When the Moon was Silent


“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.” – George Carlin

I started dreaming of him two days after he died in October of 2014. A shimmer, a king, a marine, a boy, a friend, a memory, a voice and of course a ghost. He came from the back yard usually around 3:00 A.M. trailing a breeze that floated off the Devil’s backbone. Unusually cold no matter the time of year, and in both of his hands, bone white, coated by the spells of the deep earth, he held my deepest secrets. Those I told him when we were but ten and eleven years of age. When the moon was of its fullest, he made it a blood moon, and he boasted our best stories. When it was at its darkest, when the moon was silent, he was hushed. It was that stillness that bothered me the most. That space of no quickening, the reality of man against the ages. Reality versus the equilibrium of alternate universes. This world against the moving vale of the other side.

These are final days. Those signs about us, those earthquakes in diver’s places would tell it so. The end of a cycle, the epilogue of a long series, before the transformation begins. He tells me that upon his visits. I never dreamed it would be so, not while I still have breath, and I think it unfair, and I tell him so. He laughs, not uncaring, but with a mirthful knowledge, of what awaits me on his side. I wonder why he can’t tell me, why I must guess, but as these final days pass, I think I know. It is a mystery, a puzzle to ponder, when he does not visit, a labyrinth of undead knowledge, when the moon is silent. A secret of Pandora’s box that only the whispers in my most private dreams.

He visits me, one last time, as the moon disappears into April. He laughs as I complain about the infirmities of age and the politics of a modern age. “Shit always rises to the surface“, he says grinning, looking beyond me in my bed. The stars beyond him seem to disappear into a black triangle ruled by beings that rule dimensions, and uncured vestiges. Twelve signs of the zodiac are ingrained upon his face. A star a diamond, a seal on the back of his hand.  Symbols of our youth. Places we left secrets when the moon was silent. Doors revolving, as it is above so it is below my friend. In my dreams my friend.

I started dreaming of him two days after he died in October of 2014. – 04.30.2022 – דָנִיֵּאל

Nenahnezad (Navajo Moon)


When I was a child, I saw as a child, all things beautiful all life bright. Colors, especially at night, those moving shapes like dancers under the high desert rite, and there was no dark valley, in that world where a boy dwelled, laying in darkness, where the moon fell, listening to voices, at last for you I’ll tell….

Under the spells of the harvest in September, it could be October too, the smell of sand waiting for winter, the tide of the sky rolls out the moon. And see there a boy that looks kind of awkward, that wishes he lived what he knew, walking outside his house in the desert, the reservation around him so new. And spirits they fly in ever endeavor from up off the river to bring him clues, to inhabit his soul and tell him to look up at the Navajo moon. He walks on into the night of November, colder frost from mesa’s in view, if his parents knew he was wandering out in the darkness what would they do? What should they do?  A car with lights it comes gliding so slowly, down the dirt road, rolling by, its faces in view, dancers their faces reeling, for some sing of healing, their faces painted, they do what they do. They leave that boy alone by the pathway, that road, that leads straight up to the moon.

December’s a dream, and on into winter, it could be he’s crazy, but what should he do. Walking around the school, and the playground, at Nenahnezad under the moon. That Navajo moon.  And time and again when he’s going solo, out on the dirt road, the desert in view, he hears a car, driving so slowly, right by his elbow what should he do. Those yeibichai fellows, ghostly eyes staring, silent in wisdom, drive by, and disappear into the hue.

When I was a child, I saw as a child, all things beautiful all life bright. Colors, especially at night, those moving shapes like dancers under the high desert rite, and there was no dark valley, in that world where a boy dwelled, laying in darkness, where the moon fell, listening to voices, at last for you I’ll tell….

Over a period of five months in the fall and winter of 1969 and 1970, near Nenahnezad, New Mexico, I saw on three different occasions the same dark blue car full of Yeibichai dancers headed into the full moon. What I was doing wandering around in the dark by myself, on those various occasions is known only to that younger self that was me. Maybe I’ll learn more as time goes by, there might even be a part II. – 01.29.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Wonder of September

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Wonder of September, deep, striking Messiah glistens.  Fallen ice from the ledge where he watches waiting for his ethereal fall.  Strange air, blonde eyes judgment blue she pushes by.  Impatient craving knowledge she leaps.  Molten with banished hope he stands the sacrifice.  Days with lions he waits, by the wheels and machinations of Ezekiel he plays.  Choice of wisdom, paradigm of virtue he turns and faces G-d.  Vessels bound receiving, open eyelids giving he flows, reeling he falls, and beauty is risen.

The moon debases and mixes.  Imperfection has found the alchemy of wishes, he falls and fly’s with major chords of creation between his teeth.  Orchestrated knowledge melds together, with stars that glow, a soul for September immortal eyes that glisten with compassion.  Some things are meant for passion, rain before the snow.  Stranger still as cells are released at earth is the heat as Seraphim sing.  Days of ancient, blood of little kings, archetype of David, blessed of firmament this baby companion brings.

Shattered adjectives beyond description, summoned emanation, choice of colors in lightning he falls.  Across horizons his void, his balance gazes upon him, so cold in ice.  All is equal in September, captured earthward the lower and the upward release.  Concealed union, the moon is darkened, the cradle rocking with strong release.  The veil is spinning grown together, the map of chaos bequeaths this day.  Psalms of liquid, lost charms in strange tongues praising, the birth of wonder has come to pray.

Conjecture comes to witness, and then like a pale familiar it crawls away.  Solitude in wonder, Malkuth spans the kingdom where the child lays.  The esoteric rhythm, tree, and temple sheltered in consent by flesh.  Colorless dominions void of reflection, consciousness gathered by wondrous sight.  Air and existence, deep upon deep filled now with days.  Dancing flesh moving, through a glass now seen clearly, she who left before him now kisses his face.  The wonder of September is born in grace. – DS 12/07/2013

For my son Ryan who is the Wonder of SeptemberDS 12/07/2013