany Baptist Church.  Cain has returned to hunt Abel, and it is here while intellect moves, that words will genesis reality. – DS 11/30/13

Burnt Corn, Alabama is a rural farming community in Southwest Alabama.  It is filled with colorful history, and is very worthy of being the setting for an Americana Gothic novel.  It is my intention and destiny to write it.  The characters and their history are still a work in progress, be assured their basis and magic will be sourced from accrued reality. – DS 11/30/2013

Drive (A Psalm of Daniel)

Thunderhead-Brinn-6

That Friday in November when the leaves were no longer upon us I took the drive.  Alone with the muddy clouds moving in swiftly replacing the cobalt Colorado sky I motored northwestward.  287 en route for the Wyoming line, with more than a little Whiskey in me.  A rage had been pouring above me for too many hours leading to a slow tumor of anger in my character for many days.  My shadow was no longer present, giving proof of my malice of spirit.  It was time to drive.

The moving dark current was pushing me, elevating me home.  Instinct led me to watch the disappearing sun reflect off of Haystack rock and then it was time to feel the glass bottle round against my cold lips.  Thirteen miles to my turn at the Forks.  Miles that would have me chastise each new home owner that built their tower of Babel on high dry land.  Seeking Grace, with the burn of hell’s own stream swimming in my throat I turned the leather padded helm and set my inflamed eyes on Red Feather Lakes.

My heart leads me over the volcanos and around the scorpion landscape.  Home, past Monkey Head and McNeigh Hill, to history, thin air witches, and my soul.  No snow needed this year for ghost fill this painting, past the trails I used to run, to sweet Lady Moon Ranch.   Jacob’s ladder dreams to the certainty of tires on pavement up Mount Margaret, Lost Lake to my back never to be found.  The duck pond genuflecting in twilight reaching for death before evening light.  Clouds mapping early stars above this mountain village marking the boundary of my daddy’s grave.  The Mummy’s higher still beyond, may be a drive for another day.

This warden let’s me fly, and I possess what was won before.  There by Cherokee Park, in darkness by the rock wall, while ice fell.  I became what someone once became before.  In silence near the aspens my son learned to walk, in tapestries’ of pine and an audience of rocks my daughter reached the stars with her song.  I was born here in the rocks above timber, immortal in love and judged, a small feat in the eyes of G-d.  I was cut here by demons and by compassion I was set free.  I drive on and when I twist I see my father’s blue fluid eyes glancing in delight at me.

That Friday in November, with strange darkness, and no real sound, I drove up and I was bound.  Where anger was present memory took from me and dealt with me in pleasure.  Bitter winter that detained me is broken and my return down that highway is token assurance that what I brought to the high country is lifeless for now my vision shifts and moves and I think without a sound.  That Friday in November when the leaves were no longer upon us I took the drive.

The Craft

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Magic mesmerizes me.  Spells, enchantments the waving of the foreboding cloaked arms summing what not and where for from the bowels of the earth is of incredible interest to me.  Likewise my amazement and curiosity has reached cat killing levels in studying the miracles in the Tanakh that were performed by the prophets.  Sea’s parting, that little magic rivalry down Egypt way between Moses and Pharaoh’s magicians, and the sun holding still in the sky more hours than it should because Israel needed more daylight to slay its enemies.  Then there was Merlin and Morgana Le Fay, the M & M of white and black magic, the swirling of wands and liturgical like spells in that ancient Celtic tongue, who could not be interested in that?  The Druids, the circles, the whirlwinds, the visions the healings and yes the dragons.

So what happened?  Where is this magic now?  Looking around seems like this place (earth) could use a little spell or two.  Sure there’s plenty of talk, prayers, crystals, yelling screaming charlatans and faith healers, all claiming to be able to have the inside track to wonders and miracles.  I don’t see it making the nightly news.  What happened?  Did the laws of magic change?  Is PBS right?  Does “Ajji Majji la Tarajji” and Abracadabrabelong in myths and fairy tales 101?  Oh say it isn’t so.  Right now PBS we could really use some magic.  Wars, well somebody needs to win them, peace somebody needs to establish it.  Poor, dang it, somebody charm up a little something to deal with the poor.  So what happened?

I was watching a Hammer Dracula flick the other night.  “Drink the Blood of Dracula” if I remember right.  The buxom fair-haired victim has just entered the gothic garden, and looks up to behold the Prince of Darkness himself, also known as Christopher Lee.  Caped and regal Dracula cast his vision upon her and slowly growls one word, “Alice”.  Sweet Alice just about has a conniption fit.  She just throws herself into the Dark Princes embrace.  Later in the same film it happens again, this time to a well endowed red-head.  “Lucy” Dracula hisses, “Sweet Lucy”.  Once again a lot of swooning takes place until the terror makes Lucy, a Lucy no more.  It kind of left me rattled!  Wow all it takes in that darkest of dark magic is one word.  A command, a summons and last but not least a recognition.  It got me to wondering about other commands in dark magic, one word commands.  There was “kill” “damned” “destroy” “forsake” “sinner” ”Jude” ”bitch” “guilty” “bastard” “faggot” “retard”, you get the idea I could go on and on for a while.  It’s like the whole Kings English just slows down to one or two syllables, and were done here, nothing left but wrecked bloody bones littering the whole decrepit landscape we call home.

Now if the Yin equals the Yang and all of creation is equal outside that fourth day when something went a little erratic with the lights, shouldn’t there be something to say about equality of magic.  There are seven days of creation with one minor blip on the fourth day.  Words breathed into the universe of shattering luminosity, beyond comprehension of the mortality we now shroud around us.  Light from one end to the other, sounds of a never-ending origin giving life-giving magic.  Yet, we have a minor flaw on the fourth day, a simple error that creates equality between good and bad, and yet we do not receive that equality.  Somehow Dracula is able to enjoy the blood of a buxom red-head by breathing out “Lucy”, while we cower behind an ancient symbol until she is indeed undead!

Kabbalah teaches that one of the most important names of G-D is Ein Sof meaning “void” “endless” or “infinite”.  Such simplicity that when breathed and lived for day after day brings about a command, a summons and last but not least recognition.  It’s the basis for recognizing other simplicity and magic in our universe.  Becoming familiar with the sounds and words of creation releases self within you to make you shine with more radiance than Merlin on his best day.  Taking the simple words, and sounds filled with one syllable may be two, usually no more than three and applying them as a command, a summons and last but not least a recognition to yourself and then to others is partaking of the same communion of magic that Joseph, Moses, Elisha, Jack O’Kent, Taliesin Europe and Erichtho did.  It is receiving the secret that Merlin wants you to know.

When you come to dwell in the light of white magic, and respect its ability, you will come to realize that the differences in magic, that between black and white is a difference between self and your G_D.  It is equal, because of creation, but your ability to obtain equal footing and equilibrium in this age is at hand.  It is not justice to send you on your journey without sharing some of the syllables and sounds of white magic.  Within the void of eternity take your magic.  Learn your strength from speaking, “love” “still” “peace” “rest” “faith” “honor” “truth” “awe” “ah” “light” “value” “splendid” “majesty” “O” “excellent” “certain” “amazing” “fly” “highest” “blessed” “effortless” “beautiful” “spirit” “free” “shine”……the ancient list goes on and on, you will acquire as you develop.

My belief is someday soon you will find yourself a master of the light craft.  You will command, you will summon and you will recognize.  You are called to be equal it is an ancient calling embedded in “The Craft” where your mind now takes you.  Shalom – DS 11/19/2013