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



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

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

I Never Wrote That Song

Some day’s the wheel goes round, and I look at the paper and sigh with relief, for part of me is tattered in G-Ds harmony. A bereaved melody that fell inside me became me, while the universe played a different song. Part of me, looks to see, what syllable will make me feel my home, a rare key, six to three, when every element, emotional, makes me bleed. Beside me, a world is free, but not in me, the only place these lyrics seem to belong. What do you see, when all those sounds come out so wrong, is it me that played inside me so long. Converge on me majesty, something misunderstood in melody, counting the breaths around me, I never wrote that song.

Descant in methodical math, a place to hide when I discern the worlds black wrath. This place in rhyme alone, when the sound of words alone leave my spirit ticking. A place on one knee beneath the branch of a crooked tree, where questions call to know what’s inside. A cold, a destiny beneath an alcoholic freeze, words, that fall like lightning, without a need. My paper’s ready, crying, daemons rising, it’s part of me, accommodation of something wrong. When I’m sad, a shell that displays my terrible wrong, a chant hopelessly internally, intuits to me, and there I freeze, I never wrote that song.

Line in air of pitch that speaks liquid harmony, a part of me that tears me, sometimes off key, a place of charmed gone wrong. Voices living, inside me pointlessly, still determinedly, I deliver lyrics that sing my song. Could it be, antiphonally, unnaturally in destiny, some old music stayed inside me too long. No matter, I’ll gather paper, and out of range I’ll become something that no one believes, and when in character they come to see, I’ll deliver, but in all that carnage that stayed inside me so long, please believe, I never wrote that song.


“I Never Wrote That Song” inspired by that rascal Alice Cooper, “I Never Wrote Those Songs” from Lace & Whiskey. – 05.19.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Whispers by autumn (A Prayer of New Days)

Whispers by autumn, they rise and they go, no voices just writing and bearing a witness of the light that raises my soul. Sweet gift of the union, the magic of man, the budding reunion of Torah, a kiss on my forehead and hand. You take and you sing me, like psalms of the heavens, a child’s understanding, a deep heavy rhythm, incredible numbers, the wording, for glory like comfort when sleeping in the seal when you gently pass me by. Adonai-Nissi, a breath worth chanting, a ratable cleansing, a curse or a blessing, the words are written in autumn by my hand.

Whispers by autumn, like shadows of love, your gaze in my fallen hands, suddenly, that critique so old is commanded in shades of sapphire. Scores are summoned, who will understand, impulsivity, the wind of YHWH reeling like thunder in the cortex of my passion. Now my pen dances, and will not harbor what used to be me. You will not judge me like some forlorn spirit disgraced in this electrical fallen age, rather you consider me immortal, and my sin you consider equal in phenomenon to your compassion. My autumn saves me with vespers enchanted, and in my thought I write the wonder of you.

Whispers by autumn, beholden grace in syllables reserved for the nomenclature tangled in the wakes of angels. Sight well hidden now risen, born and elaborated, given to numbers and directions, measuring figuratively by given perspectives this new temple. That building of written psalm that Teit-Vav has considered constructed under autumn sight for me. What was silent, has disappeared, a phrase believed is written living, a word holy, committed deeper than any living memory. Now invade me, cast me to that place of living, and I will praise you in rhyme. Whispers by autumn, they rise and they go, no voices just writing and bearing a witness of the light that raises my soul.דָּנִיֵּאל 03/07/2014

The Familiar










Touch me when you feel relevant once more.  Come into my heart when you are healed and play like a child again.  With difficulty I let you go, and like a hard habit that breaks my back you raze my bones and then you float silently away.  Snowing on Saturday and cold, this wilderness I am not sure I can take.  Yet, a word similar to therefore or however, there exist a possibility that with the release of you as a disability I find my way.

No one needs to hear about burdens, there are too many heartaches we all own.  Self and longing belong to the same god, a dogma that beholds the sinner to disbelief.  Candles that are self lit die in just a little shade.  I have to fashion new familiars that will help the exhausted want to wait.  Please give me black liturgical entanglements of words that limp then dance on a minor score that’s played.

The word that brings ideas to the criminal, the word of nothing that creates the end of decay.  No longer must adjectives describe, sounds they must utter, glory exalted in play.  Is there a need to describe harmony, are not the sounds you want to read in the chaos of what you falsely believe you cannot see.

Is this private pathological conversation with my familiar leading others to language that will help them find their way?  What psalm glides in silence across my paper when I choose not to obey.  This writer bequeaths his freedom to a stranger he thought he released yesterday, a noise filled proverbial that diffuses and threatens to take my sanity away.

Touch me wanderer, you feel relevant once again, paint my crooked sky with confused signs of magic, so that I might write and charm a familiar that leads others to play.

A good writer has a familiar. In truth that familiar must be released from time to time to help the writer maintain his or her soul.  It is known as writer’s block!  The reunion with a writer’s familiar upon his or her time in purgatory is filled with dark magic and deeds, and it is in that reunion that the most wonderful words are released.-Daniel Swearingen 02/01/2014