Drive


“It’s like driving a car at night: you never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” – E.L. Doctorow

“Beautiful calm driving, deep-sea pearl diving”. – Sia

I suppose these are the questions and the gifts of what was youth. Bear with me a little longer, while I drive on toward the truth.

I drive around a hillside that I drove so long ago, looking to the starboard future to the left of stardust glow. It seemed just for a second I was born upon a bed, a mortal existential of what some G_D had said. In the twinkling of a lifetime, I was old and old again. It is time to drive myself homeward once again. I suppose I should speak silently, just a nod or two in sleep, or continue to just sit here on this hill, that is not so steep. Still, may I ask a question or a second if I could? For I do not wish to go on driving misunderstood.

Was it I that floated past you in the summer time, with the moon smiling wickedly at a three percent of shine? Did I seduce you, did I know you, and was I a little boy at all? Would you answer softly speaking while I drive on through to fall?

Did I not sit upon a hill of stars, falling from the spirit-filled sky, and did I not kiss them each one silently, like the apple of my eyes? And did I not change from one heart to another, of that from clay to air, and under your simple direction did I not become a man in that same air?

Did you not transmit breathe to me while you held the planets in your hand? The sound of moonlight falling over a mighty world of sand. And forever did you not caution me, without provocation to stand, boy you had better drive so carefully, so carefully when you can?

I drive around a hillside that I drove so long ago, maybe it is in the Ozarks or the desert of New Mexico, or maybe that same hillside has grown a length or two. Maybe it is now in Colorado where the mountains give a further view. For it is in the sum of all my questions, and the space I place them on, I begin to wonder oh moon of sliver lighting if you are the origin or the sum? I suppose these are the questions and the gifts of what was youth. Bear with me a little longer, while I drive on toward the truth. – 07.02.19 – דָנִיֵּאל

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

Merle


Very nice black bird in the tree today, said my father’s mother, as she said her grace. His eyes are blue with magic, they burn with foreign fire, they circle me with six points, interpret my desire. That Turdus merula, is darker than the night delayed, detached yet from the living he sees with other sight. Said my father’s mother if I breath by right, a son I will be given, I’ll birth him in the night. That hew upon the high ground that looks just like a star, will call upon the dark bird to name this baby knight. His sign shall be a jackdaw, on spirit he shall grow, divisible by wonder, his marvel cherished bright, a colorless of ageless, and a temperate on the right, a blackbird of the sages, determined by his sight. Ten and twenty Grackles have summoned while he plays, they fly in awe majestic, he turns they float away.

The Crow he called out early, the day the world stood still, the day my father’s mother said name him as you will. Whatever is his worry the Rook will be his guide, he’ll fly him into battle, and he’ll watch him when he dies. In the highland thistles, a blackbird looks your way, his eyes are blue with magic, and he will not look away. Chasten now your story, believe your wisdom done, In Merle you have your glory, a blackbird is your son.

In Merle you have a name ship that’s shadowed by the sun. A Rook that flew between names, from father down to son. There cries within a namesake a search for why or when, to challenge all your answers to settle all your sins. If I dream of Ravens that lead me to my home, have I found a haven will I no more roam. However seems my journey, this name that I’m assigned, like he who went before me, I will not know but why. Ten and twenty Grackles have summoned while I write, they fly in awe majestic, I turn they float away.

 

 

 

My Father’s middle name was Merle, as is mine. It means Blackbird. – 06.27.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Pale Blue (Benediction)


My dad died again Sunday morning, around 12:32 in the morning or so. I don’t keep up with the exact time, but suffice it to say, this time like all the rest provided its own special memory. The man had blue eyes, pale blue eyes that separated emotional waters and brought a stillness in place of anger and disbelief. Pale blue eyes that revealed no hero, just a sanctuary for his son when he was weak. So again he sealed his eyes, without breathing or fury, no longer man, just a spirit, no power, no words, the breach to pass, no longer a great divide.

That was what was different this time when dad closed his eyes, I saw him say goodbye. This time for the fourteenth time he simply let me go, with a gentle sigh. Amazing really for a man who was not afraid to die, to hold on to me like that. I think I’ll have to go back, over and over again. May be I’ll have to watch his pale blue eyes close fourteen times in my mind. I’ll look at the story to see if it fragments, when the essence leaves the iris, when the wind changes direction, and in benediction my ever changing sorrow is released.

There should be more words, a book of memorandum, but that would not be truthful, that would bring false stature to what true love is. My dad had love that sits in abandoned days and waits in patience for empty years to realize their mistakes. Pale blue a color recognized only by the best of artist when the time has come to put the finishing touches on their landscape of a greater place. In benediction he showed me a way to walk through the storm, and although I have read this, it surprises me to know my dad lived it, for no power can hold one who does not look for an escape.

Pale blue, a benediction, after so many years and not seeing his face. A wonderful gift he has left me, simple not so full of religion and creed, not based in shamanistic technology. Just eye sight, passed down in death so many times, at last I am finally realizing what his memory has completed, and I will not look to escape from time. I will love the moment for what it has done.

 

Jack M. Swearingen died on April 20, 2000, he was my dad. – דָּנִיֵּאל – 04/22/2014

3 AM – The First Psalm

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I will write no more unless you love me, my eyes will no longer shine.  In the rain when the grey turns to white you will no longer say G-d cries.  I will kiss without feeling if you refuse to flatter me, for it is all I require.  Some host they ask for gifts of tongues I seek only your affection and careful praise when you are tired.

Your walls they have grown haughty with possessions and reverberation of noise.  Your sacrifices have turned like melted sourness your posture lacking poise.  You do not listen, when you walk, your lowered eyes negate my voice.  You lament crimes of other shadows, without seeing you miss the symphony of uttered words.  Your strange answers have become over used.

I carry fire that burns without warming, my passion cold with ice.  The scales have weights of feathers, no balance you find worthy to try.  I will laugh without smiling if you do not speak to me, for without words you are not free.  Some crosses ask for blood without pleasure, I insist only upon your reflection in knowing that I am me.

Your wilderness in G-d forms your haunting, a second of time that’s not your own.  Your world has turned my spirit to stone.  You refuse to dream of children and harvest, you summon danger and torment you cannot control.  You wake without sleeping, you make blood without purpose, you seek to beckon law that is not corporeal, and cannot be released.

Yet until now so far

I am the quintessence of your need of legitimacy, my compassion spawned on a millennium of your storms.  I descend on your thorns.  I will bathe you in solitude, I will give you even more, for sorceries and oaths not spoken I will speak your light immortal where you feel blindness no more.  A wounded darkness has fallen I will see you bleed no more.

Your love in me is law unchanging, it cannot move on the tide or rhyme.  Your focus and calm in momentum must heal my fear of our divide.  You must know my magic before first light, and dance in my temple when the moon is bright.  Your forehead and knowledge are ever before me, you are given unfettered emanation the first psalm and now judged sight.

I awoke at 3:00 last night free judged and the first psalm like flame burned in me! – DS 12/17/13