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





After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.” – Mark Twain

Our marriage is like a shelter.

Our marriage is as Don Quixote heaped with scorn.

Our marriage is like a great man o’ war with sails unfurled.

Our marriage is as “Allegri Miserere” performed at 3:00 A.M.

Our marriage is abstract before concept, a dismissed preposition, built upon an article of fact.

Our marriage is like a shelter. Our marriage is like a shelter.

There is a falling angel with eyes like glass, bringing fire for our journey to the world we cast. For we float on many waters of times to come, and we search each other’s motives with an iron rung. For we are one, under this shelter, we are one.

I wake, eyes wide, from smoky dreams, of tattered wings falling from beams. I wake in morning of the year’s just past, I harbor that vision of yesterday, dwelling my eyes, upwards while kneeling as to pray. What there does fall, and consume rare air, fall at fifteen past two before the altar stair. Just the years before, before my words “I shall”. How it warmed my face with a bit of touch, then brushed right past me to a bridal veil.

Those years before, when I looked up high in a sanctuary and saw no sky. Imperceptible in quiet, below, rafters’ brown in tongue and groove, flew a rarer angel who with burning glass eyes flew. Came a lustrous fire upon the gentle head, swaying to my side, such a beautiful head. In all those words strung by to and fro, a lighter rhyme off our tongues they flow. Written by earth bound hands and spoke with ease, now they mark my soul a façade I see. Now in this morning of the years just past. Something in those rafters reaching so fast.

For it seems the years before brought something new. Not the voices inside, the ones I always knew. But a visual aspiration, from a king’s held cup. A curse or a blessing, but it is always enough. A premonition that would lose its way floating through the years of marriage until it was almost decayed. Once or twice to rise, when forgotten enough, just a kind reminder, of the host with wings above. To speak clear words in the dust and binge, when the modern worlds about us, and we cannot remember why or when. The shelter of sorrow, with hands held close, our entwined fingers tighter than if they were sewn. And if I look just up above, toward the ethereal of heaven, where most see a dove. For I see a raven with fire in its beak headed towards kingdoms for those we yet seek. What comes to me just as that first day, when I said, “I shall”, and two in one we came away.

There is a falling angel with eyes like glass, bringing fire for our journey to the world we cast. For we float on many waters of times to come, and we search each other’s motives with an iron rung. For we are one, under this shelter, we are one.

Our marriage is like a shelter. Our marriage is like a shelter.

For Susan who has put up with me for 26 years under the glassy eyes of the angel. – 03.13.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Occultavia (1988)

“Because no retreat from the world can mask what is in your face.” – Gregory Maguire

“What is strange, when the strangest things are born from G_D.” – DS

I thought for a moment that it could be the late hour, the tricks of the night on the eye, the curves of the highway. I thought too much on it at first, and then I thought not on it at all, as the hillside parted, and that which was movement moved.

The space around her appeared barren, the frozen fog closing gaps around her lithe figure, changing not it’s form, yet somehow it changed. That she was the first witch, that I knew, and although there is reason that I should have known it not, yet in that late hour it became a part of me, something in reflection, I would rather it be not.

The years since then, that is something most would address, those many years since I saw, that cold dark spirit. She there in the wood. Still, so still near the highway. She in shadow, not a tale. Not a figment of thought to frighten young children on eves of reckoning. Rather she a witch, a true shadow in the leaves on that winter night. Standing with arms unfolded, inviting. Her song in alien syllables not of this world, but of that which we do not see until we die. But yes, it is the years since then I now address, and I do so carefully, for I think I have seen her once again in the corners of my dreams, and in that I think there is something I should see not.

I could describe that night, in detail, the Ozark mountain highway, the very monochrome world that I drove through. The cold, the moment KFAQ out of Tulsa, went silent, that bend in the road. That place where giants were born from falling angels, after the flood, after Ha Adam. The sifting of red clay and rich dark sediment, where the flood began, and ended. I could tell you all. Still, all would not describe her, standing there at 3:04 A.M. The first witch in darkness. The first witch I have ever seen.

It is written for I cannot say it aloud, that, my darkest thoughts contain G_D. It is in those thoughts that I am judged, for as my name beholds, G_D is my judge. Also, in my thoughts, those darkest thoughts, stands a witch, the first witch. She too implores and judges, and often, as my life moves, I do as I should not, and I look if only briefly into my mirror.

She runs, with her billowing swaths of black cloth moving all around her, she follows chasing, frost and cold about her. and her face I pray, oh her face I pray, I never ever see. – 02.25.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל


“The pillar of cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, departed not from me.” – Exodus 13:22 (Paraphrased DS)

“There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, ‘Consume me’.” – Virginia Woolf

It is a wee voice, a small murmur like that gift of calling to Father Samuel, the end of a whisper as it falls to reprieve. It is a hum, a syllable or two not known by any tongue. An undertow that pulls with its sound. For it is a question, and everywhere the sky is painted, with colors and clouds. It is a wee voice, and it comes from many clouds.

The boy stands at the canyon, the one that lures him in. The curious art he sees in the obscurities, the mysteries without end. He ask himself a question, a personal thought within. Where does the course carved by this river have a source to begin? Am I to be like this canyon, carved and butchered below a skyward facing rim?

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

The young man stands near the ocean, the one that dares him swim. The twisted patterns he sees in its never-ending currents. The dark water appears so dim. Greater than the tempest, an octave of torrents. The face of Lilith looking up from a vast and pale vale. A moment or two of indecision, a fear of drowning in depths that have never seen the stars. He ask himself a question, of which not a word begins with when. Who calls to me? Who calls to me? Am I to be within this water? Dead and plummeting without breath.

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

The gray haired man stands on a mountain, above and below some clouds, he sees. It appears just a moment or a prospect to close his eyes and disappear for eternity. The wind has the sound of spirit voices, the eagle it swoops in vain. Somewhere close just nigh of heaven up here, the rocks echo a name. He ask himself a question. Is my destiny still the same? Is my destiny still the same? Am I to fly home into these heavens, finally to be consumed by your flame?

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

It is a wee voice, and it comes from many clouds. – 02.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

In the Library

“Oh, my G_D how profound are these mysteries!” – John Dee

Kelley holds the shew-stone with the mist forming fast. The white vapors shoot upwards around the volumes on upper shelves and form a circle as if to task. The days are still some colder but the winter will not always last, voices moving in their language, numbers show me, show me, something past.

For what is the speech of angels?

I set upon a voyage in a hinterland of sleep, a cauldron of air so cold at first, I thought I would freeze. A self-taught journey from places of the deep, to find the ever after answer in the library of John Dee. Symbols all around me some painted legend in the sky, a coat of many colors as millennium flew by. The whispers of the angels said they were drawing nigh, and then my soul dropped from the star filled sky. Like the star, not yet of morning, summoned to a rite of old, my bare feet feel so frozen in the library I well know. It is about the phantoms, and it is about the truth, the long search of the symbols to find if what angels speak is truth. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

For here among this sceptered place, with pages from strange worlds, candles burn until morning light, all time has come unfurled. The figures of the two men turn as if to see, but then I see them looking upwards, they do not see me. The coven of the angels falls without light or human sound, they whisper in the shadows who is willing, to stand higher ground. Their bodies are like different lights, some common, some spark with sound. It could be some are seraphim, some light daemons who have come unbound. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

I stood so indecisively, surveying an unreal play. The ghost of Dee and Kelley asked their questions from a book displayed. An esoteric experiment, to know the power of G_D, to wonder at the wisdom, imparted in what they caught. The scene of simple symbols invoking that realm in which the angels play, to not know that they had reached any reason, only the gray at the end of the day. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

So, this is a little something that happens now and then, I disappear in airs of thought to a library where time stands still. I ask the light around me what is that of shapes and wills, and still I have no answer, and perhaps I never will. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

For what is the speech of angels? – 01.30.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Blue Forest (Two)

“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” – John Muir

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for myself and a long forgotten youthful twin!

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin. “The late hour it whispers, is over, the morning is never to have been, and nightfall has come forth to show you a strange forest”. “Rise in your place let’s begin.” I wondered at this kind of slumber, awake or a dream held within. For surely it was as a time I remembered that happens over and over again. For just a second, I thought it illusion, a discording thought of dissonance within. But then the sweet kisses touched all my body. What inner wounds inside sewn, a healing began? As soft sounds sang, I traveled millennium, both forwards and backwards, my spirit extends. To see that place a child called a forest, blue with light, a place I had been. The two of us stand in our glory; mist about the mystic begins. A thousand lights the magic starts again.

Day upon day, my life seems to tremble, so shy in its way, so much trouble it seems. An opera plays Faust with marching daemons, sticking their bloodthirsty knifes in me deep. Suffering thoughts of infinite worry, anxiety, fears there seems no relief. Still, still a thought pervades all this darkness, making its way to the core of my belief. Two is you, tied to survival; night has come, now learn to believe. Night has come, fly forth to receive.

