Lucifer’s Opus

All Graphic rights: Socar Myles (Lucifer in The Violin)

Two armies in speed approach, one upon another, two lights between the northern skies, mine, and then one other. For every death, is thought one more, pain from one another. You dash your heel upon my shore, a shame, a shadow, a shudder! What instinct has traveled by your mind, that seeks to find its owner, have you not seen me act sublime, and turn a frozen shoulder. A thought of interest from your face, when you look at fallen grace, how it tempts you, when I cry, beguiling spirits how I lie, shining teeth so open wide, misguided thoughts in disguise. Oh song, never has a night been so long, opus in the darkness sung strong, fairer than the morning that comes, better learned of anger than none.

Two flowers bloom, in desert sand, their petals shadow each other, like balance between the sun and moon, one over lights the other. A balance beam, on one eye, continued thunder in jaded skies, why let us fear, my thoughts draw near. It could be true I love you dear, after secrets, spurned and scorned, fallen daemons from false storms. Do you not know me after time, we’ve shared proud envy, fallen pride. Across this prism, my refrain, a trial given, and still I sing, your host in heaven, Sheol knows well, I the mourning have grief to tell. That while your trumpets they do play, I’ve stolen lightning from its way, and in this opus I do sing, I am your wayward brother.

Two poles do reach across a stage, in time they seek to turn away, and if by night he calls me near, my song of death he still holds dear, an opus strung upon the lyre, of sickles burning among the tears. Yes he calls me, like chosen need, to chart the deadly with disease, a critic most willing, to stage a play, my tune in killing on judgment day. Two ones of two and then one more, a composition of just one score, a blade in light it holds more heat, an opus in heaven has one seat! – 7.17.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Should be a River

Across the street from the Rosemont diner, food a plenty served with love for two, sat an old brown man holding print paper, rattling bones his luck not holding true. It seems to me, I said for endeavor, this river street runs a title true, across it seems, there’s foliage deemed for wet lands, please tell me is it true? Should be a river I think over yonder, should be a bank with water running through, contemplate this old man, you’re not a stranger, is there a river across there running through? The old brown man, holding print paper, the old brown man looked me through, and then his eyes thinned, laced like a rapier, his life of longevity shook me through and through.

The truth young sir, is something you can’t live with, the fable of life is where you find you’re own, in life I knew there should be a river, across the street it should run through, across this bow its water running new. His voice like death dyeing on dark embers, his face a mask of something gotten blue, you see in truth he’s never seen a river, that water of life so close to me and you. Right across the street, so close that steps should walk it, a bird has seen it so far up in the blue, but that brown man, the one with print paper, the one rolling bones he seems to have no clue.

On Ruby Street he was born a poor son, a beggar of a thieve in 1942. Six blocks west, there should be a river, but pain came first, a way to make it through. Bottles and bones, a culture of a fiefdom, a caste, Americana, red, white and blue. Demographic shame, father, son to reaper, a place lost from conscience, well hidden from our view. Truth it seems, is hidden from a river, a shelter it deems should help us through, how often it is, across the street there’s water, we die from thirst watching it flow through.

The old brown man, the one outside the diner, the one you’ve seen calling, is it really you? Hail now friend, there now should be a river, across your street have you seen it running through.

The old brown man sitting outside the Denny’s right across the street from the Des Plaines River in Rosemont, Illinois, had actually never seen the river itself when I asked him how to find i he seemed confused. He had lived his whole life no more than eight blocks from it. If eyes tell the truth his did. His words I will always remember, “There should be a river over beyond those trees, may be a mile or so but I’m not for certain”. The truth was it was no more than a quarter of a mile from where we sat and talked. – 07.15.2014 –דָּנִיֵּאל

Walden (Woods of Zion)

I thought I was twenty, I was nine, when I set my sights on woods of Zion. I took Excalibur, a three inch blade and went to make myself a day. In the woods a wild wood trail, by a creek down near a vale, I found a fossil an ancient shell, that spoke of oceans within the dell, an ark of time hid for me, a code of Noah by my feet. In a secret, by the glen, down a path that never ends, by a pond that revealed my soul, reflected wonder I lost control, there in moss of mountains old, came an element that took control. Its wind of shelter bore a craft, of greater wisdom then I had, had.

Down the well, of dirt and stone, in red clay I went alone, thought of ghost, my danger wild, a fate delivered, a risen child. By the Elm I cut my arm, tasted sun in grace and charm, found a mill stone of ancient clans, touched its surface, it froze my hand. A strange occurrence in Ozark heat, what made it cold, and incomplete? When in doubt, I climbed a tree, saw a snapper beneath my seat, it moved so slow, within its shell, its place in nature made stories tell. I bet it lived there before the trees, when by the pond there was a sea, I bet it cried unto the deep, send a young boy to rescue me. Eventide it brought me back, a boy encountered by what he lacked. My countenance shining in mud and lore, brought on by secrets at natures core.

Henry David, did you see, G-D, in your woodland, a deity? Were there shells born on the leaves, were their turtles that made you believe? Did you see the eyes of one, buried deep beneath your pond? Were there mill stones that had no heat, when you touched them what did you seek? There in Walden you must have smiled, knowing someday, a child would find, in the Ozarks, a glen so deep, a precious Walden a heart would reap. I thought I was twenty, I was nine, when I set my sights on woods of Zion. – 06.24.2014 – 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

Part II [It’s What We Do]

At one hundred one plus ten more strong, Alexander Imich, received a song, weighted in sapphire weighted in strife, he wore tefillin, he wore life, it’s what we do. Scars like lightning, sunset on skin, Sharon Debunek, abused within, she thought about cutting a little bit more, but laws of her body, made her want more, so she smiles, and writes, it’s what we do. Alchemic waters, interest in law, balance of matter, destiny calls. Code on my forehead, blood in my skin, if there’s a reason, instinct within, logic in wanting, my love begins, it’s what we do.

In motion held sightless, hands above light, Alicia Alonso, spun in beauty into the night, she danced above promise, she twirled into flight, intuition of sight, it’s what we do. He rhymes in his madness, his mind split by a bullet wound, and when the right song plays, Lex Cordova, dances naked under his favorite moon. He researches heaven, and believes in seconds of life extended when he prays, it’s what we do. Simple beginning, to likely end, equal love for indignity of sin, a faith for every curtain of horror that’s been ripped from your soul. A search is over, a spark spoken, my love begins, it’s what we do.

Mathematical wings, by savant thunder, gaged and judged before nine, in keys of major majesty, Derek Paravicini takes the musical dais, and reaches a deeper place inside, it’s what we do. Deluded in richness guilt ridden by the touch of her father’s skin, Jenna Payne, rides between the cross and bulimic wrath, and in a sudden inspiration she sees a rock to climb. She ascends to touch the magic, the balance of grace and land, she rises to gaze the wonder, her body takes a stand, it’s what we do. For a lifetime the answer surrounds us, it reaches to touch us, to become us, to play us, to be what we do. My love begins, it’s what we do.


I wondered how it would end, the question first posed, “What do we do? I didn’t really lose any sleep over it, but being somewhat neurotic, and a little obsessive, I knew this week could not end without posting an answer. I read a story today on how 111 year old Alexander Imich was visited by a young Rabbi and he wore tefillin for the first time since his b’nai mitzvah in Poland over 100 years ago. Alexander like so many of the subjects in my short piece above, held the answer to my question first posed in “What do we do”. It is instinctual to live, to begin, to breathe, and to live according to a better law, it is logical to love, not want to love, but to love, and with that my love begins, it’s what I do. – דָּנִיֵּאל – 05.06.2014


Pale Blue (Benediction)

My dad died again Sunday morning, around 12:32 in the morning or so. I don’t keep up with the exact time, but suffice it to say, this time like all the rest provided its own special memory. The man had blue eyes, pale blue eyes that separated emotional waters and brought a stillness in place of anger and disbelief. Pale blue eyes that revealed no hero, just a sanctuary for his son when he was weak. So again he sealed his eyes, without breathing or fury, no longer man, just a spirit, no power, no words, the breach to pass, no longer a great divide.

That was what was different this time when dad closed his eyes, I saw him say goodbye. This time for the fourteenth time he simply let me go, with a gentle sigh. Amazing really for a man who was not afraid to die, to hold on to me like that. I think I’ll have to go back, over and over again. May be I’ll have to watch his pale blue eyes close fourteen times in my mind. I’ll look at the story to see if it fragments, when the essence leaves the iris, when the wind changes direction, and in benediction my ever changing sorrow is released.

There should be more words, a book of memorandum, but that would not be truthful, that would bring false stature to what true love is. My dad had love that sits in abandoned days and waits in patience for empty years to realize their mistakes. Pale blue a color recognized only by the best of artist when the time has come to put the finishing touches on their landscape of a greater place. In benediction he showed me a way to walk through the storm, and although I have read this, it surprises me to know my dad lived it, for no power can hold one who does not look for an escape.

Pale blue, a benediction, after so many years and not seeing his face. A wonderful gift he has left me, simple not so full of religion and creed, not based in shamanistic technology. Just eye sight, passed down in death so many times, at last I am finally realizing what his memory has completed, and I will not look to escape from time. I will love the moment for what it has done.


Jack M. Swearingen died on April 20, 2000, he was my dad. – דָּנִיֵּאל – 04/22/2014

Blessings of the Writer (Psalm of Tiferet)

Poet, you chase me, contain me in a breeze. Creator, a story, that’s born in me to believe. Wonder, first footsteps, a child you must first feed. Chastened, by darkness, you lose your mortality. Listening, stirred inward, your desert takes its toll. Hear now of a fever, a story never told. Haunted, by a sonnet, of a ghost that thieved its soul. Spirit’s, drunken soldiers, the pleasure’s still untold. Firelight, in a canyon, a pen it scribes of love. Silent, before magic, the rum it finds my blood. Tattered by the critique, the one who cannot see, the blessing of the writer when lost in mystery.

I defined G-D casting lighting, felt summer when it’s cold, written of assurance, with demons in control. Old men that were Merlin, have written in my sleep. Valleys, retained by witches have sown the words I reap. Candles, in leafless forest have chased me with a rhyme. Daniel, you have dominion, Bel’s prince has summoned time. You helped me scribe the starlight, from high born desert nights. Etched my thought in shadows, and led me to the light. The ode of throne and sapphire, a dreamed that stopped my strife, the blessing of the writer, the sparks that changed my life.

Compose, now I a changeling, an alchemy not taught, a summoning of fusion, tainted by some thought. Write I, now the sound unmade, deficient of first light, reform it to its bed now made, and ask to have real sight. Honor me with writing that changes form and deed, give me striking wisdom that grows this tree of peace. Let delight seize me, and write down song in me. Constitute the psalm of sea, and let me sail away. Establish on my forehead and arm for time to be, the blessings of the writer, my familiar trapped in me. – דָּנִיֵּאל 04/16/2014

White Robe (A True Story)

They wear a white robe in virtual euphoria, telling their secrets in all of its Gloria. I know a woman in trinity rapture, worships her kingdom in fashion forever. Plastic blood gods, forgiven here after, afraid of the old world, immune in her stature. Her kingdom in antithesis story, assumes a white robe that decrees a false glory. She stands now in licentious magic, dealing a false card, taken from shadows, written on dead skin, two thousand years, of sin forgiven, how?

I know a man that wears a white robe, speaks to the angels, reaches for kingdoms, tells of the unborn, begging as tears flow, his eyes go inward, psychosis given, his sin is living now. Roman, covered by secrets, parchment and leather, canon of ritual, taken from old ways, how? He speaks of his love for one G-D accessed, by blood god possessed, shame of the ages, come now to save us, how?

It is a strange way, declaring its favor, outsourced sorcery, torturous wisdom, blood on a strange wood, nephilim stranger, born of a woman, mystery unspoken, how? They enter underground from various places, wearing a white robe, clothed in their virtue, talking as warriors, crimson to do good, how? In G-D’s love they place their judge of hereafter, take from the old way, say it’s a new way, lost in black vision, preaching in one way lost in a three way, how?

Real life, dollar loud saviors, watching in crimson possession by business, pornography vision, how? Warfare, witches in heaven, balance is given, light turns his face, torn from the shadow, now, the true story, now. Ark of the living, hidden from Esau, how? They wear a white robe, stolen from glory, a destiny hidden, an alien forgiven, how? They seek a real light, Shekinah of Yisrael, Solomon’s protocol, the well of G-Ds wonders, sound of the holy, how? They wear a white robe, plastered in diamonds, numbering the beast, counting the minutes, numerals of knowledge, how?

This is a safe place, with white robes forbidden, where love is not hidden, blood is not needed, life is still heeded here. There is forever one from beginning the ark of unending, a balance defending know how. There is no new way, when constant is flowing, sapphire is glowing, sphere of pure light is clear. Endless, in cyclical union, compassionate fusion, no cover, forgiveness, a judgment of reason, now. – דָּנִיֵּאל 04/13/2014

Bathsheba the Morning After (Pull Me Under)

My wrist uplifted, sliced in light with a blade of dawn, my conscience tender, human filled with defilement from my slumber. The night, the dragons, the fears where daemons cry. My weakness before sunrise, in thoughts, a failure in darkness, the thorns that made love cry. No psalm right now, my creator before me, indigenous shame beneath dry sky. Pull me under, lest I kill me, your judgment before me, these sprites inside me, lost from grace inwardly misplaced. My mind a warrior, my soul a prophet, now ruined in shadows, unreasonable in its passion, my spear inside me. I am pulled under, spinning before your face.

Pull me under, with skin that falters within the moment, in moonlight, Azazel in passion with lips before me, a fire of wonder that marks me blind. In sighs, in minutes my spirit insipid, a man her other, my destiny, forgotten, this light of a new day, another I called out, and by a summoned, a clay filled pact, by that familiar did Uriah stumble and die. Opened now by my eastern window, noise, and divisions in diver’s places, this sorcery unending, ethereal and wicked. By my eye, I have traded compassion to another, in this coldness, I am pulled under, spinning before your face.

Bane of a tempter, that lightning that thrills me, her body in water that judgment controls. Pull me under, that morning might not find me, these covers in kisses of rapture, these whispers of soul. This light how it burns me, and makes my heart quiver, this place by my window, where your flesh has called me wait. A deception, a strange essence I have captured, an infamy now held forever, these acts now behind me, I am pulled under while I awake.


David (מַּלְכוּת)
awoke on the first day after the darkness was gone, alone a murderer and an adulterer, separated from the light, all predestined and a part of a strange and balanced plan. – דָּנִיֵּאל 04/10/2014

Better Living (Life in Totah)

I will take you there, where the three rivers meet, where something really special built a spirit in me. In the Totah of the valley I was built with creed, my apostles were the blue sky, and the sand at my feet. My birthright was the mesa that was soaked by sun, my terrors torn asunder when the day was done. The fashion of the plain way, and the spoken tongue, the right and left of promise, deeds of praise unsung, the sheltered light of caring, forgotten cost of sharing while I was young.

A chamber not so hidden still resides in me, a place I stood my childhood still in memory. A blanket full of wisdom, not found in norm, a hand that wears the turquoise, no culture lost by storm. Sometimes when an earthquake shakes my home, I bring back better living, life in Totah there I roam. The best that I can offer in my private belief, came to me in boyhood near a Pinon tree. In the seed was Manna that fed my soul, there in by the San Juan I took control.

Now I’m growing older, and my hair is gray, I need to search three rivers where my secrets lay. Something in the water, could be stone or sand, something in the people, and the heart of the land. Sheltered by remission, where this road does lay, I will find permission where the ghost do play. Come famed muddy waters cutting channels deep, I will live in Totah while my soul does sleep. Therein lies my wisdom from where I used to play, growing better living in the Totah way. This immortal minder gifts a better day. I will take you there, where the three rivers meet, where something really special built a spirit in me.

Kind memories of the plateau’s valley’s and rivers of my childhood near Farmington, Kirtland and Fruitland New Mexico reminds my ageing soul that the cost and victories I retained in this special place as a child instilled in me better living for life. My foundation was life in Totah! דָּנִיֵּאל 03/22/2014