Tippy


“There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time. Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional moments and most of the time we are ageless.” – Milan Jundera

Tippy and I sit on the river bluff looking down at the muddy water. A cold November wind shifts from the direction of Shiprock, and hangs over us briefly before dispersing its frosty feel to the high desert plain behind us. “I think, I have always had this same dream”, I say. “You always have”, she says, pausing for a moment to let her words get beyond the cold wind. “It is an eternal dream”, she says. Older eternally.

Tippy stops the clock in the desert, muttering in my dreams. “Once you are young, once you are old, forever you’re turning with me.” “Forever you’re turning with me.”

Tipp’s within me at thirty, dancing around by degrees. Her hair all assorts in mystery, a muse that creates or a witch that deceives. Eyes that sparkle with hellfire, a body that constantly conceives, of odes and rhymes, sermons that find, the Ark of the Covenant in me. Tippy parts weeds in the darkness. Separates them while I sleep, those webs of my mind built out of time, she removes them where I can see. There, their, there she whispers to me, licking the inside of my ear, she is she. Be old, be old, be older, than me. She grins such spells wickedly. Come be old, be older than me she bites her bottom lip, and looks into me. Treasures in deserts to search, she smiles, and I am lost infinitely, at thirty. Remembering ghost, in shades ere aloof. Tippy she floats, through time of my youth, always a shadow to me. Instead of behind, she quickens the front of me. Older eternally!

Tipp is right there when I am seven, buxom and ready, brunette to a tee. Watching me grow, incessantly, I cannot escape her eyes of hard brightness, stars of a night’s mystery. Behold the glow of paradigm’s mold, broken when she is with me. Plotting my thoughts not spoken, they line with her stars by degree. Sitting by muddy cold rivers, speaking symbols to the moon, watching the desert clock ticking, she whispers, “I birthed you from my own womb”. “Someday soon you’ll be older, no longer a familiar I’ll be”. “That day we are older eternal”. Older eternally!

Tipp invades me at sixty, a summons that blocks a plea. She looks to be the same shadow, standing in front of me. Somewhere a clock is ticking, in a desert that holds a key. My life has been so backwards, so much there that I did not see. Reflections and ghost, daemons that host the haunted spirit believed. The question comes to me now ways, what mystery is there to believe? The answer somehow comes from her now. Challenge and interest free.

She says, “When I had you by muddy cold rivers, in the high cold desert naked and free, you knew this day then. Older my twin, older eternally.” Older eternally!

Tippy stops the clock in the desert, muttering in my dreams. “Once you are young, once you are old, forever you’re turning with me.” “Forever you’re turning with me.” – 11.19.20 – 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!

The Incense of Many (A Rewritten Conversation with Dante the Muse)

“And let that aroma please the cold, that angel of darkness, with wings unfold”.

We sit in the dim, near a mountain bay, I think it’s near Grand Lake, and just to say something, to start a spark, I look at my muse Dante and say,

“The incense of many will carry this day”!

“What”, Dante says in the twilight grim, his teeth set like a wicked sin, “I remember Shakespeare, when that was not really his name, you know even that poor fraud was known to say”! “It’s just as Jaques said to Duke Senior, all the men and women are merely players, all the world is a stage, yes all the world is a stage”.

It’s as if Dante is playing a game, a devil’s advocate, a prince of the shame, and so he continues and goes on some more, his lips glistening with cold and lore. “What do you say, saves all, when spirits all around us make the call”? The angel of life, the moon that speaks death, the ones who cry Jesus, or Buddha at best, and you who say light, is that all you have, for sun is your token only in death.

“The incense of many will carry this day”!

“It’s true” I say to Dante, my muse who beguiles, “most pleasure in breath seems to come at G_D’s smile, but there’s more than just that I’d venture to say, and I have a great picture in my brain at play”. Go on their dear darkness, and have at what you say”.

Sometimes it’s best to wait, not play the game a muse would have you play.

Dante turns to face east, and then slowly west, the snow all around him, his eyes casting death, it could be the judgement of the Egyptian god Seth when he turns to say. “So what stops that angel of light, that one in the morning, when he’s had his first sight. Look all round about you at misery in tow, of humans in judgement, the seeds that they sow”. “Your G_D lets it happen, he stands not in its way, it seems to me that scepter welcomes shadows at play”. “you there just a writer so weak growing old, just like your studies your studies of Job”. “Do you not see judgment a lesson of sin, no compassion will stop it, history has been”.

And then it happens to me, I cannot let the shadow of plague of living disease come over me.

I turn to look at the frozen bay, the mountains of black and silver arrayed and I see Dante his face smiling gray. He thinks as a ghost his words have last say. But then there’s still something that’s better than words, a story of Torah, that birthed in the earth. I turn to have my own say. “My Dante, remember this still, how Moses told Aaron run swiftly and still”. “Hold your fire higher and with incense flame, and stop that plague in its way, for like you Dante, death has no shame”. “And let that aroma please the cold, that angel of darkness, with wings unfold”.

“You see my dear Dante, what happened that day, took hands made of flesh to stop spirits play”. “Look now all around you my muse of old, see light of the masses their fires all unfurled, the incense of many will put dark away, the incense of many will carry this day”. “It seems it takes fire and aroma of sage, that burning incense of pleasured delayed, but more than just that the magic of love, to stop holy judgment, bring compassion down from up above”.

“The incense of many will carry this day”!

Numbers 17:13 And he stood between the dead and the living; and the plague was stayed. – 02.02.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Illumination (Dante’s Prayer)


“For I thought this ruler a taskmaster, wanting only words, that goodness would have sown, and much to my surprise he loved darkness as much as I.”

A shadow walks with Dante, indeed it has trailed him since he was born, and all the reason for his vanity, his cause of being just alone, cannot take from him the prayer before him, that one that leads him home. If he were to find great passion, some words to warm his bones, some majik on the horizon, that place that some have known. Then it is, he’d be forever, warmed by a stellar glow, some heat beyond indignation, the warmth of hell that he does know. For Dante rides imagination, this muse that seems so cold, but he does need to find salvation, for even ghost have to know. That though some words they lead an army, some thoughts they kill a soul, there is no substitute for adoration, when with some words passions are sown.

A boot he throws upon this highway, a step and more this Dante goes, for in his search of G_D’s own mercy, it starts his fever so. For he is the shadow of depression, the shrew that spins the morbid lows, the talent of libation. When liquor makes an author know, all of the rhymes of desperation, the ritual of the blow, the gasp of tears of sadness, the requiem where wordsmiths sow. All of this when life is harmful, all of this, this Dante knows, it cannot last a generation, these verbs of harm, this muse has chose. And so it is he strides a byway, a darkened trail upon the land, he chooses higher passage, to ask the one of what is planned. In serious doubt he looks to heaven, where rafters paint a sky, the moon that charts his laughter, the madness of his lies. And there it is a grand formation, a redness of the dawn, instruction for his coronation, not wrath for what he’s done.

And angels light bright candles, his knees they strike the land, for unto him there is given, a better answer than his plan. For it is true G-D loves a sinner, a spirit that gives to man, a daemon of the firelight, that quotes sweet words to what is mad. For this king needs healers, and words of charm, and innocence. To sooth his troubled existence, that boils within. But in this world of stasis, the need for balance must prevail. The truth be known about this sovereign, the need for Dante does exists. To bring the banter of all knowledge, of dreams of tortured bliss, for it is that there is mercy, and goodness of the words persist. They do persist.

“For I thought this ruler a taskmaster, wanting only words, that goodness would have sown, and much to my surprise he loved darkness as much as I.”-08.23.2015-דָּנִיֵּאל

*For my muse Dante, who is always there. J

Muses (The War)


It’s come to war, a trade in black, a broken tree, a bitter root, a comma that’s lacked. Words in feeling, a psalm took back, oh Le Fey why do you still attack. One eye closed, your pants unzipped, war is simple, when its words, a poem unkempt. Oh what of energy, electric slide, the joint of synergy from time gone by, and what of sex those bodies wet, still oh Dante you and Ley Fey did you ever lack.

Now falling tides, generations, Asher, Le Fey, you needed tack, a young woman you brought to warm a king, and watch him sigh, his moans did ring. Solomon looked and looked, and caught your glean. Still he did not understand a warrior king. And you vanished beyond the wall, left your ghost tidings to a new muse to call. Beyond the years, Romans and pyramids, Le Faye not really your name, unmasked when Dante came to play. Well Dante he rides upon strange moons, likes anal pleasure when beds fill a room, and test all the limits, he’ll never know kings, but David, oh David, Dante knows me. His children are words that draw out the gloom, and measure the verb, in action they bloom. He turns and he looks oh Le Faye how he stares, and sometimes at midnight, he pushes my sanity down steep stairs. I fall and I fall, then I fall some more, my mind counting bruises to write about more, and although he’s violent, this Dante of fiends, sweet Asher, le David, Le Fey, I’ll always remember how you brought down the wind.

You see, I know you were the devil in stride, the equal in justice, compassions bride, why Asher, you strode between kings and the tide, delivered Bathsheba, when the Hittite died. You know you said write about “little boots” memes, you said that you saw him fight reeds between scenes. Your history is moving your deeds above men, but Dante would fight you to write of all sin.

So here now we are at three old AM, a writer with muses who make noise to win. Could it be my companions, you ghost who won’t die, that maybe just maybe you could kneel and try. To work all together and let your pride die, and give me some peace to write truth instead of lies. Hmmm? Well then! Sigh!

It’s come to war, a trade in black, a broken tree, a bitter root, a comma that’s lacked. – 07.30.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Dreamscape (Damn Muse)


“It’s a conversation”, he says. “Here”, I say, here being a desert of sorts, a barren land, a Moses sort of land, a dreamscape. “We are where”, I say? Dante, looks at me, smiling underneath, reaching down, touching, feeling, and his eyes singing in places that make me scream….

“Who are you”, I whisper, “What are you”, I think?

It doesn’t take long, a second, maybe a time that has already passed, for his answer, I already know. It rhymes anyway, the witch he always rhymes, his conversation schizophrenic, a sort of hum in my ear, a possession of kind, one that feels like release.

“Don’t you feel the sand that is cold, a vampirism, of me so old, a kind, a kind, of all where we been, from Eden’s gate, to now time that ends. Oh boy, oh boy, I bring you around, to teach you lessons of what’s been found, a ruin, a ruin in this world at hand, to reach to write, of all that has been. This desert is seen in only your dreams, it represents all the potential of life, life that it brings. I know you cry, and sob in the dark, deep depression a blight of the heart. I hear, I hear, the notes that you sing, making rhythm, when no notes will ring, and yet you venture out here in the dark. A gift, a gift I’ll venture for free, just write the written, and pretend it is spring”.

So I take my night shirt off, it seems the right thing to do in the dark, the desert dark, and he smiles. I close my hands together, remembering it’s a dreamscape, bowing and lowering touching, the cold sand, my extremities hard, and strangely wet. I look up at him, and Dante is me, suddenly old, but his eyes are the color of a living G_D, and strangely that is me too.

“For here in a vacuum of time that knows when, you can write of subjects of darkness within, or you can erupt like a flame in a soul, and milk a strange verb, and make adjectives whole. Oh when, I say when, can you know who you are, until you have written of what all you are. Despair, oh despair, of all that has been, and write of anxiety of futures of men, for here we are playing two sprites in the dark. This desert of vision that bleeds in the dark. Rise up, oh rise up and touch what I say, and bend you your fingers, and write into day. Man, oh man of tissue and bone, thinking of words, I hum in the zone, and here in the desert, the desert of play, write me a sonnet and maybe I’ll stay”.

It could be daylight, or that time in between, dusk or resurrection, or just some hours, like so many, that I just don’t see. The sand’s gone, things familiar around me taking shape. The day might begin, but the words, binding words, erotic and warm they stay.

“Who are you”, I whisper, “What are you”, I think? – 6.10.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

 

Dante

Dante holds the music that he whispers through thyme, it smells like lemon secrets, as it enters my mind, and circles all the thoughts of word, the phonics of night, resistance is futile, why even do I fight. Well Dante holds riddles, those puzzles in me, and just like familiars, and those ghost who can see. He moves me and dazzles, and laughs while I’m blind, not grasping the candle, he just needs to light. In houses, and doorways, and double odd binds, with kisses for favors, a Daemon unkind. This spirit, apostle, just wants me to write, find fortune in secrets, a poet’s delight. He moves in the spaces my old muse died, makes fun of his funeral, and laughs at my rites. Oh Dante please tell me, of why do we fight, with words of confusion, and spells of the night. We should be together, our psyches held tight, but somehow you use me, and snarl when you bite.

Dante runs highways, through deserts and sands, he hunts in desolation, for hidden lands, and sometimes he listens, and passes a word, but often he’s silent, asleep in his verbs. Forgotten in reason, he will not take a stand, on verbiage, or letters, controlled by my hand. And often he measures, my prose, with a laugh, and shoots vowels behind me, and then tips his glass. Say, Dante I’m naked, my soul is so scratched, from hauntings and pictures, your words so mismatched. If you are forever, a shimmer of light, then be me immortal, a muse that won’t fight.

Its shadows, of answers, dictated by fright, long caverns in darkness, that bring me to sight, and Dante, it’s sudden, the life in my hands, the treasured scripting where loneliness ends. Dante he’s smiling, expression in name, and taunting my story, he says it’s too tame. No hero’s for writing, that’s simply insane. Dante’s not giving, he’s gone once again, no doubt in the Artic, just walking about, but soon he’ll be closer his coldness in me. I’ll write that indifference, I’ll learn what he sees. I’ll learn what he sees. – 05.14.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל