While Playing Hooky


“How can I possibly be expected to handle school on a day like this?” – Ferris Bueller

“We’re off to the witch, we may never never, never come home,
but the magic that we’ll feel is worth a lifetime” – Ronnie James Dio

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left in this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

Two heads we see, headed west, down a sunbaked path; one with brown hair, the other a black mess. The sun falls fast on this single day of spring, shooting down through the heavens, bringing something on its wings. It would appear the burdens carried from a year of math and art. Now are loose without a feeling. For these boys walk without an arc. Why there shoes made by converse, leave hardly a trace. As they carry sacks of lunch and knowledge to the place of secret things. “School is not made for the living”, one boy cries unto the air, and they both laugh without smiling for the truth is there somewhere. For a moment, let us watch them still frozen in time. In their purity shimmering, moving onward in this rhyme.

Let us look at the picture that is painted from above. A numbered highway in the background, beyond it scrubland wild with yucca, dryland arroyos, lie open, writhing with their scars. Down the path that leads us westward lies a rusted oil tanker and two old cars. It is a graveyard of a shadow of another place tomorrow. For it is tomorrow where they go, a bit of yesterday, and as the clouds flow from the east, they turn their backs, and begin to walk to stray. Indeed, we see them avoid a snake his triangle head of spotted gray. “No matter it all”, one boy he brays, the other sings out, “we missed our school today”. A matter of steps a slight incline, the scrubland rolls out, and dips and divides. At last we watch the two boys much slower, reach the rusted oil tanker, the place they know they will soon grow much older.

For here, it is we cannot grow nearer, the picture shimmers, dances, and glimmers. A place were two boys search for cracks in what is sutured. Finding doors that open, on order, past and future. Ruins discovered in place. Veils ripped from openings, alien voices calling out from deep to deep. It is the discovery of the last of days. It is here they come to play. If we could venture a thought of what they find, inside compartments of an old oil tanker way past its prime. Could they go where one has not been, could they find the way past when? Is there blackness beyond the divide, or have they found the path to the divine.

“That picture looks like us”, one boy says, a film of cool perspiration resting upon his brow. The thick darkness inside the front compartment of the tanker surrounds the thin beam of the flashlight. It gives the feeling of a tomb. “It could be us”, the other boy says softly.” His voice carries a soft echo through the oval opening into the next compartment. It is there; we look and see a sudden wind created. We watch as it lifts itself backwards through another opening, and then upwards through the open hatch, as if with a sudden relief.

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

For my eighth grade English teacher Mrs. Howey, who charged me to read the classics fearlessly, and to write as if I were mad. I will forever carry the guilt of disappointing her by playing hooky on the final day of school in the spring of 1974. In her aggrieved state, I have always hoped to share with Mrs. Howey that I was indeed engaged in research for how to do both of the charges thus listed above. – 03.22.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

 

Daniel and the Old Man


“I’ve still got a twinkle in me”. – Robert Plant

The spitting old man, just spit some more, sitting near the highway, someone you cannot ignore. His clothes they looked spun from an old weave, the kind done by hand, by a spell, you cannot see. And, everything about him was hard to judge, was he from the past or the future up above. The wrinkles in his face drew a roadway in my brain. A whispered little prayer about something strange. Oh boy, brother, here on thirty-four, on my way to Estes, I have seen you before. For some strange reason Robert Plant’s voice just darkened my door. I hear “Bob” say, “I’ve still got a twinkle” in me today, yes sir that is what I say, right now, my reflection is causing my energy to drain.

The spitting old man, just spit some more, he talks just a little than he talks a little more. The Colorado Cherry Company just lent me their porch, there is a change in his face as a shadow darkens the near door. “You look surprised to see me here”; he says looking up as the shadow draws near. The bones of my future or may be my past look to teach me something, as the shadow disappears it was not meant to last. “I am sent by something”, says the spitting old man, “that walks in beauty, and it sends you a test”. “It asks for self-evaluation, says the mean won’t do, the law of common averages are not for you”. “The “Ancient of Days“, wants to let you judge, if your life is beneficial, before the daemon comes and say’s, you don’t know much”.

The spitting old man, just spit some more, he suddenly stands up his eyes flashing neon, like the sign in the store. He says, “I’ve seen you before”! I know it then, suddenly, as the Big Thompson Canyon starts to roar.  I have looked into myself, and seen an elaborate sin. Seen my life growing colder, a lack of excitement within. No longer delving into the mystery of the child in me, to snatch appreciation and turn it to belief. I have strayed a little longer through the web of din, wrapped my arms into the clasp of where pain comes in. Stared a little bit too long into mediocrity, wrote the poem of a blind man that claimed oh woe is me.

The spitting old man, just spit once more, then he began to back away, until he shimmered in the door. He said, “Don’t get me wrong I’m leaving you alone, but I hope you set me free, let me be, one and done”. “For first he built the temple built it right inside of you, and now he builds the walls up higher to protect what’s true. “For I don’t really care, if I ever see you again, for if I ever do I’ll be trapped till the end”.

I looked up all around me standing outside that canyon store, at the mighty rock formations where an eagle goes to soar. And behind me flowed a river carving structure through the land, and I thought myself most fortunate to have seen the spitting old, old man! – 11.19.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Silo

Within our grasp it’s not to ask questions, make judgments or wonder why. It’s not for us to strike the earth, and curse at stone blue skies, and though, the heavens move from us, and leave us standing by. There’s nothing still, but stillness still that ask we store inside. It is that deep calls to us, from somewhere hidden nigh, and ask us to equate it’s worth with passions of the sky. To use us as a conduit, a traveling death filled storm, to birth with in our womb of cold dark steel, and open, why yes, we open to who knows why. And if Rachel is crying, a balm of deadly sighs, in the valley of strange tears asking us to fly, then we will feel our furnace burn, a billion they will die.

A whisper came within my walls, a quaking that was so dry, I had not heard such secret words since 1959. The syllables they were broken into codes and counter signs, a song by Bob Dylan it reached my cellar deep, “Cold dark cloud is coming down”, the angels seemed to weep. Oh, little town that stands so near, here by U.S. 85, you will never hear them, the silence, when missiles fly. The tremors of some shaking, the split across the sky, the cobwebs beneath this roof shaking, a changing, and a time.

“Getting too dark, too dark too see”! Apocalyptic vision, a daring rhyme, a blasphemy. A twit says Jesus is a selfie of the “Ancient Light”. I don’t know about that, if anything ends all time it will be that lack of sight. The fields of corn close on all sides, the silo seems so red against a dark cobalt sky. And I look over to the side of the road see a beggar of our culture holding a sign, that says we are on overload. So, it is, and so it was, the silo is a guardian of a trust. This covenant is different from a time before, says rise from your valleys before no one cares no more.

Within our grasp it’s not to ask questions, make judgments or wonder why. – 09.04.2017 – דָּנִאֵל

Babel


“Cause Jesus don’t save the guys
in the tower of Babel” (Elton John/Bernie Taupin)

Monday, May 3, 1971 (A Child’s Dream)

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well!

Inside me is a story, how the tower of babel fell, a dream I had from childhood, while the flowers of May they swelled. And all around me sandstorms sailed, while above me snowdrops played. Babylon, a voice is spoken, a child in nightscapes looking towards a different day. All around me stars did glimmer, cotton on wet skin, so detailed. A grove of trees by the river, where the “San Juan” wove her spell. And everywhere on each river bluff, the sandstone reached the sky, while by high places, ghost grew dimmer, the spirit screamed and cried. It was then that I stood taller in a dream I’m able too, and my small arms reached for heaven, through a maze how they grew. And an angel came beside me, oh it’s metal skin so light, and said illusion fails, said he there is no issue with building to reach what’s right. For the spirit is a spindle that always wants to climb, information of the heavens, what is, can give you sight.

In babel, I grew so silent in the dream that fell the night, watching wings of living airplanes.  “Their breathing phantoms learning to fly”, said the daemon, who is of balance.  He appears to my left, calm and cold in his pure fury, eyes of gray, a lust filled nest. Can you give your heart to Jesus the one they crucified? For that faith is not of babel, though it too seeks raptures high. Can you abandon an old story with what is across your mind, seek a place at G_D’s table, feeling forgiven in a sinner’s lie? Still a blue spot holding in me, where voices come and play. Words meaning things, in canyons surrounding. Where the soul, is never delayed. Not a token to be prayed for, covered by further blight, a rare instance, I see the throne room sapphire blazing throughout the night. Oh, this dream it covers the night.

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well! – 05-03-2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Angel Peak (Long Time 1977)

She whispers, not breathing, at least not so that I can see, she bathes there in the cover of red rocks just like when she was fifteen. She’s at the two o’clock marker in the shadow of the Angel peak, I’m sixteen or fifty-five now, not no more than yesterday’s dream. The sandstone, looks past petrified mummies, the badlands of the San Juan basin to the back of a wet brown hued lady. “It was “such a long time”, she sings, the pool of clay seems clear at her feet, just sparkling minerals, dropping diamonds of sun beneath her wings.

The world has stopped, moving, and the sun would still it’s shine. The triune strata of the Kirtland Shale, The San Jose Formation, and Nacimiento Formation, bending to catch the sound of her voice singing Boston to me.

“Funny there would be music here”, I think I say, and then I wish there was stars, for maybe under the seven stars, this would all be a different dream, not real, not her making me dare, to be what maybe I can’t perceive.

Her fingers like the canyon, they bend and keep moving, bringing, the raw colors of the world to me. “You’re coming back to find me”, her voice, teasing, the sage carpet of the ancient ocean bending to see what I see.

She whispers, not breathing, at least not so that I can see, “it’s just outside of your front door”, and the angels come down from the peak, and they play with her. And just like the mystery of the song in the Kutz Canyon, she continues to sing to me. “I’ve got to keep on chasing that dream, though I may never find it, I’m always just behind it”. And the angel’s just fifteen, but she’s older than the peak, for it seems the vaults of canyons seem to echo, what she repeats, for a long time, all my life for a long time.

She whispers, not breathing, at least not so that I can see…10.7.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל 

  • All rights to lyrics “Long Time” – Tom Schotz (Boston)

Red Barn (Cold Cold Heart)

Cold, cold heart!

On 14 just toward the bend in the road, toward the prairie grassland, where wild banshee’s roam.  On 14 there where there is an old farm, guards the opening of Sheol, stands the old red barn.  So I stand here alone, and I feel the hot wind, of a thousand voices, of a thousand sins.  I think some are within, and they sing all the same, if they be in or out, they say don’t you please want to stay.

And I wonder to myself, as my spine turns into chills, would the moon upon this night turn my fate into a kill?  Would my soul go deep inside, where it might be never found, would my actions be a coward, could my future be never still.

Cold, cold heart!

I suppose the red barn once upon a time held hay, or just a horse or two, before the devil came to play, and made the barn pay its due.  It could be just inside near the hooks, where the sheep would lay, there was an unease about the future of darkened days.  And standing in this sun, and standing still I do, I can’t but help but think, what it is about this red barn that made a mad man do what insane men do.

For Sharpe he was a wise man, who started on that day, with his face as red, as a dying star, to do his wife and friend away.  And he ran his Ford from Ault, with two hooks in the back, and he drove on down 14, to take his missus back.  For Sharpe he was desirous to have what was lacked, to bring the spirit of divorce to bring it to a fact.

Cold, cold heart!

In his eyes he saw a red barn, as magenta as his face, and inside of that old red wood, lay his wife upon her back.  And Sharpe he pictured murder, oh he pictured his friend’s back, moving up and down upon his dear wife, in their passion they did not lack.

So I stood upon the highway with the sun burning red, and it showed the paint was peeling from the red barn where Sharpe attacked.  And it seemed I heard the screams now, as the hooks came raining fire, or it could be banshees laughing, as they brought the dead on back.  And I thought about my thinking, of waiting on the moon, to see what would happen, or think what if it could.  And I moved myself transfixed then, not determined in anyway, and thought maybe it better to wait another day.  So I drove on to the highway and I headed my way home, and I passed an oncoming Ford pickup truck, with a man looking onward.  His face was red, and his eyes were rolled on back.

Cold, cold heart!

Eddie Sharpe murdered his wife Edith and best friend Drew, in a red barn that sits off of Highway 14 near the Pawnee National Grasslands on Monday, August 8, 1960.  The barn is said to be haunted, and it certainly appears that way to me. – 08.08.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Waiting

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O day star, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, that didst cast lots over the nations! Isaiah 14:12

Winter it comes when it’s warm, takes my thought with a faire storm, and then it’s a dusty, dry deep ravine, that causes my staring grief. Closing in now near midnight, in a wash near mountain heights, so far the dawn can’t seem too strong, and I can’t leave. It seems to me all these years my desperate heart can’t steer me from the thought, spirits debunked, a tattered creed. For just this once in my life, can’t I be whole, just so nice, will you not recognize, my name, why do you still push me, to tumble into disbelief. Yonder the plains of barren land, straight on to Kansas, where corn stands, it’s all a cycle, winter, spring, summer and fall relief. Yet I don’t think it happens now, standing here believing, but yet some doubt, would it be something if you would give me eternity.

Still in the darkest, purest night, with my loins ready of hardest might, yet in the light waiting, nocturnal jest, making, I’m still not free. Better it be so cold, so cold, bastardly fires baking my immortal soul, still you will not look at me. Waiting it could be for someone, cast down, from the highest, where sun abounds, justified, no man, angels or heavens do not know me. So you come to me, and pass on by, here upon crags, that cut my thighs, though there is no blood, yet my heart is pumping inside of me. Then if not my time to come on up, where thought travels in speed insane, would you rather keep me here below. Down to those railroad tracks so thin, you keep me waiting, terribly angry just in need.

So it would seem before the morn, as the swallow fly’s by. Nature curses that, foreseen, forlorn, cast from the mountain, I am still waiting to be like what you asked I see. All around me summer time, still it feels like judgement sublime, my eyes like coals, blindly they rove, but something I see. Could be a deficient in your light I perceive.

Yes, it is true, for all these years cast out of sky’s, fettered by tears, still as I wait something in states, and wizens me. Could it be as I fell, lack of humor, or some say hell, could be I’m the left of your right, and judgment of all you see. If it’s a truth of all you need, I am here waiting cast low indeed, and all the world, all of the world is waiting, just like me. – 07.22.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Dante’s Ruse (Baby Blue)

At seven you approached me familiar of the light, baby blue, falling incandescent light, the alfalfa in that field by Nenahnezad, so purple, it became blue, my flame of spirit, possessed by wild winds beautiful, that took my soul. Light as a child, I become interweaved with you, forever in your breath I’m cured by inner sight. Grandma Blackhorse she told me, near Shiprock she told me, while other children played in her sight…. “Look at what you see, say what you trust, nothing about you is new, and yesterday, you came to light, do you remember, baby white boy, born your mind so blue”. “Everything from here on out is not you, it’s what controls you, yes, yes it becomes what you do”.

At sixteen I reached a place I thought I should not go, light near Durango, driving deep into the night, and I forgot where I was going, near midnight I couldn’t remember my very name. Outside of Hesperus, things become overwhelming, in your baby blue, and then ghost came into my sight. Then light came, like a cure, something like skin, that nothing, and nobody should touch, my baby blue. And what I can remember, is something is worth having, something that I’ll never touch, esoterically illusional true. Better than reality, sometimes fiction you can’t touch, can make you cry. Better than reality on that Colorado highway, neurological daemon, from my little boy clues. From my little boy clues.

Dante he comes, sometimes he knows, that every word, from his flimsy touch, is a rhetorical verb, that is light. “It’s light,” he says, he grins against the blue ray, that sprinkles gloom and glitter against the dark Fort Collins sky. He says, “Are you ready, to write, baby blue, I possess you, can we get high”? I think it’s a ruse, but I remember, when I was new. Before I was seven, without you, baby blue. And so I deliver, and these lines, these words that are you, bring me something I’ll never touch. No I’ll never touch.

At seven you approached me! – 07.15.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Another one for my damn muse!

Black Tree (La Plata Song)

When you bade me hello, standing near the road, it could have been farewell, you probably were the truth. For on that day in July, Saturday, of thirteen, nineteen seventy-four, you came on past me. Said you from my eyes, bathed me till I cried, I no longer knew, what was me, and what was you. Black tree you covered me, fared me so well. Silver lining blue, La Plata what a spell. You spake to me in lies, you wounded me in truths, you prophesied my life, a little boy I’m you. Highway in my dreams, a neurological new, always standing there, black tree who knows who. What came before, a child, a spawn before a man, is that child inside me, afraid of who I am. Cover me like that, black tree turned in earth, fight the light of heaven, opened here on earth. Above you only color, a silver lining roof, down here near earth tones, it’s what I’m fortuned to. It’s what I’m fortuned to.

Now I am a man, with silver on my scalp, but still in dreams like tunnels, my inner vision south, I drive along the La Plata, the state line so near, that black tree is waiting, swallowing up my fears. It says to me your different, not full of sap of sky, but introverted passion, the answer to not why. And in your inner vision, along this highway true, you’re not a transgressed beggar, you’re not what’s new. For there are many forest, along the plains of earth, but only one black tree, near the state line, around a curve. And just like it was summer in nineteen seventy-four, when you were still a virgin, craving an open door. Reach inside my mystery, let covers float on high, let all my black leaves cover, all your broken mind. For there are book of shadows, and shattered broken rhymes, that could not best the riddle, like I can in your mind. Like I can in your mind.

Along the La Plata, a curve that leads towards birth, a younger me waiting, a black tree in the earth. A sign of the coven, a sign forever new, a curtain of the calling. The me forever new. I will not forget you, I bet your standing real, forty-two years, a yesteryear but still. But still…So still. Black tree. – 07.13.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Virginia Dale (Soaked)

She stood at forty-nine, just a sprite on the ninth of May. Well she stood like a banshee a bride denied, before the moths flew about colder still near the Wyoming blue, on the Colorado side. Just a ghost watching cars go by. My Missus looks over, says” it seems a little colder”, meanwhile Bruno Mar’s sings about his oh so selfish ways. I look and see the church at the Dale, the witch she pleads stay with me. I’d like to tell you as you read, I’d like to paint a picture of what I see. For the ancients from the highlands on the other side, those silent that only speak after they have died. Say they come and know the spirit as their soaked, as their soaked.

We drove on for a minute or two, I turn to her, “did you see her too”? She looks away and cry’s, the tears are so hard to find, for there at Virginia Dale, lightning falls, and tears the vale, of rocks and wind and trees. The spirits ascend and so do we. And driving on to the Forks, 287, turns from the North, and all of a sudden we look and we see the far end of heaven the host of banshee’s, crying out, you will never leave, and I know. I’m soaked to the bone, I’m left in a flood, of the ghost I see. For there in Virginia Dale, in the bow of the highlands, where heaven does dwell. For some say heaven’s gate, most would say have you had more enough then you can take. I look to the Missus and say, can we forsake. Life and all its monetary dreams. Can we stay here where Cantor’s can’t sing, and no religion dwells. Especially that church we saw in the Dale. And hallows will ring, and through the thin air we will fly and be soaked.

She stood at forty-nine, a siren, rhyming, where mountains do climb, and just by Virginia Dale, she soaked my soul, and she left my mind to dwell. I look to the Missus and see, she’s lost in a dream, and what hurts, is I can’t tell her I see, it all too well. Were lost and Soaked in the dark rim of rock that surrounds Virginia Dale. Eternity left with stories to tell, eternity left with stories to tell. (Soaked).

MF …lost his wife in a car accident outside the Virginia Dale, Colorado Church on Highway 287, Friday, May 9, 2014. It was raining. He died from complications from the physical injuries he sustained from the automobile accident one week later. He claimed he saw and heard his missus, as he passed before his Rabbi’s eyes, and his final word was soaked. – 07.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל