December


“O Lord thou broughtest up my soul from the nether-world. Thou didst keep me alive, that I should not go down to the pit.” – Psalm 30:4

I remember that moment in December.

The Christmas tree stands before me in the darkness looking like a totem in a dress. It watches over me, and the gifts below it with a calm steady attendance. The house around me is quiet, the coming exhilaration putting an end to the present anticipation some three hours to the future. Though it is that magic soon comes my way, I am filled with a great and terrible dread. A worrisome moment, I would venture to say a bothersome familiar. It has always been that way. It seems at that moment it always will be. I am thirteen years old, and I am sore afraid.

You wake me in darkness, the dream still fresh. You cast yourself a web encircling, a motion picture to remember. You kiss me your lips icy cold, but always tender. Your fingers trace my earlobes, beckoning, leading me to enter. Through the frozen windowpane, the one in frost that bares my name. Not a king or poor man me, just a child flying into December. For not alone would here I be, the stars above, not shrunken, by this belief. In divinization you mirror, from all around me. Greatness tall in leave less trees, broken shadows upon the patches of crusty snow near my feet. Angels, that bless this prayerful peace, justified in grace. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I saw a child in a chair he sat, through a dark glass looking at all he saw pass. It seemed a strange moment of familiarity, like a lifetime of poses, that strike a similarity. In a question I posed in a deep, deep dream. What did that boy want to see, and was he really, really me? Where he stayed his eyes open, full of amber shine, there were thoughts and doubts, were those eyes really mine? All around that boy that was surely me, was a contemplative notion of what the world could be. It was filled with worry and a massive tragedy. Still he sat there all alone by a Christmas tree, and he moved not from December.

You lead me in a great darkness, that truthfully is at times hard to grasp. This little bit of life has been a hell of a task. I would be remiss if I were not to say, that this night between you and me. This touch, this sensitive intimacy, was needed before December. Standing here in this sacred place, my own back yard a sanctuary. The world spinning a celestial sea, the silence, the great divide closing, there is no seam. For here it seems, you would have me be, no longer going back and forth through eternity. Not a frightened child through a darkened glass, looking in terror at all that would pass. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I remember this moment in December. – 12.24.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Dragon by the Dump


“No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith.” – R.A. Salvatore

The night sky ripples in my dreams, a mixture of sun, moon and stars. Something stirs in my bloodstream, and awakens me to whom I am to become.

The spine went from west of the dump in a half circle, unapologetic in its bending latitude, king like, under sun, moon and stars. The jagged edges whispered to us as we climbed them by day and moved tilting inwardly as our feet touched them by night. Although the rains almost never touched our hidden sacred find, the winds often came ripping away the night clouds that formed a curtain on the summer sky. We ran, we walked and we sat upon the back of a dragon, and its form entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever be.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

“The fires never go out”, my friend say’s from the shadows of the dragon’s tail. He signals towards the dump with his nose, but I know he is talking about the warmth beneath his feet. “They never shall”, I whisper not sure, if I am back then, or here now speaking in my sleep. The sky seems to ripple, perhaps the fathoms of the days heat being released, more likely it is gravity protesting the movement of great silent wings. “Is it a ghost”, I whisper, thinking it might be. “No” my friend whispers back, his voice beyond my reach. For a brief moment, a bit of time that is deep in me, I see us moving upwards upon the spine of a great sand filled sea. A dragon has entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever need.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

The head of the dragon, resting so still, one eye glazed over, under moonlight, may be it is granite but still. Sometimes it was more than just a rock on that hill. Guarding that dump, that manmade swill. “Sometimes it was us”, I hear my friend whisper, and it gives me chills. For now as back then, I can still feel. The rush of the dragon, the knowing so real, there in my bloodstream, from then on until. From then on until. – 07.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

When Men Read


“Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself, to become what he potentially is.” – Erich Fromm

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said

When men read, they think of miracles in what’s concrete in each word. Not a thought about the whys or what fors between the lines they see no blur. When men read, they see an angel, not a one that has the curves, just a heart that has a calling, that joins her noun to all his verbs. When men read, something dark calls out to them, like a carrion sitting so adorned, they find themselves like Caesar taking Vercingetorix down in a storm. For the words float unto many a man, atop an altar made in mind, a beginning and a continued end until the angels say its time. Take you now from what is your calling, in the reading that sought your eyes, take it now and dwell on thoughts of Emerson, on the metaphysics that you know will rhyme. When men read the devil’s in the details, and that’s where the answer shines, like an oracle that calls up concrete answers, a man charts his course on time.

When men read, they remove the shadows and they use them as a blind. For when a man is hunting, he ingests what he might find. As Plotinus, said upon his return from Persia, “The world is knowable, harmonious and good“. Each man reads this as a calling in any word that breaks his mind. What of the calling you might find. When men read there are no answers, may be a sound, is all that’s near. But somewhere deep inside a man’s consciousness, they look to find a plan in fear. For if they trample most emotion, they leave just one small tear, then from that they raise a mighty reason to understand the life that appears. For a man is all incarnate in the words he reads today. He knows in all the sounds there is a calling, and that calling cannot be delayed. That calling cannot be delayed.

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said. – 5.28.2019-דָנִיֵּאל

The Cave


When your hiding underground, the rain can’t get you wet.

But do you think your righteousness could pay the interest on your debt?

I have my doubts about it. – Arcade Fire

I was young and I also aged, and spent my time surveying in a modern cave, while money was flowing all around, I spent my time underground. For seven by seven and seven years on I been searching these caverns of mystery till dawn. I’m no David with stars all around, except maybe those six points I think that I’ve found, the talking spirits of G_Ds underground, the ones that come out when your down. Immune from the dungeons that would frighten most so, not this explorer who followed his goals, led by fluorite, iridescent my soul, discoveries made without reading a scroll, the rumble of change is so near. Underground!

Such corridors of darkness, and rancor and gloom, hiding from somewhere to get somewhere soon, a circle still walking, hiding and damp, still all the mystery’s, the unpaid debt, a covers a cover when your enemy’s not around. Oh Adonai, can’t I stay underground. I stride to go deeper in mind here I go, still above me there’s chatter where life it still grows, the walls of these caverns shows mysteries of man, a sign of a doctrine, I need to understand. Underground!

It could be my faith wasn’t developed at all, or maybe the interest was what I saw on those cavern walls. It could be a stranger that passed in the night, when I was a boy sleeping oh so light, by destiny’s doorstep where magic lies, the Lord of compassion took me by different rites. He whispered such secrets, the cave knew such light, everything happened without much a fight. I was born to the tribe by the moon, Shekinah she showed me the way from the womb, Ma’arat HaMachpelah the immortals tomb, there I cried, in judgments eyes. And then I found my way out to the sun, to the sun. From underground! – 02.21.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Daisy (On Mars)


“Her daddy Mr. Dalton, often said he suspected, when you died you went to live on Mar’s, that’s what Mr. Dalton said!”

She flounders a small woman by the side of the ruin, an altar she built as a child to the moon. A place near the Valley Springs. Alone, maybe a moonlit dream, near the swing her daddy built, it’s the end of October but still. In all of her books and fantasies, at her advanced age could she believe. She’s alone now, quaking inside from a breeze, that comes from the hollow north, near the fork in the valley, floor, where…

She kissed every star in the sky when she was sixteen, my, my, and why, did her tears fall, she thought she would be so much more. And fortune, held her against her view, wouldn’t let her become something new. Be an actress on the stage, of course her daddy said that’s okay. You’re in the valley, the hills are your home, so now…

She’s one hundred, dancing without a cane, near the oak where she had her first date, ate a picnic that she had spun, from honey, and buttermilk buns, considered the eyes of a fella, the one, who left her in 44, went to Mexico to avoid the great war. To the stars and the moon above, what’s below is still not known, in conceived she still must trust, in the…

Spirit, of water that runs nearby, the family ground on which her daddy died, the hollow north where her sisters knit, crafting magic from all they give, and all around her fall does move, singing songs that only she knew. In her heart Daisy lives on Mars, her imagination takes her so far, from the valley that she loves, takes her character, becomes brand new, dies tonight, because she…

Always knew, she’s going to leave home soon, resurrect herself by common luck, join her daddy, and sisters who say now, it’s not so bad being lights in the dark, incandescent, just like the moon, out in air traveling to and fro, come on Daisy it’s time to go, little Daisy it’s time to go.

“Her daddy Mr. Dalton, often said he suspected, when you died you went to live on Mar’s, that’s what Mr. Dalton said!”

In memory of my great Aunt Daisy, small in stature, bountiful in spirit, who still visits me in magic from time to time from Mars. – 10.30.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Witch Hethavich (1878)


For the want of a dream, old west sorcery in streams, an old bard’s tale found by the Laramie river. It floated so far till it reached a scar. There, look there, in a volcanic cave near some timbers. She’s known by some names but for this tale she’ll remain the Hethavich, may she spell long forever.

The wagon breaks down near Laramie town, the elements not pure enough in the river. For someone unclean, perhaps the priest upstream, has plucked and bled his chickens and spoiled the water. The journeys been long, two days from her home, near the Michigan Ditch sky where she holds her quarter. She’s traveled this way, her hair filled with braids, to Wyoming to help by being a giver.

Of potions she holds, that cure the common cold, and sometimes in magic she delivers. Of headaches and pain, crossed baby’s ingrained, with the flash of her eye’s, most illness leaves with a shiver. A territory she’s told, not yet a state to the fold, but oh the cold it lights her, now in the winter.

So global a matrix that spins in her mind, no one would guess she’s a witch from old rhymes. Her book of secrets is made from the skin of the thighs, of Ivan Vasilyevich’s hide, she his mistress when he died. Playing chess on the last, of the March of ides. But before you grow tiresome, for we all want thrills, on to the present, on to the till.

Near Laramie toward the north side of town is a lady, a lady of the night. She’s whored a certain many, spread her legs for dimes, but now here in the present there’s a man coming from Californy that by his letter would make her his wife. All he asks by seeing her picture, all he wants of a bride, will you be a virgin, for I have been pure my entire life.

And so the need comes in winter, the whore writes to the witch above tree line, the specter that can deliver. And crows they come, so many they come, flying low beneath the cold sun, and the wagon waits still broken by the Laramie river.

Throughout the night the snow does fall, the village gathers to bring its gold, and have a witch heal itch and cold, lice and broken love, those poisons of life so old. So they laugh and watch the whore approach and as the sun comes glowing, near the broken wagon by the river. And as the dawn grows red, the priest still in his bed, upriver, maybe now dead, yes maybe now dead. They stand amazed as from leather and magic, from crows crying and flying, as the whore’s hymen becomes whole, like an angel that’s been pure forever.

For the want of a dream, old west sorcery in streams, an old bard’s tale found by the Laramie river. It floated so far till it reached a scar. There, look there, in a volcanic cave near some timbers. She’s known by some names but for this tale she’ll remain the Hethavich, may she spell long forever. – 04.09.2016 – 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


Tesla and the Ego (A Treatise)

Sometime ago, I set out on a personal journey not to fail. When one attempts such a feat and especially at a young age, there is no juxtaposition to anything reality driven, but if I might suggest there is ego. A strange and deceptive thing self-worth is, driven by most for pure sport, and pleasure. A definition of self-involvement brought forth for the masses from a dark age when Freud ruled the realm of the ego, and Tesla discovered the mystical foundation that leads to G_D.

I like to observe the late eighteen hundreds through a black and white looking glass. Victorian widows in their wide dark hats and the discovery of the human spirit, raw and untamed humbled by the Statue of the Republic at the Chicago World’s fair. Electricity and motivation were in the air and the unwashed Charles Dickens’ masses were looking for a populist savior to save their humble existence from a slum life of coal pits, morphine addiction and a stale Jesus. The plow in agrarian society cried out for an iron horse, and each and every descendant of Adam and Eve destined for some factory sludge looked to the sky for the messiah of social justice. Their request was to be the genesis of the ego for the masses. What travels into the apocalypse they were to birth.

I write at the speed of sound now. Digitized music spilling decibels of sound around me, transmitting keystrokes through the airwaves of secure servers to the cloud in one’s and two’s of code that boomerangs backwards in nanoseconds for reproof and rewrite. The laws of the ego are unchanged but still something seems different in an age not unlike the turn of the nineteenth century in which a cry is at hand. A tormented populous looks to the sky, shackled by voracity, and seeks the individuality of salvation from the boredom that saturates their jaded egos. The answer if one is to exist might be born on the ruins of history, and it might find its place in the magic that Tesla held at bay.

Tesla said, “Our virtues and our failings are inseparable, like force and matter. When they separate, man is no more.” Now what in the hell does that mean. I spent more than a few moments considering the magic behind the words and how they related to ego and the personal journey not to fail, which is born in man. The ego like the soul I believe is held equally by compassion and judgment. If our virtues and our failings are inseparable like force and matter, then something has to intervene at certain times in history that upsets the equilibrium, and makes us not man. To reiterate, as tesla said “When they separate man is no more.” I have to wonder, what would split the soul, what would make dark charm insatiable, and uncontrolled? What would bring man to nothing? To what plain would we retreat to build Babel?

Tesla watched while horse drawn buggies turned to gasoline powered engines. He observed the black and white of a world grown from the fall of babel to the rise of great monolithic steel towers, and own its subjugation of the soul. He had this to say, “My brain is only a receiver, in the Universe there is a core from which we obtain knowledge, strength and inspiration. I have not penetrated into the secrets of this core, but I know that it exists.” The foundation of the soul and its equilibrium was of no secret to Tesla and the magic that he acted upon. In electrical current, he found the only resources he needed to tap into the divine. Not included was his ego, and his personal journey not to fail, brought him to an unspeakable place where no names are needed for in that place all virtues and failings are one, and the ego has been replaced with wonder.

I am older now, and I stand at the edge of a great day, reaching ever farther for a personal journey not to fail. That which surrounds me in discovery provides me enough stimuli to make me man no more. That which would befriend me is called ego.  That which is, only ask that I accept it, as it exists. I do believe, it is that foundation of wonder that I choose which leads me to G_D. – 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

Image

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