Yazzie & I (1977)


“On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend’s life also, in our own, to the world.” – Henry David Thoreau

I met Yazzie when I was seven and she was six.  We rubbed noses in the alfalfa field out to the North of the Nenahnezad School and made secret promises to each other.  Some I will never reveal.  Through the years, we drifted apart and then back together again.  We were a mystery to each other.  We saw wonder in the world all around us.  In September of 1977 when I was sixteen and she was fifteen, we drove out near Burnham Mesa and danced under the stars to an Alice Cooper song.  It was our first and last date.

My old friend is gone so quick, without a touch, her breath has skipped.  A seal is broken; the spirits move fast, a famous journey on a distant path.  Oh, my partner, your lips brushing past, the four winds whirling, a picture still last.  My vision, my flame, my Navajo, that warmed me when the night was cold, took me, touched me while stars preformed a mass.  We danced so close, that we weaved a cocoon while our bodies touched inside our passions grew.  For you made me a ghost, I made one of you too, the sand on my back, while the world was you.  Made me a never, never, never, never man, whispering to me “be mine in thought, if only you can.”

For it was back then, so long ago, I became first boy on a sea of sand.  And I grew still inside of first girl so true, while the demons hid while the sky turned turquoise blue.  Her sheer layered dress, her falling hair, a pathway in time that charts a future shared.  Our souls so silent before the beauty we made, below the mesa, while destiny played.  For oh, my Yazzie, we are more than flesh, under stars that trail, that seek our breath.  For You and I, were I and you, a gasp in laughter, while worlds unglued.  A time together when where, was where. Indus crosses meridian, this now September, my Yazzie you are over there.

Just last night as I tried to sleep, my mind so anxious from a week so bleak.  I saw you passing just two stars to the right, headed beyond Mercury to a sun so bright.  Your gray hair streaming turning black by my sight, and you looked so young like you did that night.  And I played some Alice, and I played him loud, for just like back then you assured this old man, we were a constant somehow.

Deb Yazzie was a dear friend of mine from Childhood that left just the other day to travel to where there is no dark valley, just open sky and the best of an enduring mystery in Neverland. – 09.29.2021 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Snowman (Cameron Pass)


“I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep”. – Leonard Cohen

She puts snow down in my pants. It is an annual ritual to the art of romance, the cold moon, levitates by the mountains, above the pass. The aspen bending low, their bare arms barely hold. The banshee who resides in the Crags above, pushes her breathe, bringing screaming wind down Cameron Pass. Those same Aspens snap right back. Their arms an archer defending in shadows from attack. Frozen dead leaves in the ground. They will raise mighty mountains when enough have fallen down. Oh my dear, my faire and beautiful one, let us put our spirit in this cold, find the moisture off this pass, make a snowman that will last. A frozen altar, beneath clear skies, eleven thousand feet, up, come down this moon and Regulus. Ignore the spring and summer time, while we build with speed sublime, our snowman.

We touch our gloves, a strand of your hair is wind swept across your nose. Like the builders of Avalon, we build what is shown. Two circles skyward, around the moon. A statue of paradigm, with fingers we point and say you, oh you, have become me. Voices, she whispers, and I can hear the snow falling from the needles of distant trees. And it seems the snowman takes form and like the moon, he winks, and lets our love become what we receive. “What do we believe”? My words drop frozen before me. We look sadly, as the sound of my voice becomes empty drifting, skating, into this frozen Valhalla, this “land of ice and snow“. We fear not wait too long, for those voices, those seen and unseen, those moving beneath trees, those of a terrible and familiar sum return, and their spirit is not void.

And before us moves that which beholds us, work of our hands, our joined “Hallelujah”, our creation, born from the falling of a celestial sea. And it is what we believe, exactly beautiful, as creation should be.

“What if it should snow more tomorrow”? I ask the question, watching familiars take shape in dancing shadows beneath the watchful eye of Regulus, our moon having decided to wane away. Our snowman leaning forward to hear, his living purpose almost done.

“Then we shall make children”, she laughs, scooping up more snow, and reaching for my pants. – 12.09.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Fleetwood Mac and the Cloudless Flight (1980)


Dazed, so into you, sway, where ever you go, your skin smells like a Camel smoke, and the desert wind at night. September, Nicks, Fleetwood and the lights. Smoking a fatty, her jeans so tight, and looking at Maryann all night. I’ll pick you up, a “sweet wonderful you”, you loop your purse strap around me tight, and baby, baby you whisper, you’re going to fuck me on this cloudless flight. A shirt unbuttoned, rumors, your sighs, you’re dazzling thighs, and that dark, dark hair that follows the magic, where this boy wonders why. For what follows, a miracle of sight, the ways of Fleetwood Mac, and Maryann with a boy you have never denied, you have never denied.

You in your Masters, you’re English of degrees, your Wordsworth, and eighteenth century poets, me fading, a sophomore, who no longer achieves. I know you’re the wild one, I’m so quiet, and yet you say, “I don’t have to tell you, but you’re the only one”. And tonight when the Pan Am goes quiet, and Lindsey and Stevie are getting high, you and I will walk into the desert, and make love while time fly’s. The echo of “Over and Over“, the death of the light, and my Maryann, will chant Mabinogi, and like that Welsh witch Rhiannon, take me on a cloudless flight.

Is it now a question, a memory of all I could do, a nineteen year old boy, with Maryann on a concert night.

So we danced, danced, stage side, and my “Dreams” followed your hands, till they reached my side, and then you whispered “your feelings follow me wherever I go”. And then we were running, like sprites through firelight, through those east side doors into the taste filled night. Into the desert, where water dies, out by the Organ’s, where coyotes cry, and there by the ghost shack, where Pat Garett died, we made love, and believed in the ways of magic, the magic of the night. And though the years they be many, with loves and failures too, I still remember the concert, and afterwards the cloudless flight. – 08.20.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Boats against the Current


A step, a thought, a solution to where we find ourselves brought together in the end. A phrase that repeats it all, until I fall, and oh my friend I fall, lost to it all. For perfection is consuming, no longer sailing alone. A boat against the current until the end.

Maybe, a line that last forever, dreamers lost in the past, is it that perfection is consuming, or is it time that will not bring us an end. Like footprints that never leave us after the fall. I never had you, but it seems something inside kept you after all. May be I’m older, but that doesn’t seem a solution, to where I find myself, wandering from the past. A dreamer I’m older, a captain out of order, and though I don’t sail a boat, I think my heart has found a coast to sail against. To sail against.

Lines that take me, life how it shakes me, and all in all perfection is consuming, for nothing ever stopped the tide where we thought we had rest. For a ride on a boat against the current, for a look that touches something that always last, there we are motion, waiting for the dark, and on our own will it ever end. Oh woman, I cannot pretend, the shore it seems to be beyond what I can bend. We are boats beyond the current to the end. So we smile in the dark, knowing things, that make us human after all, and we know from the past, we know, things that connect us to the end.

Frame of illusion, while seasons are changing, those things that take away tears. Did I ever tell you, love unspoken is rebellion against the end. Oh the shore line it keeps changing, but still it’s the past I will not defend. For a gospel takes a word and it starts with a spark. Oh beyond it tells it all, our tomorrow is all that is left, brought together, by illusions to the end. It could be, I would reckon were boats against the current to the end.

Built on an anvil, when summers were hotter, when all the feelings felt truthful, and bound to never fall. History thought illusion, but some stories are not built on pretend. Could be we were boats against the current to the end.

Unapologetically a rip from Eric Carmen’s Boats against the Current, from which many a romantic dream was spawned. – 04.06.2015 – דניאל