SI (Act 1)


“Out, out brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow.”- William Shakespeare

And brevity takes me flying, in everything I am not, a second in a lifetime that for SI was not I brought. Oh Lord have you not formed me like the eagle and the hawk, forever in this instant am I not. Forever in this instant am I not.

I found I was only a measurement of time, a sand in G_D’s eye, numbered by moments and found wanting. I died and rose again at the start of each day. Day after day, while the angels watched within my dreams, and begged to know if they could play. “While you are human, they whispered, let us play”. Undefined I flew across a lifetime age to age. Grace to grace, atom and nucleus, a speck in the seconds of the space age. A second or two of breath so high and then I was gray. And I said, “Oh G_D unto you I give all these days, a brilliance of light these instances, in which I am a flight of wind that mocks kings. Eyes and wings and blood finally dust in all things. For I am forgotten, I am remembered, salvation and iniquity, a human immortal born in my sin to finally rest in the exhalation of G_D’s sigh.

For in the second, the last breath, the instance when I am naked no longer shy. The SI, the doorway open from death to freedom before the wide open sky. I will praise G_D for the instance of quantum instances of assurance in my previous life, that let me know that I was SI, always an instant breathing, always SI. Your instance, your energy, a sum of answers why.

When I kissed, and kissed, my tongue wet against my lover, with her wide-open eyes.

An instance of a second as my two baby’s cry and cry.

A boy, a spirit, down on shaky knees, crying before a cross that is thirsty to give me needs.

A young man, an old man, both seeking to understand their greed, a moment in loneliness when a great eagle comes to feed.

Life in high country where no one but G_D knows my needs.

Oh, SI you are an action, an art of life and breath. That brings us from our screaming self, to a death upon our beds. A warrior’s sword in violence, a writer’s pen in peace. In the moment I have always known you, a lover in my psalm. A generator of spirit that cannot wait until I am done. You love me in a second, and then my breath is one. Only one and then my life is done.

And brevity takes me flying, in everything I am not, a second in a lifetime that for SI was not I brought. Oh Lord have you not formed me like the eagle and the hawk, forever in this instant am I not. Forever in this instant am I not. – 05.21.2020 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

 

 

 

 

The Gospel of Darkness (Passover 2020)


And we sing…

The law of the Lord is perfect, in its purpose and what it finds. In darkness it fills us, and allows us no cover from the judgment of what G_D finds. Hallelujah, it is time…

It is Passover…

The sun has set, its glow traveling near you, moving near me, perhaps it moves by request for the final time. Perhaps it determines the final key. It moves across an April snow here in Colorado, bringing judgement at Passover. Exposing a false spring, exposing skin. And yes, there is a question, (darkness) there is an incantation of rhyme, it comes not in light by sight so incandescent, but before the throne of darkness, here now in the end of G_D’s spare time. While Ezekiel’s wheels move across my wandering mind. Spending, removing distance, from what this Passover comes to find.

I’m listening to “Jane Siberry” sing “The Gospel According to Darkness” for the eleventh time as I write. Jane is a new discovery for me, a pleasing discovery. Her words invade my physical body, they stalk my soul, and they invite me to write truth’s I might at most times keep hidden. (Get thee above me) Here in darkness, here in shadow, here before any light. I feel homeless, I feel blind, and it could be that I am kept hidden from that which would take this my first-born life. For here in the shallow, here in the value of a snow drifting flight. Here below, that flicker, so many, many people that are good are held by fright. For I know it’s Passover, (darkness) I know its faith by night. For it comes in the dimness, it comes to the blind, for G_D is here among us as we watch the snow fly.

And we sing…

“The law of the Lord is perfect, the pleasure of her inner sight. The question of are you worthy, we will find the answer here, without any light. For we are not G_D’s paroles, indentured in bright light, bound by some dogma, Easter’s sunrise hides the blight.

It is Passover…

There is a place named “alone” (darkness). Angels unclothed, angels parting, to death all dies that we have ever known. In changing shadows, shifting by purpose, planning all that by a millennia she has designed. We are delivered, you and I are born by all we are resigned.

And we sing…

The law of the Lord is perfect, in its purpose and what it finds. In darkness it fills us, and allows us no cover from the judgment of what G_D finds. Hallelujah, it is time… -04.15.20 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Perfect Place (Absentia)


“Once there was a way to get back homeward” – Paul McCartney

“There’s a place I like to hide, a doorway I run through in the night”-Chris DeGarmo

“Is this the perfect place”, he asks, his cheeks glowing a perfect dry cold red. He looks the mixture between a loveable afternoon with A.A. Milne, and the darkest shadow of Dickens. “It is my perfect place”, I tell him, my breath blowing a long icy cigar looking shape. “I come here often”, I say, thinking my voice sounds younger, more adventurous here. I sound a better kind of honest. “Am I the first to come with you”, he asks, his bright eyes reflecting the red winter moon so close to where we stand. “You have always been here Ryan”, I say, my voice almost a murmur. “Always been here”, I whisper again, “as have I”.

In Absentia…

The grains of sand drop from the sky; falling in unison, they fill our eyes. Above the valley past eventide, the blessings come on a ghostly ride. We pray to G_D, G_D prays to us, in quantum travels on angel dust. From these twin peaks, we watch time tied, to a perfect place, as numbers fly by. There are tunnels here and dragons too, what is one wild-eyed boy when two will do. From a map inside drawn by eternal clues, one that talks to me now it talks to you. In absentia from a present gone, to a fourth wall fallen, without a magic wand. Oh, eternal womb that speeds us thus, to this great place in the two of us, to see these hosts of treasured years, these paths I once walked without present fears.

“Where might we go from here”, he ask the red moon of the desert sky descending, to halo his face. “There are rivers and ruins here”, I say, “and adventures”, he asks, a slight smile starting to form. It is as if for the first time he can taste. “Yes, I say, “Adventures too”. “Then in this perfect place I will find me”, he says, his voice suddenly filled with confidence. “Indeed”, I reply, “in absentia” great spirits we will certainly be.

In Absentia…

The gust blows, turning by, resolving time. We go two stars to the left what do we find? Standing there in Neverland, quickened in our newer minds like my own Dad. We wander the desert in directions I have known. A porous man, a psalmist, a child now a man. Our footsteps translucent as wind spills the sand. By dragons skeletal within our hands, we form a genesis that turns our mind and in turn makes us a man. Back to a place in time where my son can become what is me. A better version born of G_D in this holy desert sea. The better place to question all of what is she. The perfect place to be. The perfect place to be.

In Absentia…

“You have always been here Ryan”, I say, my voice almost a murmur. “Always been here”, I whisper again, “as have I”. – 02.13.2020 -דָנִיֵּאל

 

First Christmas


“Expectancy is the atmosphere for miracles”. – Edwin Louis Cole

I cannot shake the feeling of familiarity, even though each time you come around I feel new. A loving heart filled with specific clarity, of the special kind of person that I have in you. I would strike a deal of my eternal security; run the judgment gantlet a time or two. If G_D in all her wisdom and her mercy, would let me walk through a winter snow with you. The lore of love is all around us, between life’s mountains what a view. The universe in snow in Colorado, the quaking Aspen below a sky that is blue. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes, the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

There are many who would say that it was unspoken, signs between spirits not above. A deal made by a minion who knew better? A course of instigation of not what was. For all the times we thought we were not special, for all the dread our twosome stumbled through. In all of this pain and degradation, we were hibernating, waiting in a winter wonderland to become new. In a prayer, that we have no words for, in a language uttered from the stars above. Who’s to know but us what we are given, ties that bind that make us thus. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

For we have not died alone, but together, while moving parts have changed above. The snow around us is a carol, sung immortal in our love. We alone have sampled heartache, as such in life our deeds have some. For how we remained as faire together, for how our destiny was done. One hand raised unto the heavens, the other tied within our love. Now we see the door opened, not a shadow do we bare, and what was once is now forgiven. As ghost and angels, hold our future in such a cold thin air. Within us both strikes a hallow, a white warmth from light’s guiding lair. We rise as one together, no need for ties that bind. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just. – 12.20.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For Susan.

 

Ave Angeles


Salvador Dali – Angels

“O’ what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!” – William Shakespeare

I watched them fly in early morning. Stern faces all, diamond like eyes reflecting a pinpoint brightness of eschatology. They pointed themselves toward the eastern horizon, daemons and angels, muses and monsters of mythology. I opened my curtain ever wider, and saw they were burning stars, blazing before the dawn. Reflecting the vitality of beginning and ending. The holiness of G_D’s names. And I wished to fly with them above November.

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a sweet day in November, with the sky an eye of blue, an occasional sun drop. Bouncing off my points of view. Woke myself to sweet surrender, of the purpose designed a new. From this vantage on this altar, laying naked before you. Cut all feelings from the shadows, those that are human accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You are the author of my adventure, between the lines of light and hue. In the numbers of error, you found me, and led me through a timeless wound. Said you, “there is higher than you are reaching”. Said you, “Loose your thoughts and I’ll show you, you”. Said you, “Care for me and care for no other, for I am jealous for all you do.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a force of Citrine lightning, a picture painting of gothic rhyme. All though it is written I am a little lower than the angels, still above them I would fly. Bring myself before her presence in a question and a cry. Risen in the morning, with frost above my eyes. Tear myself from self-deception, that which lies accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You have formed me like no other, cut my soul from roughen hew. Lifted me up from this dead garden, fallen Eden, no longer new. Said you, “unto you the choice is given, nothing hidden from your plain view.” Said you, “love me, and love no other, for between us life is consumed.” Said you, “I am breath and, I am numbers, time and mystery, ever new.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Above the Scorpius, beyond all air, below frozen water, all November’s share. In staring upwards, I stare no more, for I hear the summons, it is a silent roar. Your final gesture that defines my core. Said you, “born of the morning from when all comes, and innate by my word relative to all sums.”

We fly in early morning. We fly in the morning. We fly in the morning! – 11.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Harlot of Rotterdam (Nehalennia)


“Ocean of time, eternal law, to ashes, to dust, to ashes, but not just yet. To ashes, to dust, taken away from the light, but not just yet. Miracles wait until the end.” – Zu Asche zu Staub

The shrouded figures watch the gale move in from the vaulted ruins of the abbey. South by Southwest the dark clouds roll out across the hidden heavens casting hail, then wind. The cloaked figures appear to melt into the rock-filled shell of the abbey. From there whispers come unto whispers, sighs unto sighs. Sweet undertones summoning. Wet lips moving, bringing forth that which comes from the sea. That which comes forth from moving hips, from fecundity. She who is eternity from the sea. Bringing her home to Whitby.

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say.

Some say how the tempests sigh. Exhale thee spirit against a Rotterdam sky. She says what a perfect night, to sail under his poison eye, to walk away and not say goodbye. In streets that pass her by, she moves much quicker than to fly. To reach the darker waters of foam and spray, no more man, a creature between her legs. Forgetting about how and when, she begged abstinence from the house of sin. To sail a dinghy into the host of spray, a single passage to where witches play. In stars well-hidden where eternity stays and taste the life, that’s time.

She sails in ashes on a shadowed sea, with deep dark seams that sometimes do not meet. In a cold, where there is no end, somewhere in truth to begin again. Sounds and pictures within, pieces of scripture, from her Opa’s thin voice. Simmering rejection from the church with no choice. She pictures astronomies in degrees, her gift to elevate and bring forth relief. To heal from thoughts within, the harlot of Rotterdam commands each wind. Each elevation a structure within. A stroke a brush with a hand she sends.

The gale the screaming din, the driftwood from the sea with its upside-down grin, to capture all time in a thimble within. Sixes and sixes in upside down triangular twins.  The force that never ends. The strength that forever begins.

She sails alone in cold English seas, a longing a hunger for more than believed. Beyond the nightlights of bars and skin, the mainland is dying from its rot within. To escape the poison, to really be free, to master cold waters toward a home, in Whitby.

Born forth by ash is she, not that of dust, she circles herself in eternity. Deeper than deep, the divers depths call “Nehalennia“, “sing to our dead souls in need.” “Cross yourself forward, the ashes and dust, calls from a time beneath.” “Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes indeed.” Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes, let all these waters recede.”

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. – 10-07-2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Iiná Joe

In my time of dying, want nobody to mourn. All I want for you to do is take my body home. Well, well, well, so I can die easy.” – Led Zeppelin

“Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall).” – Gerard McMahon

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe comes around, just as the August, sun has lost its crown, and it sets itself in message, in an altered degree, sending signs of mourning for all to see. And it spills out red across the sky, sending farewell tears to a million sighs. “That’s what makes me cry”, Iiná says to me, standing just my height, dressed in the color of her grief. It is a visit of timing it is a look without a word. As if in the world of symbols, we are the witness to the earth. Iiná Joe says, “I heard it, the song you said you’d play”. I say, “You mean “In My Time of Dying“, is that the meaning you wanted relayed”. She nods her head in the affirmative, and then we both look away, just a disc jockey and newly minted widow at the end of a funeral day. Standing in the foyer at KWYK, all the world is moving with us as actors on its stage.

Iiná Joe says, “The darkness falls upon us as it fell upon my man, as he drank his way from Gallup, into the desert and the sand.” “When they found him out near Sanostee with the cuts upon his face, he’d been sitting in his pickup truck for forty nights and forty days.” It grew very quiet between us as we thought about her words, the quiet that conveys meaning from our words to other worlds. Like the transmitters nearby us, cooling from their five thousand-wattage heat. We wandered through Iiná’s pain filled loss, looking for comfort to keep. And as a boy of seventeen with all my wishes draught unpaid. I was humbled by my friend’s sharing of the greatness of her loss, and the grieve it built and made.

Iiná Joe walks around, the darkened radio studio looking at me, with her eyes filled with amber tears, a reflection of a man she no longer see’s. “Will you play the song again”, she asks. “I think I’ll wait outside, the night is coming quickly, and the chindi is nearby.” “I would not have my man’s blackness upon you, as you do for me what’s kind.”

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo big little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe went her way a few days ago. She passed into the darkness after the August sun had gone down, forty-one years to the day; she visited a seventeen-year-old disc jockey to make a special request. That seventeen-year-old disc jockey pictured above thanks her for the honor, those many years ago and wishes her G_D speed ahead. There is no more to cry for little sister. – 09.03.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Cellar Door


Cellar door, are you open to find me, Iron ore shields remorse.
When I look, I look to your beautiful name. – Skylar Grey

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you curious without expectation, be you thrilled to be alive, explore the thin veil of the spirit, not the dry bones where they have died. Take your many steps through a tunnel, to see the other side. Know that every dark dream has an ending that ends in the sweet by and by.”

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you not afraid of cellar doors, or what the traits they hide. Many a good man has found that door protection from the tornadoes outside. Be you not of single mindedness of any issue in your life; remember every problem known to us has always had two sides. Be you not for revolutionaries, the one who rebels against the tide. Know that every rebel of the soul is a tyrant who rules his heart with pride.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he led me through a dreamscape world, my fever roaring inside. His large hands moving as he walked down the concrete steps to a cellar door with words inscribed. How I wished I could move closer, how I wished for better light, but alas this dream led mystery, without a clue or special rite. I knew right then that every virus; every blight I knew inside could stand to show me something, even in my darkest night.

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you quicker than your adversary, that devil that comes in light; know that he is part of a commandment to judge you when the day is night. Be you an ever witness to the shadows, the tricks of light, know that Mephistopheles is your left fists action while the good Lord form’s your right. In truth, there are many questions that go beyond this door. Do your best to obtain no answers until you know what the questions are for.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he turned and bent a little bit, his overalls so blue and wide, I thought him but dead just a while ago, but here he seems so much alive. In a dream that held too much fever, at least I could see inside, but still I could not read the inscription on the cellar door, standing before my pappy’s side.

I was nineteen, when I first dreamed of Pappy and the cellar door. Through the years, I have had the same dream many times. The symbols, philosophy and spiritual mysticism and eschatological character of the dream, have never been meaningful to me. To know what is beyond the iron ore door is not necessary to me. However, there is an ever-burning desire to know what is inscribed upon that cellar door. – 06.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

The Ghost in the Cathedral


“Hear, O Israel: the LORD is our God, the LORD is One.”

A dream on April 15th………

“It is well” my dad whispers as he sketches the Cathedral, the details designed from the nape to the great stone that shelters the moving shadows in the Roman portico. “Are there ghost here”, I whisper, thinking the answer I might receive might not be kind. “They are here” he whispers back, continuing to manipulate the pencil on his long white draught tablet, his face the color of angels, that of peace, that moves rough rivers to find a better course. My dad, the dad I know no more, a spirit, a moving light in darkness, moves his right hand with flourish finishing the left arch that covers the holy of holies.

“I will put daemons on the outside of this sanctuary,” he says, his now inhuman glowing blue eyes giving the appearance of a shelter, he was unable to offer while yet he was breathing. “Why”, I ask, the question knowing the answer to come. Still, the inquiry helps me hear my own voice. It sounds passive, and echoing, as if in a great hall. “They help us to know possibilities”, my dad mutters, turning drawing rapidly something that stands still, noticeable only to his eyes. His immortal eyes.

“It is well”, my dad whispers, baring the image of something alien upon his arms. They are moving images of creatures, alien beast that move to guard a sanctuary. Perhaps it is they guard a throne, a host, or a plan sketched of what is to come. “What of the ghost” I ask the spirit that speaks as my father. “They are here”, my dad laughs suddenly, as his eyes turn a cobalt cold, color of ethereal energy that moves between worlds.

He draws them then, with quickness, a suddenness that interrupts the troubled thoughts I have. They sit in silence, in quiet death, their bodies in sanctuary, their souls’ deep wells, not troubled by belief or ideology. “They rest”, my dad says, his voice moving to other places. Perhaps mysterious places where bleeding stops. Perchance that place “John Lennon” imagined, with no religion too.

“I would go there, also” I whisper to my dad, this dad who roughs great divine basilicas. “I would climb past these ghosts, I would Passover“, I say, as the night moves in and out of that consciousness that is my soul. “I cannot make it so”, my dad smiles, the same unavailability suddenly present within him, as it was in life. He moves then his pencil moving furiously over the pad he carries with him, and I understand. I know without worry, and I am concerned no more. My life passes beyond cathedrals, celestial and even divinity. It spins so often out of control. Nevertheless, they are there, ghost sketched in great cathedrals, daemons of awe sculpted by my dad’s awl, that help me know deep possibilities. Thoughts that are not bound to past or future. Still it is well, oh Hashem it is well with my soul.

“It is well”, my dad whispers.

For Notre Dame That still smolders this night.
– 04.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

While Playing Hooky


“How can I possibly be expected to handle school on a day like this?” – Ferris Bueller

“We’re off to the witch, we may never never, never come home,
but the magic that we’ll feel is worth a lifetime” – Ronnie James Dio

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left in this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

Two heads we see, headed west, down a sunbaked path; one with brown hair, the other a black mess. The sun falls fast on this single day of spring, shooting down through the heavens, bringing something on its wings. It would appear the burdens carried from a year of math and art. Now are loose without a feeling. For these boys walk without an arc. Why there shoes made by converse, leave hardly a trace. As they carry sacks of lunch and knowledge to the place of secret things. “School is not made for the living”, one boy cries unto the air, and they both laugh without smiling for the truth is there somewhere. For a moment, let us watch them still frozen in time. In their purity shimmering, moving onward in this rhyme.

Let us look at the picture that is painted from above. A numbered highway in the background, beyond it scrubland wild with yucca, dryland arroyos, lie open, writhing with their scars. Down the path that leads us westward lies a rusted oil tanker and two old cars. It is a graveyard of a shadow of another place tomorrow. For it is tomorrow where they go, a bit of yesterday, and as the clouds flow from the east, they turn their backs, and begin to walk to stray. Indeed, we see them avoid a snake his triangle head of spotted gray. “No matter it all”, one boy he brays, the other sings out, “we missed our school today”. A matter of steps a slight incline, the scrubland rolls out, and dips and divides. At last we watch the two boys much slower, reach the rusted oil tanker, the place they know they will soon grow much older.

For here, it is we cannot grow nearer, the picture shimmers, dances, and glimmers. A place were two boys search for cracks in what is sutured. Finding doors that open, on order, past and future. Ruins discovered in place. Veils ripped from openings, alien voices calling out from deep to deep. It is the discovery of the last of days. It is here they come to play. If we could venture a thought of what they find, inside compartments of an old oil tanker way past its prime. Could they go where one has not been, could they find the way past when? Is there blackness beyond the divide, or have they found the path to the divine.

“That picture looks like us”, one boy says, a film of cool perspiration resting upon his brow. The thick darkness inside the front compartment of the tanker surrounds the thin beam of the flashlight. It gives the feeling of a tomb. “It could be us”, the other boy says softly.” His voice carries a soft echo through the oval opening into the next compartment. It is there; we look and see a sudden wind created. We watch as it lifts itself backwards through another opening, and then upwards through the open hatch, as if with a sudden relief.

Look down with me upon this day, across the high desert to a certain place. To an old trailer tanker resting deplete. Its only cargo, on the floor of this rusting keep. Look closely, so closely at a picture of two boys, a picture left this place, as if by choice. Two faces from history, that time will repeat. Even now comes knocking, the last who will see.

For my eighth grade English teacher Mrs. Howey, who charged me to read the classics fearlessly, and to write as if I were mad. I will forever carry the guilt of disappointing her by playing hooky on the final day of school in the spring of 1974. In her aggrieved state, I have always hoped to share with Mrs. Howey that I was indeed engaged in research for how to do both of the charges thus listed above. – 03.22.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל