Cheyenne (Walls)

There’s enough room around Cheyenne, Wyoming, to see the son of G_D come down, and as he falls, he drops with speed, and I see under this silent moon, with somewhat of a relief, that this particular I Am is me! Indeed, yes, as my Pappy bequeathed to me, in a childhood brief dream, “you are a witness of the lightning that is in me, a purer form of the great gospel, that the spirit has been released”. He said, “you and I make two, I is no longer a solo treatise”. So here it is on the high plains of Wyoming, I believe in what is non-belief, and as, I love the walls fall down with a violent release.

Interned in the scape that is my reason, the commitment, that is thought out like a barrister’s brief, comes my daddy’s words in the legend, that defines my belief. He said, “Deuteronomy is your creed, for you’re the head that drags the tail”. Could be true daddy but sometimes that tail breaks down walls, those fortresses inside of us all. And yes, I smell relief, like a beautiful spirit inhabiting me, and outside of Cheyenne near 25, speaks the long lonesome prairie as if it cried, and bled in seed, and it comes up rolling inside of me. “Won’t you be a man, be a man spirit begs me”. Then the walls fall down and I’m free.

I’m a witness, yes a falling fire decidedly, woven into the fabric of Wyoming, could be a ghost I might be. And I fall with the daemons, like the risen, bastardly, and what is the letter of G_Ds compassion breaks every damn weakness inside of me, and the walls come down.

My son tells me, he’s not a Christian, I say, “bless you now, and bless you forever, for these are the words inscribed in what is we”. “Right here outside of Cheyenne as your falling with me”. “Deuteronomy is your creed, for you’re the head that drags the tail”. He smiles and the passion is unspoken, and his love breaths wonderful belief. I say, “you are a witness of the lighting that is in me, a purer form of the great gospel, that the spirit has been released”. I said, “you and I make two, I is no longer a solo treatise”. I say it loud then as I am falling, the walls have come down. The walls are falling down.

There’s enough room around Cheyenne, Wyoming, to see the son of G_D come down! – 06.01.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Many thanks to the wonderful music of JR Richards, for the inspiration.

Jack (1991)


We were running, around the bend of Pensacola bay, it’s around 10:30 the night is making gasping noises all around us. It was August and hot, that’s the way it is there always hot. He stops suddenly, and I stop too. Worried, maybe it’s his diabetes, maybe his age. “It’s more”, he says, “much greater”, “it’s Jack”. “You’ll love this” he says, the lines around his Irish depressed eyes alive and smiling, even when he’s crying, he’s smiling, the draw of the Irish I suppose, that and his friendship that never goes away.

“That boy Jack” …

He calls his old man from Tallahassee, a number he dials frequently, his voice is damned determined, waking Tom as he fights vermin, in a dream that brings him against the Holy See. Dad he says I’ve come against a sheriff, one who doesn’t understand, the lad I want to be. For if my latitude was proper, I’d drink whiskey from Tampa, to Sumter, and no law man would dare bother me. Dad all I want to do is drive highways, draw simple castles in my mind, occasionally love a girl, feel her body and her curls, should this be for anyone a crime, why is it for me. Tom he listens like a grandpa, it’s easier than the thought of the Dad he has to be, and then he brings himself awake, his body at fifty-four it aches, and off upon an Interstate he speeds. His old Chrysler, is so faithful, it goes forever, and never bleeds, it’s just like he.

His thoughts of Jack are drawn on a rune, an indescribable of a creed, the boy who in his heart wants to move mountains, it’s in his will where nothing happens, a lack of desire, or motivation, commitment or need. Still for his Jack, he flies on a spirit, and in his Irish blue eyes, he always believes, the dreamer in the boy, is a poet that’s lost in the sunshine. It’s his nightmares in darkness that causes him to bleed, if he could choke away one terror, he’d rock the world, and be all he could be.

He thinks of Jack as if he were a fable, a story that professes a certain need, and all of his life, a lesson learned harshly when you begin to bleed, Jack he always gives back more than everything he needs. He’s twenty years of spirit from a bottle, a son of G_D that dreams of favor from all he receives, a gift of charm, that gives and takes, a blessing of a child self-made, better than anything he ever thought he’d see. Tom he drives and rescues his revival, a drunken son, whose blond hair blows in the wet southern breeze. A faraway look in his eyes, Jack looks at his Dad and begins to cry, nobody ever understands, the things that I need, oh Daddy take me home, that’s what I need. And so they drive, and together their hearts receive, better than so many in this world who have need. Better than so many in this world who have need. – 01.10.2016 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

Ten Miles Out


We are at Lake Michigan, the Rabbi and I, he sitting, his right hand moving, watching the fog roll backwards. “I can see ten miles out dad, how about you, he says”? “I can barely see my hand in front of my face”, I say. I’m standing. “You should sit dad”, he says softly, his face radiant from some hidden sun, “from where I sit you can see at least ten miles out, and it’s beautiful”.

Ten miles from Avalon his face breaks a grin, the space before paradise favors his whims, and therefore the rabbi the son of my soul, looks over water his favors foretold, and his love it takes me forever. What is a man unless he breaks a spell, and follows a path where he’s lost in a well, a deep dark cavern where he meets his hell, and wanders like lost forever. That could be me, or that could be you however in miles it seems G-D brought me through, and gave me a son a priest that is true, and ten miles he stares on forever.

Upon a tall bluff he looks out at the sea, my son of the tribe, the last branch of the tree, and although a priest he is stronger than sin, a warrior that fights all that’s never. The ten miles of latitude that make up the shore, that point on toward harbors, where prayers aren’t ignored, at least for this man, the child of my core, the one that G-D beckons come hither. I pray on in sorrow, in-depth or in need, but my son takes hunger and makes it his creed, and looks out ten miles from above troubled seas, and sees a light of forever.

Ten miles is a lifetime to watch for a sign, but some folks are willing, I’ve seen it in Ryan, to take on forever and never be blind, to whatever the seasons would tell them. No bench is perfect, and no beach to white, no altar’s ready unless you’ve really tried, to find yourself willing to conquer your pride, the one that keeps you from breathing. For my Rabbi tells me, there’s more just beyond, he smiles in the mystery he signals the sun, and looks ten miles further, and ten miles beyond to forever. It’s only ten miles forever. – 9.12.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל