Even Faith (Leviticus)

Even faith unto Sinai, there by letter you decide, in your sounds and by your sighs, you made harmony. Unto ancient unto skies, parallel by rule and life, law intended deep inside, this tranquility.

There are roots that come up bare from the underworld, they do source themselves in law, and site their words unfurled. There are dangers often sought, that speak upon soft poems, like a syren with strange spell, their voices in soft moan. Have you drawn upon yourself, interrupted strange dreams, fallen into doctrinal wells, those where devils preen? Even faith the tides of life, taken from harsh black or white, these are all we try to find, in our fallen dreams, rules of law that one must find, no one sees them in the light, of their destiny. Has this world known not of right, has this shadow ruled this night, has this underworld found such that we should cry….? Bring us to tranquility!

Even faith unto Sinai, there by letter you decide, in your sounds and by your sighs, you made harmony. Unto ancient unto skies, parallel by rule and life, law intended deep inside, this tranquility.

For all who look, an over world, that strange path of pretty swirls, that work, that most would say hard, for eternity. Even faith the rules of life, those that bind us to a sign, into warmth a place of light, no mediocrity. You say do not carve yourself, pray before who claims himself, this is law unto oneself, can creation see, what you’ve made relief. All we are in matter formed, from your love before we’re born, oh your law unto this faith we breathe, by my G-D to me. Bring us to tranquility!

Even faith unto Sinai, there by letter you decide, in your sounds and by your sighs, you made harmony. Unto ancient unto skies, parallel by rule and life, law intended deep inside, this tranquility.

So it is, I turn to sky, every morning, every night, place myself before your light and breathe. Master of divinity, all the signs decreed. Over, under now you speak, oh Orion, from your keep, G-D of mystery, loose in me, now you root it all belief, touch those things I cannot see, even faith eternity. Balanced judgment, equal life, kind of spirit there are times, you invade and make these right in me. Even faith…..Bring us to tranquility!

Even faith unto Sinai, there by letter you decide, in your sounds and by your sighs, you made harmony. Unto ancient unto skies, parallel by rule and life, law intended deep inside, this tranquility.

So, even faith cannot be real, for in truth it lies and kills, has it become what’s not real, sidelined. Only law can instill time, bring about what is inside, bring the G-D that is mankind beneath. Waiting there in over world, tidings Torah for this world, watching stories, lives unfurl, even faith that’s lived by law, can bring…..tranquility!

Even faith unto Sinai, there by letter you decide, in your sounds and by your sighs, you made harmony. Unto ancient unto skies, parallel by rule and life, law intended deep inside, this tranquility. – 11.29.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Writer


Throes of Creation by Leonid Pasternak

I sat to write to keep me warm, I toiled with pen some bitter scorn. I spun a shadow, I felled a tree, in awkward syllables I wished to see, and still within me something grew, an inward soliloquy that shook the room. What if, in color, I wrote a fate, a detailed sonnet, an ode to hate? While hearts fell shaking in earthbound flight, a penciled journey on a starless night, I wrote in earnest, I drew in glee, strange lyrical verses by six and by three. Dark words on parchment not meant to be. For written in breath between the lines, there was a curse, a scribble scribed, a poem engraved in broken time. An omen tempted upon the page, a rhyme, a token, an author’s rage.

It was a summer when I wrote last, the gods of wonder let me pass, took me to heaven past some gates, phonetic magic in clear glass lakes. Described in narrative by angels worth, a book of novel a writers birth. I was the novel alive in light, an untidy journey scrawled in block type. A cast of millions filled my mind, ideas of magic that seemed to align, a story forever that staid the heat, antagonist fury that rid deceit. In tense and medium and style of design, I lived with my characters, and made them mine. Forgotten was anger, and black words of lore, in genre and motif, I jotted for more, and as summer went, I entered a plan, I’d write about days and the love of G-Ds plan.

The writer of darkness, she is what she sees, a stranger to living, a jailor in need. A writer for fortune he spins tales of woe, to heighten his margin and shill all his gold. The writer of romance she favors a war, where sex has no balance and envy wants more. A writer of mystery, he marvels at crime, afraid of his conscience and what he might find. The writer of days of what I can see, wants balance in writing, and all that can be. I write in fulfillment of grace in my hands, my terror is over, Hashem guides my plans, for over and over, inside what I see is writing forever, a dance within me. – 06-20-2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Delicate Story

Graphic courtesy of http://www.whitewingmessenger.net

There’s a delicate story from your neighbor to the east, who just needs someone to talk to, when the shakes hit his core. He’s been dry for sixty sunsets, and he’s seen a devil’s moon, still he craves his balm of hot clear flame, and his brand of eighty proof. He went from dark haired warrior, to a craven shrunken man, when he came upon a village with a rifle in his hand. There were little girls screaming, and he shot one as she ran, that’s the story of the solider and his ghost from Afghanistan. In the mirror she taunts and teases with her open bloody wound. She beckons him to sorrow, use a rope high in your room, tie it tighter with no reason, and I’ll see you here real soon.

There’s a delicate story from your doctor’s only nurse, as she wraps her pain in lithium, stolen from her trusted perch. Lies of self that tell a story, hidden marks upon her arms, darkened armory of self-turned weapons, climbing nightmares in the dark. Modern health it tells a story, in a hidden practice ruin, tightened veins in chemical glory, chase the heroin with a spoon. That she screams in obligatory torture in the pieces that she sees, patients pass her as she’s crying, too sick of dying no relief. Solemn pledge she took of purity from the modern nursing book, her veins collapsed in flame filled fury from the needle that she took.

There’s a delicate story, when your children say please or I can, place me first before your wisdom, or the business that you ran. Did you not know G_D’s a sailor sailing conscience on degree, placing small hearts as a tempest to see if you believe? Did you not believe their story when they say they need you most, have you not given them the glory, when they try in solemnity to tell their delicate story.

YHWH breathes in beautiful stories, structured rhyme upon belief, takes a child with delicate story, builds that epic from belief. Arms of credence, perseverance, that won’t die when you’re cold, wrap you up when you’re dying, and let you in your marvel, never fading, surrender your delicate story, your worthy story. –דָּנִיֵּאל 05.13.2014

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