So easily thought of in childhood survival, the blue forest hides as each year passes by, but somewhere in mercy, there sits a kind angel. At night she arrives in my memory she fly’s. Goodbye, I go, the journey enabled, to the blue forest, a memory of trees. Open clock doorways to worlds and their fables, journey I journey with the boy, I know just beside me. Ever this land has brought my heart nearer to something or someone G_D means me to be.

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin, that sleeps next to me. It is so cold outside but here it is like April, teasing and pulling me saying come please. Arrayed by sight, led until I am able to know what is right, in front of me. Paths that gleam white in the blue forest. So many trails, which one shall it, be. A moment a knight, a sword on a quartz table. A sign that says pull forth and be free. Be stronger now and let the child see. What’s two in one G_D has set free.

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for I and a long forgotten youthful mind! – 01.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל



“Civilization has been thrust upon me… and it has not added one whit to my love for truth, honesty, and generosity”. – Luther Standing Bear

“What must we do, has become what must I do?” – DS

And he looks away!

He sees Whiteclay as immortal sometimes, and perhaps it is. A Northern Nebraska indention between the world of his ancestors and the fifth of Wild Turkey he holds in the very palm of his hand. He feels Whiteclay as an empty faced angel scorching the earth in January, alkali and snow mixing, bringing death to the valley grounds. So cold in winter, there’s not a sound, except the sighing of the last breath of the defeated.  The indigenous, such a nice progressive word, for the itómni man leaving town. The mist it rises barely, over worn blankets hiding flesh, their bottles around them giving unto them a twenty-second century rest. And for the record Bruce Springsteen you can go home, for your song Nebraska, does not come close to atone. Your culture of murder, and thrills. Nothing is real in these Nebraska hills.

And he looks away!

For a million stars that have fallen from this cold sky. A million spirits that failed to gray and die. Look away, he sometimes hears them say. Born to die, die in Whiteclay. And sometimes late night, when he’s so drunk, his greatest grandfather comes riding bareback on the back of a thirteen-point buck. His eyes are smoking, and his feathers gray and black. He speaks in languages that the old ones hid away. Sounds and syllables from way back. In his tongue there is no variance or broken sound, just a rushing river of the winds from the south. The questions he wonders the ones he should ask, always seem to stick in his mind, as his greatest grandfather looks back. For in the morning when he awakes there is no greatest grandfather, only the empty bottle in Whiteclay, and his headache.

And he looks away!

He sees Whiteclay as a metaphor, for the coming future for the whole damn war. For the differences between what has been and the future apocalypse for agnostic sin. He knows it is a place in a state of mind for the drunken Indian that has lost his mind. But somewhere in the springtime when it is not so cold and bare, sometime when the first grass starts to bare, then if he’s alive, he will start again. To drive north from Whiteclay to where this war began. In the dead of night, he will sing a song, do a little ghost dance till the dead of dawn. And from the point of past of where he might have been, he will look away from demons and try to rise again. And then he will toss the bottle of his greatest sin, and he will look away. Finally, he will look away.

And he looks away! – 01.14.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל



“I am the mother and the daughter. I am the bride and the bridegroom, and it is my husband who begot me. I am the silence that is incomprehensible and the idea whose remembrance is frequent. I am the voice whose sound is manifold and the word whose appearance is multiple. I am the utterance of my name.” – Sorita d’Este

“I am beautiful with you” – Lizzy Mae Hale

She said would you try something with me, a favor of a curiosity of mine. A wager between a man and something, I think I read about this in one of your rhymes. Would you come in ecstasy with me, and ride your way across the great divide? All I need is for you to lay your soul down beside me, and sleep with me through your night. She said my needs have built up like your phantoms, those daemons that stroke what they find. Nothing can be built on indecision, and to be without you I would lose my mind. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

And I looked to see the falling mountains, the ones that had been inside my mind. In front of me, there stood no dark valley, just a land of milk and honey and sunshine. Then she came out glorified in me, like a gift of pleasure given in kind. There were spells, sounds, and the feeling of her breath, carving hallelujah on my spine. The chills of a mystical lettering branded from past times. Something that dwelled deep within me beyond the X’s and the O’s. Moving so far beyond my boundaries, a warmth in passion and grace undefined. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

She said would you marry Shekinah under moonlight; know the light of my body, it’s by design. Take a branch out of David and fill me up, know I am beautiful when you are inside. For my ways are in love with your shadows, your hurts are scars, that I heal in your mind. Come bath with me, do not wait until tomorrow, make one out of two, it is more than a rhyme. For we are much more than lovers, we are greater than lust of the world that binds. From left to right, I am a source inside you, make me beautiful, and now is the time. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine. – 01.11.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל


“The owl,” he was saying, “is one of the most curious creatures. A bird that stays awake when the rest of the world sleeps. They can see in the dark. I find that so interesting, to be mired in reality when the rest of the world is dreaming. What does he see and what does he know that the rest of the world is missing?”  – M.J. Rose

“I am an owl“, he says, his eyes taking on an oval shape, as he stars down the sandy slope at the empty dark highway stretching below us. “Me too”, I say looking up hoping to catch a glimpse of one. The moon a waning crescent above us looks like a perfectly clipped finger nail. “What do you think’s going on tonight”, he asks his eyes still carrying the look of the night predator. “Death”, I reply to him, not sure where the reply comes from. I look down the dark highway and see faint lights coming from the West. “It’s a blue Pontiac” he says his owl eyes knowing. “That’s one”, I say as if we are counting. The New Mexico night opens itself, as if a barren womb, or an open crypt both asking for occupation. I know this as an owl.

“I see something”, he says his owl eyes suddenly becoming more human, tearing up. His Navajo cheeks glisten with two competing tears rolling parallel to each other. “Hush now”, I say bending forward to hide my own glistening eyes. “Owls do not cry”. A wind picks up blowing its way from the Northeast, from the twin peaks, from area’s Northeast of Farmington. “Smells like death”, I say, my owl senses burning with something like fire. “We should be able to do something”, he says almost a statement, still it has the words of a question.

“Another car coming from Shiprock”, I say, the light breeze having boomeranged carries the faint smell of exhaust. My owl senses are alive. “It’s a blue hearse”, he says, his voice carrying huskiness, suddenly he no longer sounds like a young owl. “That’s two, I say, feeling a chill through my down, that spirit which surrounds me, that which will soon be feathers.

“Is it too early for chokecherries”, I ask, knowing that it is. Still a hungry owl might ask a question. “Owls don’t eat chokecherries”, he grimaces, his owl eyes looking distances beyond Farmington. “Some have been known to die by the stems”, he says. Some would die tonight, I think, my owl mind feeling sad, and not so wise, perhaps it’s the sudden distant sounds of screams, the smell of blood. “Perhaps its chindi“, he says his owl eyes turning creamy. That yellow that reflects the falling stars, while we die. That color that wonders if the Great Spirit will catch us as we cross-worlds, wondering what we are, wondering who she is.

“Are you still an owl”, I ask, it is colder now, morning of a new day. He waits a moment, perhaps waiting for the driverless blue Ford pickup with one headlight to pass in front of us. “That’s number three”, he says, without answering my pointless question. “Three died tonight, while we counted cars”, I say sweeping the span of my wings upwards toward the moving sky. He is moving with me now, my friend and fellow owl, our spirits moving higher, reaching to touch understanding of that which can never be understood.

On Sunday, April 21, 1974, the bodies of two men, Herman Dodge Benally, 34, and John Earl Harvey, 39 were found partially burned and bludgeoned in an area Northeast of Farmington New Mexico known as Chokecherry Canyon. The men’s heads had been crushed with rocks weighing as much as 16 pounds. One-week later two children riding bikes in the vicinity discovered a third body, David Ignacio, 52. All three men were Navajo. Some 11.2 miles to the southwest of Chokeberry Canyon two boys played in the darkness near 550 highway while the horrific events mentioned above played out. I still remember that night; we became owls and counted cars, all of them blue.

From the first moment I heard “Counting Blue Cars” in 1995 I knew I would write this story one day. Thank you J.R. Richards – 01.08.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Christmas Hallows

“And so, at this Christmas time, I greet you; not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem, and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.” —Fra Giovanni Giocondo

I prefer to think of “hallow” in a verb tense, to honor as holy. We all deserve that I believe. To have our special times, thoughts and loves holy, hallowed. A special place between death and the awesome light of G_D’s plan, and what better time than Christmas to celebrate this moment. – D.S.

When I think of Christmas, I’ll think of this day, Mr. Clapton singing, how somehow love can’t stay. Still it seems a mystery, a divining plan, how in Christmas hallows, love can take a stand. Every truth is wonder, how we struggle to find, a deeper love or meaning, when its in us all the time. History revolves around us, here in peace on earth, the myth might be a baby, still we celebrate a birth. For something in these Christmas hallows is something with each of us that stays, perhaps the prayer of memory of tender moments strayed. Falling cold around us, I wish it would snow today. That would make these Christmas Hallows seem like Christmas day.

Somewhere there’s a story written on one hand, I think the inks still drying, it’s a dream I don’t understand. Of a place or story, a certain promised land, traveled to on Christmas. Lost and found again. May be Mr. Clapton found it on a day when his son went falling his spirit went away. Now in Christmas Hallows a round and round it goes, asking for our memory, saying don’t let go. Asking for our memory saying please, oh please don’t let go.

When I think of Christmas, I move as if to stray, suddenly, it’s a far time, long so long away. I am just a young boy in 1978, looking through a glass darkly, so much I can’t say. Wandering through a long hall, one without a way, is it just a dream, knowing that I’m changing, loosing childhood memories in hallows, gone for good on Christmas Day. Every moment meaning, a skip a carol unsung, do you know this feeling, to leave this earth? Rise yourself in Christmas, watching all your memories in reverse.

We are all just children beyond our age, thinking we are special near Christmas Day. Bringing forth our hallows of one time delayed. Yes, it comes at Christmas, a ghost, a space, asking us for something to give away. Just like Mr. Clapton, our sorrows in hand, asking for forgiveness from a light which draws us with it’s plan you see, draws us everyone with its plan. 12.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Zuzan (Banrigh nan Witches)

“I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, send the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer’s sky.” – Tibullus

In the act of prelude…

They burn her in the evening near the loch, an inward sea, hairless pilgrims from the Romans, who cannot abide what they cannot see. For they know not love of difference, nor the signs of transformation, so they burn her near the sunset, to set their superstitions free. Maple red it lights the skyway, like her skin in faire degrees, with the screams of a thousand angels as above and below deceived. For she is the heir of hierarchy, the share of all unseen. The voices of her sirens cry come forth thou, my craft it is aggrieved.

First act of the evening…

First I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve, with the air filled full of wonder, lights around her face and feet. She made me think of some wickedness the kind that is so grand, where you watch the pleasure of a lady, delivered by a softened hand. It seemed she did not notice me, where I was or what I am and it led me to a reason, that I was dreaming or a familiar, from an ancient tribe or clan. In the garden there were statues both alive and some were dead, and not alone some were speaking, and from those her mind seemed fed. And, she laughed in grand gaiety, and smiled her lips so bloody red, and she brought forth life from a cold stone woman, with a kiss upon her hand. Above the snow had stopped falling and shown bright north stars in those snowflakes stead. Not a sound from this garden except the laughter from her mouth, forming spells in passion noises, eagerness building all about.

I saw her look back shyly, her hand it waved my way, the brown ringlets from her brown hair fine, glistened as she swayed. Come with me sweet surveyor within my mind a voice. She led me to a crypt nearby from in it came a noise. She bent the handle without effort and with her hand, she waved, back through time, we entered through a doorway once her grave. The night sky seemed to follow, well before the dawn, down through magic passageways, from whence ghost travel from whence they come. Her body moved so lightly, as so as if to say, nothing has ever owned me, not ever without my say. For with this in mind I traveled from a present course, and arrived back in time so ancient she led me without force.

I came upon an altar in a sudden winters gloom, with ashes it still smoldered by a loch under a winters moon. The queen of all the witches turned to tell me of the ruins. Of all my crazed filled travels in dreams of rare displays. No nothing not of something had ever taken me this way. For it was her in this travel, that I learned of simple things, how the body burned for living, can never be decayed. In the simple act of hatred, in one act of just one play. The building of the sovereign spirit by craft can find its own way. For her story is the cosmos, her travel by air woven sleighs, and she has made her world in forest cathedrals, and there her book of shadows stays.

First, I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve.

For my Whitby Lady my very own, she who I followed through a garden – 12.23.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Pathways of Faith are Never Free

“…someday…, we’ll medicate human experience right out of the human experience.” – Dennis Lehane

“Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.” – Carl Gustav Jung

He writes a story in me, humming in words as he steps around our Christmas tree. Nothing of logic is key, though he answers the question of what it takes to be free. He builds a lion in me, hunting through the puzzles of his mind decisively, turning instantly, moving from mood to mood, nothing is broken if you can finally see. The picture of his sweet mind, the character of the essence that makes him love me undefined. For if, he should ever go away, I would weep without stopping and there I would die that day, my heart in darkness, blind. For he cannot go, while he stays, oh no he cannot go while he stays. He gathers from a different world he sees. Breaking down a fourth wall, dividing black out of white decisively. Fomenting conversation that draws mystery, he means everything to me. Oh, my son you mean everything to me.

The orbs of his eyes create a sea, a brown warm emotion that stops the worlds freeze. The mystic how it forms, layer upon layer over history it swarms, taking our discussions to the how or ever when. This world has many doorways let us open them from within. My son you are a fortress that no one ever sees, a stronghold of magic that forms a mighty keep. Weaving in and out of love like it is on a time release. The ways of G_D are strange to me. You whisper in my ear, “The pathways of faith are never free”. You say it while I sleep, “the pathways of faith are never free”.

He spins such ominous ghost, according to our dialogue they have established in his mind a host. Words a Psychiatrist plays, let us try this little pill just to get him through each day. For what is an interest to him, the opening of a beautiful mind, or the compartments we define them in. The days are passing quicker; before you know it, time will lose its way. So on the eve of winter when there is snow upon the ground. The sign of mankind’s judgment a line of demarcation all around. My son he rises holy and he points up to the winter stars, he swears upon his body, and he loosens his minds scars. He writes a story in me, and it will not go away, for in his own belief he seizes what is day. For nothing is of logic for in that is the key, to answer the one question that it takes to be free. Who is me? Who is me? For as we know, Faith is never free.

For my wife, daughter and especially my son, who has over paid the price of faith to gain the light. – 12.21.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

  • Over 80 million Americans took a Psychotropic medication in 2018

Whereby Shining

“Whereby shining, I have been, hunting Cibola, inquiring of angels, and I have found an ancient spirit in shiny metal, that brings me this winter from where I used to be.” – DS

“This is my winter song.” – Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson

Whereby shining!

He stands there a shimmer about him, unaware of our presence around him. He stands there beyond himself seeing mystery. He stands there receiving a word from the Lord, tilting his head to the left, listening. The ice-coated whispers enter his red cold infested left ear. We stand there too, you and I. Interested readers, voyeurs. Watching him. The boy surveying the steep snow-covered bluff above the ice filled river is nine-years-old. His brown worn jeans shift as he moves from one leg to another. He looks suddenly at a spot high above him on the bluff, and he is moving, climbing, and we watch him you and I, whereby shining he does go.

Whereby shining steeples in rows, frozen sand, some under snow. Climb the darkness, mount the helm, bring the shining and cast ahead. What child inside would make this climb, gathering snowflakes in his torn jeans behind. On upward, over ford, ice where no bridge, a stick as his sword. Somewhere here now higher, be still now his thought. For tracks in the snow, show something, what is not. The grace of elders, the crown to find. Saint George slew the dragon. Above in Eden, his dragon he will bind. A boy this day, O give us this day, to know, to grow, to climb on Saturday, December 21, 1969.

Whereby shining, half way to the top, a cold wind blowing in languages long sought. Each foothold a lesson, what has begun, can never be stopped. The object of mystery, the one at the top, the interest of passion, that is all that he’s got. The owl looking down says that is all that he’s got. To build legend in arid air cold, speak with ghost from society so old. A shimmer of metal from a place so high, an interesting shadow casting brilliance to the New Mexico cold sky. No time for doubt with the secret so near.

Whereby shining, the translucent moon is near. A waxing gibbous to the boy a sign is here. The icy waters of the San Juan below, he stares back at water, and watches it flow. His wooden sword it leans against his knee. He thinks he is better now, then he has ever been; the world of old has come to him. For in his hands he holds a meteorite, the sum of the heavens, and the source of his light. And from the beginning of what was him, the boy feels the light with what he holds within.

Whereby shining! – 12.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל


“Hell is empty, and all the devils are there.” – William Shakespeare

“There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.” – John Lennon

What I saw at dusk was a boxcar with ageing wood, sitting under cold stars in shadowland. It appeared misunderstood. It spoke to me of empty men sleeping there while traveling across these plains. Their minds bringing darkness to this boxcar. To the boxcar they were all the same. For what I saw bore no life to see, just an empty craven wasteland with a hobo hotel for the damned, by life’s decree.

Hollow whispers from a spirit; where zero is the sum, once a part of family now this boxcar has none. Should we whisper stories, should we tell of times, drug beyond a great and mighty engine destined toward the mountain mines. Once upon a far place, joined by groove and tongue, now a ghost and empty, humming words of rhyme. Thy will be done. Oh yes, in time, thy will be done. Shush, a spirit says to me, think not of things so lonely. Has not your life been better still, not pulled by inhibition rather you have been this boxcar staring off a hill. Have you not been given much, in so much more have you not gained?

Snow it stirs in cold wind driven across these plains. Empty features in the darkness all looks the same. For this boxcar declares itself a vacant, vacant shell, a metaphor for emptiness when nothings there. There is nothing left to tell. Somewhere in this cold dry, wind a coyote sighs. My hope for him this deadly night is he make his scavenger find. Still what is this stand about, outside this boxcar? How does it shape the future or is it reminiscent of the start. Is this a visual for learning or a lesson from the past. Or is it about being grateful for everything I have.

Still here is this great image that last unto this week, of that dark wooden boxcar its foundation on a frozen steppe. That land that stretches from its open black doorway, that reaches to take me in, that whispers words of mystery, “Come forth and lie inside”. Though, there is that great challenge to test my will and try. Perhaps it is better not to wonder what it is like inside. Yes, I think it better still that I stay outside. – 12.06.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Weight

Martina Mcateer – The Dear Weight of Love

“See your star how it shines.”

“Cause the weight on my shoulders ain’t no weight at all” – Gino Vannelli

You have always been there, weight against my weight, head upon my shoulder, purpose within me. And should you know me, know me at all, you should know I never thought our love any weight at all.

Not a lifeless purpose, not a burden to know, not a hidden meaning, rather now this here, this truth, this heft in me. This weight of something, I chose to take, not much of nothing, but everything.

The weight strikes me in chasms, the strength of it surprising, different from age, more savage than emotion, supernatural in a way. The weight is stronger than battle, blood flowing in the lazy river of the Stones, brother striking brother. That weight intense indeed. A wounded weight perhaps, still asked for, still asked for. Stronger am I, that I think until this weight, this force, wind and life flowing all around it, that which comes. Something wicked from childhood this way with wind does it come. Intricate, passionate with cold eyes does it come, still this weight is no weight at all.

When we were young, we asked for more, I swore that I would take what came through that door, that endless, endless find. It was a hand that took to hold, with weights of tears, and hidden tolls. A weight I said to no one there, for you were love, that greater share. For when its now, like yesterday, and questions are asked, can this me take. Still the weight, I wish to pull, that better half, that pulls and pulls. Upon this queen, this one I know, I know the energy my half of soul. Still morning star, that swims the sky, I lift the weight, I cannot break. Not I a hero, nor muscle man, I feel your heart within my hands. Oh, weight upon me, that touches life, you are the water, now behold I the tide. A thing we talk about with hidden words, in mirrored secrets, takes flight with birds. This weight of something, I chose to take, not much of nothing, but everything.

She’s a weight of secrets, a reign of time, a purpose spell, those dreams I seek, when there is no weight at all, for that I believe. For when prophets talk, and poets cry, they will tell our story, and they will say of my love for you, that it was never a weight at all.

[For my Susan whom is no weight at all.] – 10.30.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Twisted Trail below Harmony Hill

“There is not a fragment in all nature, for every relative fragment of one thing is a full harmonious unit in itself.” – John Muir

“I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I’m lost in the music. Until I am the music–notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it’s okay because when I’m the music, I’m not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.” – Jennifer Donnelly

“Harmony, gee I really love you and I want to love you forever, and dream of the never, never, never leaving harmony.” – Bernie Taupin/Elton John

For clear eyed I will rise on the season with this night past dead.

The pathway seems as I remember it, just colder with ghost of the path, a shame it is under the hillside, hidden so well in the past. The Alder it stands in a thicket, begging for a witch’s command, saying in spirits communion, let go of something you can. Dysphoria enters my neurons, shaking as old men or young men can do, when they ready their soul, to enter the darkness and fight the terror they knew. The twisted trail below Harmony bears thorns as depravity can. It matters not the story, the season that made life stall. The cold, cold touch of the daemon, his shadow that started it all. “Remand”, I say to the forest, “here where rotting leaves lay”. “Remand, the innocent childhood” from that flat stone where my young body lay”.

The Callaway plant lights the horizon, in the cold Missouri night. It sends its radioactive burdens to light my past burdens flight. The signs on the trail say “Jesus”, he makes your sins not right, and I wonder where was “Jesus”, when the boy on the flat rock cried. For there I hid in my secrets, the shadows they ran away. Daemon, I called you in thunder, you could not look at me the next day. However, I hid you in secret, those many years ago. Now I come upon this bare night, and strike the flat rock to let you go. Without malice you must go. You must go. For in the pools of frozen water, reflects a sight. Some do their deeds in darkness. Still, natures mirror is a light that holds keys. What dies here awaiting winter will seek the spring and rise to fly the wind, so free.

The pathway seems as I remember it, with Harmony up ahead, twisting turning, leafless branches tie and untie again. The Barred Owl cries in abandon, the sky grows rosy red, ashes to ashes, from my lost boyhood, something fills my head. No matter of all my transgressions, those omissions I might have stead. Adonai, the one who finds me, has led my soul until fed. This flat rock in this forest, beneath my minor head, provided me with strength of a union that spirit, never dead. There is no surviving in union, no victimization, to shed, for clear eyed I will rise on the season with this night past dead. “Remand”, I say to the hillside, “give harmony in all I wed”. “Let this trail go its way of sorrow, behold the blessings instead”. “Behold the blessings instead”.

For clear eyed I will rise on the season with this night past dead. – 10.23.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל



“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.” – Edgar Allan Poe

A voice cries before midnight, and he hears it as a “Hermit Thrush“, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still before midnight. This is mystery.

The weaver comes to finish work, that is of his own hand, in the darkness from near Boat Mountain the seraphim walks so fast. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He bathes before midnight, in a dream that’s of falling sand, like a curtain from lost ages, that last barrier to the promised land. With the whispers of angels that ask for his hand, bloodless in their quiet talk, they shimmer where they stand. They whisper with lyrics from the “Hurdy Gurdy Man“, derived now, while praying six stars to Neverland. He murmurs, he whispers, “I do think of fathoms of distances without end, sometimes before midnight, it scares me if I Am.” “How far up Jacob’s tree, to the mother that sews, the end of purpose, from my life of promise, here in the gardens of G_D’s shadowland. This rocky earth soothed by the blade in a farmer’s hand.”

The weaver moves like a danseur, counting a six-pronged display, the seal moves around the bowing angels, their inner eyes on display. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He thinks of time like a battlefield, in life’s journey from end to end, all day breathing blood and fury, until the dusk arrives on wind. All his thought from his first day of wonder has been, a catalyst, a catalyst to this very end. All around his valley moves, his valley moves within. Sulfur Springs rising evening vapors, near Boat Mountain where life began. The soil cries out unto its maker, I cannot produce again. Minutes leading him from faith’s beginning toward midnight to turn again. Demarcation in a weakened body in a movement by a hand, pocket watch stopped at midnight in the crossing with no bends. Turning in his bed clothes, to begin all life again. Turning in his bed clothe, to begin all life again.

A voice cries after midnight. He does not hear it. It is a “Hermit Thrush”, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still after midnight. This is mystery. – 10.10.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל


Hunting Angels

Picture Courtesy Heavy Metal Gallery

“If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.” – Tennessee Williams

“I probably listened to Black Sabbath more than was healthy for me growing up”. – D.S.

It was Autumn suddenly, without pause or even time to change, one wondered at its difference inside, one wondered why it came. For it seemed as the leaves changed so did I, as the sun tilted a slight way, different shadows came to play. Long shadows somber and without sway. The angels that had been there through spring and summer, had left, they had fallen. I waited but a bit for them to return, but they did not, so in my mind I formed an adventure to find them. For although it was fall winter would someday come, and I wished not to be without them.

Up near the blue sky where October would come, a stranger kind of blue sky then that summer one. A learning from the jet stream that Holy, Holy one, that breathes into your mind, and ask “what is it that you have won”? In springtime were the angels they danced around the sun, they whispered special spells of magic until the night was done. In drunken special spectacles they rose upon the day and dared the Lord of harvest to stay out of their way. In youth they formed a circle and chanted to the sky, even though you find us naked, we will not be shy. For life is fun and special the answer to our whys. What is the use of having wings if you never get high and fly.

In summer time when most worked the angels stayed in play, they listened to “Black Sabbath” and drunk cheap wine all day. Upon a rare occasion one of them would say, lets be like this forever, no one better get in our way. For power was a motivator, and the lie has no shame, when it is done as habit, with the truth hidden away. With many days upon us, why should we dread the shade, that, that brings the harvest, brings life and all we asked for, we will not be afraid.

It was Autumn suddenly, without pause or even time to change, and life had been granted and the angels went away. I cried aloud to the past spring and summer to release the winged spirits, for just one more day. The Lord of the Harvest answered, and this he had to say, those angels you are hunting are turning gray. Though they have been a spectacle between youth, and the mid of day, they will learn the mix of mystery, here as they near the end of the day.

So, I thought upon the matter, I thought upon the sum, and I thought it best to leave the angels, and not to hunt a one. For the blue sky of October, a stranger sky had come, and a winter would soon follow and then I would be done. -10.01.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Thoreau’s Shoulder (The Grove)

“Chaos and ancient night, I come no spy with purpose to explore or to disturb the secrets of your realm, but as my way lies through your spacious empire up to light”. – Henry David Thoreau

You wrote increasingly of the earth as if she were a mix of your judge and mother, and you spared no lack of fond adjectives in describing her both in bearable and tempering terms. You often scolded your own thoughts spoken before your ink donned the paper, whispering aloud, “the cove bends around the grove, before the grandfatherly Red Maple, or it does not”. At times, you muttered secrets, which we shall not tell here, except to say, “If man’s thoughts could be round like the stand then perhaps he would be less judgmental”. Your discourse aloud and in the written word explored heavy mysteries discovered upon the warm nights and thought out better when the winter was cold, and no sound could be heard, except that of the crackling fire.

My eyes grew bleary on occasion watching your quill move swiftly like a rapier cross cutting its way through battle. When perchance a hint of mysticism or witchery would catch your observance, you were quick to shame it in the scuffle you held for balanced thought. Your subject matter on civil discourse and that of disobedience, once carried a debate against yourself for an amount of some days. It was upon that occasion, I first heard your mention of madness, and I wondered if for that certain time, you might entertain talk of what confidences you thought might be in the circular grove.

You often brought to your tight cabin, assortments of leaves, pebbles and berries. In which each by fair lantern light you would caress tenderly, saying each by its organic name and what blessing it might bring as cure or spell from evil. For each gathered collection of abundance from the forest or pond, you would meditate well upon it, before committing its designation to publish. For when you wrote of it, you disguised each magical quality it contained, as a naturalist does when face to face with that which cannot be explained.

Your forays to the grove grew with more frequency before September in one year, and I would suspect now, it was your last one before leaving. It was beyond my ability to cross over there, but it was on such an occasion, near sunrise as you left the wood that you appeared to see me standing there. “You are either an external shadow, or I am internally with flame“, you whispered aloud, as if interfering with some magic happening within your round of trees. There was little more as you went on to the cabin, and I was with you, silent for the rest of the day. That night as you left for your faithful journey to that round of mystery below “Bare Peak“, you suddenly turned outside your door and rubbed your right shoulder, as if it bore a special pain. “I think we should go no further”, was all you had to say, and with that I found myself drifting without right, silently toward the grove and away. – 09.15.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Rivers (A Haunting)

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.” – Norman Maclean

“Whereas we find ourselves at this dreadful yet wonderful place. Betwixt by resolve and torment. Haunted as it were, on the banks of the river of our own soul, asking which way does the river flow”? – DS

There is a flood of many waters inside of you that goes to waste, said a voice, that voice without a face. But the voice inside was something that I knew no one could fake, the one that held the storm, the storm I could not erase!

I hear the hymn in the morning time, with the Colorado sky stretching dark and wide, With the first son of morning comes a star shooting high, the chant sings a song about my rivers inside. So many empty verses, so I just cry and cry. For just these many years I have been kind of quiet, Not saying much to anyone about the water inside. That muddy moving liquid that moves from side to side. Bringing me a challenge to move across its troubled tide. Its just analogy for life that moves outside, Rivers needing crossing when the need does arise. One-way bridges under cloudy skies, and the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye, yes, the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye.

I think my souls waiting on a singular side, inside or outside me, it wants to cross to another side. From what I have come to know, or from where I have tried, I think it wants to know what it’s like to finally die. For some this might dishearten or become a frightening sight, I sure somewhere somebody thinks my G_D it’s suicide. But flesh and bone are different from what I’m about to describe, you see I want to finally meet my genesis on the river that is inside. A mean that is not average an inner fire that will not subside.

So, I move to pray, crossing that one-way bridge of yesterday, moving from ghost to ghost from a child unto a man, crossing inner Jordan jumping over quick sand. A space that grows in grace. Myself a younger man. An inner sort of question that ask to see his face, and there I see not much to my surprise. One-way bridges under cloudy skies, and the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye. Yes, the keeper of the through-way has a storm in his eye.

The river running in me has a hum and a grind, sometimes it seems to clean me, at other times I feel its grime, But now in this place, at this place in my life, pour on me with your mighty water, let my soul consumed, be refined, on this place, where nothing can ever go to waste. Where nothing can ever go to waste.

There is a flood of many waters inside of you that goes to waste, said a voice, that voice without a face. But the voice inside was something that I knew no one could fake, the one that held the storm, the storm I could not erase! – 09.04.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Vicksburg (Seconds Inside my Head)

If a man harbors any sort of fear, it percolates through all his thinking, damages his personality, makes him landlord to a ghost”. – Lloyd Douglas

I had crossed on over, with the darkness rolling in, and the Stateline of Mississippi, made me pause to think of him, maybe it was thirty years ago, but it seems like yesterday, just seconds really to watch a story in display.

He says the sun it sets in ragged pieces floating humid from the sky, tearing soft red hazy parts of heaven hanging them low above Vicksburg to dry. He says you might not really know me, and I would not look too far back into my eyes. You might see a little more than Mississippi lightning, in the places my tears have gone to dry. The dark birds seem to float down by the river, guarding old men fishing last meals and telling tall lies; a young man stands and sticks a needle in his arm, and curses the flies who are passing by.

He says the night it falls upon the water, I hear her begging to be fed. He turns and motions to the Yazoo, to fill the river brown than red. He says the soil above us holds a dead nation of those dumb farm boys how they bled. One hundred years and fifty-five more, all those ghosts are crazy. A million carrion in my head. The old man sniffs and looks on over at the young man lying dead. The needle sticks up like a steeple, sending signals that no one read.

The low clouds light up a candle, a low light that bask in need. Curtains of mist hang over Vicksburg, magnolias bend to receive. The old man haunts the shadows, the grave markers sink beyond retrieve. Antebellum meets the future, of deluded thought and greed. For one old man walks past burial, one young man dies in need. The past is like the present, for the hungry no food is received. The old and new look to the low hung sky, and wonder of their deeds, their many hidden deeds.

He says the seconds slow in Vicksburg, like the cliffs overhead, their lives a hundred different caverns holding the past and present dead. He says each it has it’s story, an unspoken bit of cred, that, that makes its footprint in the lineage of coming heads. A bit of South filled Gothic that’s often read but never said. He turns as if he’s ninety, no doubt he’s already dead, and he motions up from the river, to the lights dim overhead. He says the witches they are coming, in the dimness up ahead. And I know he’s kind of crazy, with the liquor that he’s had, but I can’t help but think he comes from somewhere in the seconds inside my head.

He says the sun it sets in ragged pieces floating humid from the sky, tearing soft red hazy parts of heaven hanging them low above Vicksburg to dry. – 08.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל


Interpretive Badlands

The Badlands grade all the way from those that are almost rolling in character to those that are so fantastically broken in form and so bizarre in color as to seem hardly properly to belong to this earth“. – Theodore Roosevelt

In the dream, I ran the badlands, the brilliant cosmos overhead, held my own toward the future, and closed the timeline on my past. The beat of sound it came from heaven, the aurora borealis above my running head. The tongues of prayers, a field of angels, the healing wound of all I dread. In the vision was the lifeblood, of what I used to be, a great belief in all apostles, their words a platitude filled sea. A youthful mind indecisive, until time crept up on me. Now a gray haired man runs through the badlands, a rapid heartbeat of disbelief.

The shifting sands of narrow arroyos, the briars and snakes held there, hard to think that in a summer storm, one could drown if still stuck there. A star lights on the mesa, alien bright it falls so fair, as if to light an earthbound altar beseeching communication from out there.

Unbound, unbound my beating heart that inhales desert air in coldest dark. Scratching illumination as I run in midnight’s lair, humanity’s close death I share. A stretch into my imagination, mixed thoughts rising there, a better night for flying a throng of bats into the air. For I am a prayer unto the union of the joining of a pair, that lessor light of Shekinah with the glory of the upper care. My lungs they know no other way, then to praise the night, for whence cometh day. Loose now these bonds, these pounding feet, bare shrub, and cacti, a thousand shadows creep. The moment stark as in all dreams is it now real, or in my sleep.

In the dream, I ran the badlands, the brilliant cosmos overhead, and stuck between the sedimentary, I thought myself somewhere. The distance marked by parasangs, a length in whispers dared, I ran between the hoodoos, and caught the spirits in their lair. For it was on this occasion, it was this vision faire, that a grey haired man still running, found the secret of things not there. The desert is a badland, with creations built with care, a fortress of our human secrets, of the kind we would not share. We think them rather horrid, a reflection rarely seen, when in truth while we are running, they bring us breathless to know our where. To know our where.

In the dream, I ran the badlands, the brilliant cosmos overhead, held my own toward the future, and closed the timeline on my past. – 08.14.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Cornfield (100 Degrees)

I went into a cornfield on a sunny brilliant day, when it was my time to die and it was 100 degrees that day. I asked there for an angel, a cool drop on my tongue, instead I received a question, with its answer to be sung, so here it’s sung, to you, here it’s sung.

Who worships breathing idols, who takes ideology so? Who thinks themselves unbreakable with what seeds one has sowed? Who enters unto doorways, built just yesterday, who makes one an apostle, in a political way? Who finds their answer in a tavern, at three A.M., when the last cover last played, is Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May“? What human lives forever, within your spirit are you that deceived? What money minds your secrets, what lust trolls your deeds, what desperateness, leaves you demanding to take all of G_D’s control? The questions oh the questions, the philosophy in modern weed. A plastic imitation, with a herbal born deceit. Second unto second, our heroes in defeat, what we think of as immortal is clay before G_D’s feet.

For here I arrive in human harvest, and march into the heat. Row upon row of corn husk, bake in praise repeat. They sing unto creation, their song I cannot keep. I let you know that in this world G_D reveals at 100 degrees. Her love is in a beggar, a child with crooked feet. I’ve seen Adonai of all formation a whore of beauty, spreading legs for monetary relief. It is in no conversation, it knows of no elite, for philosophy of all the ages, knows not of what love receives. For in this culture that we live in, round and round it goes. There is no risen savior except in pains defeat. No union of a fairness, no left nor right indignity. Human hearts barely beating in agony before belief.

Who comes into the circle, the acreage that knows no cold. The bending twisting ring of fire, where a spirt seeks to console. What sort looks for a miracle in the cornfields of a soul. Where it’s 100 degrees of pain, will you let your ego go? Will you burn your face with holy fire, from the heavens you don’t control? Will you die, truly die? Come down, come down every yearning. Lover know what you know. Here in this place, the most unexpected place, a field of corn helps me know. You are in natural places, the hurt that does not know, the most unexpected graces in heat where corn is sown. Where corn is sown.

I went into a cornfield on a sunny brilliant day, when it was my time to live and it was 100 degrees that day. I asked there for an angel, a cool drop on my tongue, instead I received a question, with its answer to be sung, so here it’s sung, to you, here it’s sung. – 07.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל


“You love the thunder and you love the rain. You know your hunger like you know your name.” – Jackson Browne

I should be a better man, dry and tall, holding an umbrella underneath this waterfall!

The rain it came above “Navajo Lake”, it filled my youthful eyes. It made me cry to find my way, I wept until I was dry. Before I knew what, I should be, I was older and not so wise. For still the rain came inside me, it built a graveyard to help me hide, it stifled oxygen, and it stopped belief.

The rain it came above “Navajo Lake“, it came from hell below, and it fell in sheets of shadows until its liquid filled me so. An overwhelming void of nothing, for here opposites do not grow. A changing rite of season dragging age within its tow. I heard nothing of the thunder; I guess Jackson Browne don’t know, the rain without the thunder is inward hunger that continues to grow. The water poured without and within me, a black depression calling deep too deep in the valley, where it keeps. A world in water, nobody swimming for me to see, a world in water, weightless, weight that drowns, no keys. Then a calling, my spirit disappeared in memory, the heavens met the earth, and life and death bound me. There’s more water, raining nightly inwardly. Soaking quiet, when a whisper is said complete. Silence, silence, when I can’t recognize my face I see. Silence, silence, when I can’t recognize my face I see.

Play the Hammond, in the graveyard reverie, while it is raining, from my fair youth to the muddy life that flails in grief. Inward stranger, can’t you find a better way, lift your burdens, in the soaking, constant rain. I called the storm down, how do I make it go away. All my life now, held in a constant sway, where there is reason, somebody help me pray. Inside this pale, how it does rain, I’ve seen the oceans, no islands displayed. Roaring, silence, where everything no longer stays. Roaring silence, where everything no longer stays.

The rain it came above “Navajo Lake”, it filled my youthful eyes. It made me cry to find my way, I wept until I was dry. Before I knew what, I should be, I was older and not so wise. For still the rain came inside me, it built a graveyard to help me hide, could be I am a better man, I will look outside and maybe I will see heaven.

I Am that I Am a better man, dry and tall, holding an umbrella underneath this waterfall! – 07.18.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל


“I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself”. – Warson Shire

Nay maybe it is something else, a trait of narcissistic crust, from one who gloats about one’s shame. That ascribes a greater tone to pain. Aghast the pleasure of the life that is feral, the difference that shocks, is hidden in your veins. Come out, come out, awake unto life, faint not at her kisses, it is not a vice. It is not a vice.

Consume, consume a fire of dark, a midnight black that swoons the heart, come cup, come up from salt tilled soil, a highway from the sin that coils. That dearth of time when all is gone the cutting starts, to feel at all. A stranger’s mask, not strange no more, from your own mirror, the ides do fall. For on to air, for on to sea, this road this path has no reprieve. For light has come and went by fast, obsessed with grief you let it pass. This is my all you sometimes cry, like a town crier whose tongue is tied. For ribbons black they fall all too fast, you bind your arm with them, as if to fast.

Reach in, reach out, no grasp is left, of where to drive no known by pass. Into the years of bitterness, where all is false remembrance. For death to you, is death as known, from day to day, it is known as home. To brood and spite for losses lost, to expect your soul is at a cost. To hide in shadows by gray walls, to say with no tears you gave it all. To just one person, just one cause, alas the wearisome of it all, be still thy eardrums, they hear not at all. A tiresome gloomy loss does call the hand so limp will not pick up at all.

I would but try to ask you to breathe, to feel the purpose of which you believe, but alas, you feign, the weight of it all. The body not willing the spirit does fall.

Drop gracefully then or drop not at all.

Nay maybe it is something else, a trait of narcissistic crust, from one who gloats about one’s shame. That ascribes a greater tone to pain. Aghast the pleasure of the life that is feral, the difference that shocks, is hidden in your veins. Come out, come out, awake unto life, faint not at her kisses, it is not a vice. It is not a vice. – 07.07.0218 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Great American Gospel

“The desert surrounds your every step and you walk forever a thirsty man”. – Christopher Pike – Creatures of Forever

“Still” she says, “be still your craving heart within”!

The Great American Gospel begins somewhere just beneath my skin. Standing in the silent desert four yards from a railroad track outside Tucumcari, New Mexico, watching the full moon commit her greatest sin. For she shines as if to rival the sun, showing the contours of the barren wilderness, exposing its wanton skin. And the spirit speaks from the sand, the loneliness calls from the desperateness held from the deep dry well within. It says I am a great magnetic force, the gravity that speaks to heal your craving wound within. The first coming, before the second, the holiness of G_D, that never lets you go, even when you weep, till your soul is a dry cavern within. I am the wilderness of scars, always this great land force, with a night shadow, under these constellations, that tempts you in.

There is a rusty Hunt’s tomato sauce can that I kick. It hits a rock and makes a sound that echoes in the wide desert. A doorbell for the ghost both outside and within. Its colder than it should be outside Tucumcari, it could be that the daemons now have come to play. Like coyotes, no doubt the “Ancient of Days” has allowed them in. For they circle and they taunt, and they howl, as if to say “Eli, Eli, Ichabod” in this dry ocean, is the end. “Where do you now go, with what can you send”? And here while the night does move, the black sky parting, the light from those stars of Adonai, paint a seal upon my uplifted arms. Kissing like a lover from my neck, to my scars so deep within.

And I crave the touch, the unhiding of what or where I begin. For she is like a question that moves around me to where I cannot answer without craving she inhabit my every limb. And she is not in cities, or crowded rooms, neither does she know war or shame. It is the great American Gospel, that inhabits every pore of my skin. Standing in the silent desert four yards from a railroad track outside Tucumcari, New Mexico, I am with you, and you are a spirit fed familiar living time within. Still, oh still my craving hungry heart within. “Still” she says, “be still your craving heart within”! – 06.24.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Chums of 1924

I always thought my friend and I belonged somewhere beyond the late seventies. We had a way of talking, seeking true friendship that took our spirits somewhere else. Chums from another time. One night we actually went where we belonged. I do believe it was 1924.

He looks at me his eyes brown and ferocious! “Would a girl ever come between us”? He sounds as if he is gagging as he spits the words out. “Maybe not one”, I softly reply. I look away staring at the open New Mexico wilderness, the late June wind blowing from the northwest cooling our conversation. “One could hope for two or three between us”, I say the genesis of a sardonic grin appearing on my face.

We wish our thoughts in shadow-land, from friend to foe and stand ourselves on where kings stand. In stars, we want a falling phase the kind that guides our keen eyed gaze. To take us cross the Gobi sands. Our swords and minds to far off lands. Oh friend my chum though we are here, our young adolescence beyond years. To camp above on roof tops, to see the moon so near, to strive to speak our legends, to each other and the earth so near. For if we are young traveling warriors, is life’s wartime here?

We somehow summon laughter, we somehow broke our tears, and we cross our arms and unfold them, when the Southern Cross draws near. In times, we study magic, and camp where daemons leer. For under signs of heaven, our stories draw us near. To unfold a crooked omen, that crosses minds and fears. To know that something savage is made gentle when we are of cheer. Oh, friend my chum in laughter, my twin when hell doth know that we our twins in witness, to all the dark can know.

We tasted our peyote, we chased the moon away, and we brought a noonday brilliance to the places we went to play. For in the days of future, when you or I should say, was that day in 1924, or just the tricks odd seeds can play. For I know we traversed minefields of those false life can lay. But I swear we held the world in our hands, and watched it float away, into the gray, my chum, into the gray.

“My parents signed the papers today”. His voice is more serious than sad. “Semper Fi”, I say, a sudden lump in my throat, bringing my skinny right arm and hand up in a sharp salute. “Yes sir”, he grins his sixteen-year-old Navajo face suddenly looking much older. “There will be more than two or three girls between us by the time I get back”, he says. “Maybe even a set of twins”. – 06.19.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

On Sleeping (1971)

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” – Edgar Allan Poe

“Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions.” – Stevie Nicks

The full moon swings on a wireless swing and comes to rest above my sleeping shoulder. I move as if a little too much to block its shine by pulling at my cover. “So near to summer” whispers, whisper, “come outside let’s plan an escape and count the stars by number”. Shadows move, twist, and shake, with tenderness they pull me from my slumber. “All the worlds an open stage”, sings one stray spirit to another. So how I moved I did not know, hand to mouth, a secret I stowed, and off in light bequeathed Altair’s glow. Let some dream of dancing, some devise lofty plans. Set their scope of dreaming on obtaining all they can. Faith deems I set my nighttime hours on Neverland, and fly away.

Now here I go again, I see the Crystal visions“, unlike what Stevie sings, I cannot keep my visions to myself. For there are ladders here, a way to heavens chair, a better view to share what was seen was all about. On here, a summer’s stage, with an equinox to display, the spirits hop and dart about. And back in inertia deep, a graying man he sleeps, the covers from his shoulders creep. The air in golden gloom, a hand held out just like a spoon, a breath of unseen consequence, sends out a playful spray.

For I see a window open, of the places undescribed, a familiar looking better me of what I will to try. For though I lay a sleeping somethings changing inside, and then I slip away, on sleeping it’s the only way outside.

The boy stands at the edge of the river and he cleanses all away. It looks like the Jordan, but it is the San Juan in disarray. He gazes at the sky, and counts every star by number in its place. For he means, every promise with words he will never say. And when he assails the bluffs of the mesa for a second, he will stop and stay. For the entire world is his alone, the summer present and the one he still owns. No dark valley where the winds still roam. The boy is a me, as I have never known. A full moon falls in a single ray. Nineteen Seventy-one at night is on display. Let some dream of dancing, some devise lofty plans. Set their scope of dreaming on obtaining all they can. Faith deems I set my nighttime hours on Neverland, and fly away. – 06.14.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Canyon by Night

Photo courtesy National Park Service Bryce Canyon

From we to I and back to me. I entered this canyon at night to see, what Henry David Thoreau, wrote by his hand freely. His words rang through my memory. “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see”.

Draw breath from here this spring filled life, by flowing river so wild in tide that moves from rock and drowns some too. Thin air that forces a mind of good. Take now thy fault that has grown so cold that guilty conscience of seeds so old, and throw it forward beneath this wash, let foamy waters take now it all. Come forward sky; drop now Gibbous Moon, let sounds nearby now vanish soon. Bring forth the ghost that hold my soul, let them drown knowing I gave them all. Let sin go now beneath my feet in this crazy water on to the sea. Old things made new, from what can be, arise in gladness, harmony.

Impale the blame that holds defeat, O tall slender pines these spikes of trees. That gather branches held in three’s, that root this canyon from all unseen. This eco-system overgrown holds spells of craft of old-time dreams, of spirits gone beyond our view, a sudden chill passes understood. For what is called from up above these rocky walls, echoes align, to bring this man by this cold stream, to swear to cleanse, and know the sheen. Thou shine above from that cold moon, Shekinah earth of lower womb, and cast my way into this stream, let all creation of creator sing. About me here where deer would stay, comes flowing ribbons in G_Ds own name. For night has come it is understood, I summon circles for what I would.

Draw breath from here this spring filled life; a baptized man would dry his eyes. For magic comes with what we do, in streams of old, in modern woods. To let go pain in canyons deep, to rise to G_D whom with we speak. From we to I and back to me, the womb of canyon the ark I seek. So, through a pathway over grown, I walked in June to find my home. I followed down by rocks and trees, while unseen spirits guarded me.

From we to I and back to me. I entered this canyon at night to see, what Henry David Thoreau, wrote by his hand freely. His words rang through my memory. “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see”. – 06.06.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Mahogany Rush

It is starting to rain now, the jagged tops of the Flatirons disappearing in a Mahogany sky, swirls of vapor dragging down across the Boulder valley, the other world, is coming to Boulder in the rain!

Mahogany rush came through the May evening, just before it began to rain. The brown clouds move slowly over Boulder decreasing my heartbeat in its place. Indulgences of a figure moving quickly, giving moisture to my mouth, and then running slowly, with wetness, cold fumes are running south. A minute of amber liquid, not certain a chocolate stout, and outside it moves to rain. And all along the Front Range the rush came, sweet mahogany, a lower feeling, more stories moving from thunder to grace. Most of the time I see disappointment, a great deal of the time I feel blue. Matters not though really for in Mahogany I see truth. And truth is an answer that’s mellow better than youth. Only once in your life do you feel young enough, to know you’re really you.

Mahogany rush filled all the sky, crushed my ego in my view. Came sweeping through the St. Vrain grail, in glacier waters so blue. Said she wanted me forever, but first I must be new, like that of a young man seeking, that greater point of view. For life has an answer, when sometimes you do not have one clue. So, fill me with your storm clouds, and rain a story in my view. For Mahogany rushes me into heaven, draws its pictures in the rain, this back and forth endeavor. I feel somehow different, what is it I have gained. Though I may have my reasons, though I may have my pride, still I will tell you in dusk filled redness, mahogany rushes still inside.

Mahogany rush was naked, in the streams of a mountain side, a bad side of goodness, that laughed when I cried. But still she took me to her, and nursed me and made me try, for love is softer than silence, and sex is a man whose soul is tried. And sometimes the steppes of Longs Peak, brings me to its side, says the ghost of mystery, look to my clouds underside. For rain it is your mystery, words your heart without lies. Let all my mahogany rush gasping from out your inside. From out your inside! – 05.31.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

When Jimmy Plays

Sometimes a love song is dazed and confused!

I heard G_D made a woman to balance me, when I get mad, did G_D give that woman the right to know me beyond that. To take from my anger to take when I’m cruel to know with ingenuity my weakness when I’m cool. I heard G_D made a woman that knows me too, may be that’s why its heaven. blissful in the night when we talk, chaos when we screw. Chaos when we screw. So much for a madam, so much for anything that’s new. Who needs fake Teflon, when I got you? I’ll take what I have, because it’s better than good, and deeper dreams do come true. I’m listening to Jimmy Page while I look at you, over twenty-six years I’ve been looking at sweet you.

When the wind came down, chords falling, octave after octave, oh we hurt, like we never thought we could. Vows in light, real life in darkness, everything is suddenly round not square, not like the good book said. Jimmy’s playing his bow, oh the devil plays a bow, like lightning can strike a man’s soul. Children we got children, better than gold, better than pretty, we look at each other what are we going to do. They look so much like me, they look so much like you, what’s to imagine, I heard G_D made a woman, looks like that G_D made a man too. What we have here is a puzzle, what we have is me and you, oh, oh, oh, so sweet is life, when I’m dazed and confused. Sometimes a love song is dazed and confused.

I heard an overture, a dream, then I heard G_D made a woman to balance me. She stepped right on each loosed strand, each bow string off Jimmy Page’s hand. And I climbed an illusion that was hidden in me, the difference between me and Jimmy is I had her with me. For I saw the old man, she saw him too, and she told me, unlike that old man, I am going to make you be you. Go on now and play. Sometimes a love song is dazed and confused.

And we love for such a long time, for such a long time, while Jimmy plays, yes while Jimmy plays.

I heard G_D made a woman to balance me, when I am old, did G_D give that woman the right to know me beyond that. To take all I had taken and let me take it right back. To push me further, then I ever could push back, to push me further, then I ever could push back. I’m listening to Jimmy Page while I look at you, over twenty-six years I’ve been looking at sweet you. 05.25.18- דָּנִיֵּאל

The Angels of the Bottom Land

“I think I’ll live in Arkansas, till the angels make it known, if my heart can stop its beating, and give me reason to go home’, Says the frail and little woman between her sisters on the porch. As if an answer to the statement, or a question that had no start. A rumble sounds in distant heavens. Could be a storm or the cherubim of the ark. “They could be moving in the bottom, near the tombs onto the right”, says the younger of the sisters, a nervous strain fills her eyes. In a chorus of trio moving, the three heads turn to look away, at the small family cemetery in the meadow oft halfway in their sight.

The sisters sit immobile in the slight evening breeze, the whining of a porch chain, rhymes to the tapping of the eldest feet. The meadow out before them, surrounded by Elm Branch Creek. Bubbling from some deep vale in the darkness beneath old seas. The June bugs sing of summer, the battle of the heat, beneath a nearby Elm tree, a shadow moves its feet. If time were not temperamental. In glades of simple green. Then the grass beyond the front porch would have seen Eden’s dreams. “Could be time for evening cobbler”, says the youngest sister fair, “I know it’s well before dinner, but somehow I don’t really care”. A low cloud moves like a curtain. Open to a late afternoon light blue sky. “There is an early moon brewing”, says the oldest sister with a sigh.

So, the three watch the meadow. They peer out carefully. Three in one they know what is there, and they observe the shimmer leave. “Would that be a man a standing by that old Elm tree”, says the youngest sister to no one listening, for one of them can’t breathe. The heat has turned and moved the shadow out near the cemetery, and the two watch one retrieved. The sky turns on a second to winter and then by the sun it’s seized. The phantom takes a soul on forever, and a spirit is received. Gently so tenderly the eldest sister controls a sneeze, turning she pats her middle sister upon her stiffing knee. “Comfort dear, we saw you flying, and soon we will be along, but first your younger sister and I are going to have some cobbler, it’s calling us with its song. – 05.20.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל


And I’m just dreaming counting the ways to where you are” – Vladimir John Ondrasik III

“Oh Wow, Oh Wow, Oh Wow”! – Steve Jobs, October 5, 2011

“The Moment”

Such quietness now, where there was none, machines of the living as they stop undone. The lights above turn to darkened grey, and four wheels they slow, as the final gasp fades away. A disconnect from cold steel poles, and a light so bright is turned down low, an urgent whisper from an EMT goes out through a mic and cannot be retrieved. Life oh life from a second to none, an eternity of thought before the final moment comes. An interest of mine, from the outside looking in, is not the eternal here after, but that space before the end.

“The Moment”

Were there sudden questions asked, about the weight of sin, delicate weights moved from the life that was when. Oh forgiveness did you come on down, in a space or a flash, was it like here on earth not permanent or fully grasped. Was there Eastern peace held still within, the lucky of this planet not taught the guilt by chagrin. Did the wind that moved right by, cause your mortality to wake or was that just a steel tipped angel reminding you it is there to take. Take you to the land of Holy Moses may be to move around, to become inwardly recycled, once a lost but now a found. In that micro second brimming in the crack that is a door, was there choice that was your willing to move to nothing, or something toward. Were there a million familiar faces, named all legion everyone, or a light in the eyes of a small child with a hand that said come here.

The Moment”

Each time a crossing is affected by the ending of a beat, and the numbers that were counting come to zero that repeats. I would study that small interval, and stand in that breech. Hold my breath as if it mattered; ask my voice to not compete. For the tearing of the curtain from the window of the eye, happens truly in the zenith between the last breath and open sky.  Between the last breath and open sky.  One more time, between the last breath and open, open sky!– 05.14.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל


{Abstract} In which “The Whitby Ladies” being playful and gay, go by carriage to Leeds to attend the performance of Hérodiade at the “Grand Playhouse”. In which the ladies by craft, divine a bargain with a spright hereby named Baphomet to deal for the soul of the actress “Simone Lazarre” in exchange for the soul of the Archbishop of Canterbury “Edward White Benson” who is in attendance.

“Some whisper holy, holy, but they lie. Some cry rapture sweet Pontifex Maximus, but they do not know. I lie in the secret places, where the wolves eat their meat, and I wait for the calling of my Lord.” – DS

She burns her soul on the wood filled stage. With the walls of paper where the structure of Jerusalem weighs. The balance of acts, on a judgment scale, her breast displayed, as a wishing well. Her chocolate curls fall the room does sway and spins out of control far away. Those eyes so fair that watch above, in all their lust of lovers loved, in dresses made by magic care they watch Salome dance naked bare. Oh, night so quiet in summers dusk, all ladies present breathing touch. In marionette form, they move each thrust of naked hips that bring men’s lust. From Whitby town they made their way by carriage up the queen’s highway to sit as perched as royalty does, to move the characters, as they must. In Leeds Grand room, they play to test mortality’s cusp, a skin so soft for the Baptist bloody bust.

An act in parts, a shadow of life, the ballast moves from the deep of the night. The heat, the heat some barrister cries his eyes on the dancer and her glistening thighs. “Come all who hear, for none can see”, whispers one wicked witch in the gallery. Go on, go on reveal what will, a black bird is flying round the ceiling still. Can she never end says a barmaid dark? What I would not give a Pound to have her hips of art, as the dance for Hérodiade brings a bargain in the dark. Brings a trade before a part.

She burns her soul on the wood filled stage. With the veils breathing forms all around her, face. The room it breaths transposed only the silent can trace, with each witch watching the bargain take place. For the spright has promised to release one fair, to give the gift of trading while she dances there. An eye for an eye and a tooth or two, and such a supple body twisted as her soul comes through. Oh, the dark spirit watches right by the door for it has spotted a vessel what it traded for.

For Salome dances in the play for Leeds, before the royal bishop from Canterbury. His eyes they follow each miniscule move of a turning breast of the entrance to her womb. “Yes”, he’s heard to whisper, it is not enough for he wants to trap her dancing till she’s had enough, and the wicked things he has done before to dancing women to dancing whores. For he never would imagine that above his world in a gallery of witches there is a deal explored. For as the veils fall one by one and the lights grow dim and the dancer is done. The holy, holy Vicar looks confused to see a ghostly apparition with a silver tray, with no breath he will say. “This ends this way”, yes sir, “this end this way”! – 05.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For me and the deals I have struck!

Haunting Hepburn

She sets her lips in a Hepburn way, with a tiny little smile that questions the day, of which kind of manner will dictate thought, will it be a glass of sherry or a lemon drop. She sounds just like an actor from a sixties script, practicing her lines in her bedroom unkempt, and if she had to guess about the time or day, she would bubble up with laughter, with no mirth relayed. For the truth of all semantics, she mimics, in reflections lost in gray, is she is still a little girl with a wound homemade. For no matter what pop psychology might do or say, her moods a haunted star breathing ghost in dismay. She twirls as a pixie in late afternoon, the mirror upon her wall bemoans the evening like a coming ruin. The future night brings to her a devils moon. What would Audrey say?

The voice comes through mind tatters one might say it forms a part. A Motorola playing while faces dance so stark. “The beauty of a woman from her eyes is a doorway to her heart”, and it does not really matter what her father used to say, “Love from the heart comes through the eyes anyway”. A circle is opened from her auditory part, enchanting with verbiage to her soul and then her heart, and as she moves away, a soft British voice breathes, and tells her all she needs, “Nothing is impossible the word itself says I’m possible”. The answer she believes. The answer she believes.

She wears her hair in a Hepburn way, the bangs at mid forehead, where they will not stray, as she twirls through her bedroom in a fake embrace. What would Bogie say, if he were here to sweep her terrors away? Perhaps, perhaps she whispers to the day, for the night cometh where Audrey cannot stay, where the cold, cold fusion of the hardness of man, and a step fathers cruelty with his sinister hands. If the parts of memory would disappear like the scars on her arms from forgotten years, and who’s to say she can’t disappear, under a devils moon. Find that Motorola tucked away in her room, and transport herself away. What would Audrey say?

The voice comes through mind tatters one might say it forms a part. A Motorola playing while faces dance so stark. “The beauty of a woman from her eyes is a doorway to her heart”, and it does not really matter what her father used to say, “Love from the heart comes through the eyes anyway”. A circle is opened from her auditory part, enchanting with verbiage to her soul and then her heart, and as she moves away, a soft British voice breathes, and tells her all she needs, “Nothing is impossible the word itself says I’m possible”. The answer she believes. The answer she believes.

Certain quotes with much liberty taken from Ms. Audrey Hepburn – 5-1-2018 –דָנִיֵּאל

The Seventy-Second

“If I am I because you are you, and you are you because I am I, then I am not I and you are not you. But if I am I because I am I, and you are you because you are you, then I am I and you are you.” – Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk

I stood atop a large stone near Cheyenne, Wyoming, threw seventy-one words into the air. They in turn broke into syllables, light strands born from phonetic care. The Northwest wind found its way from Horse Creek, from its bed on rye grass there, and it picked up the sound of my faltering tongue and helped it climb to heavens stairs. Beneath the arch of a streaked Cirrostratus, I saw the opening of a womb, and even though my eyes were closed on earth, I knew the birth of something would happen soon. Something caused me to quietly stutter, let the seventy-second verb commit, to fly its way onward toward the belly of the skyway to the ledges where angels sit. It was the dawning of a new day dawned, when a secret was paid on rent.

For in the terror of this mind of a boy inside a man, was an image of the prayer of host to sail on the seven winds. And the words they came in brokenness, the sounds from my dry, dry soul, in the sounds of a thousand nights gone by, when I thought myself not whole. With the chanting of all darkness-committed saying unto you, can you see he’s about to fold. It must have looked like danger for something sinister to abound, to see a ragged man of fifty-seven letting loose his vocal sounds. To stand upon the rock of that not known and leave his ego on the ground. To utter something in another tongue to let a craft come unbound. To reach inside the vale of my heart and cut the chords of the seventy-second found.

I stood atop a large stone near Cheyenne, Wyoming, and prayed in verbs without a noun. Prayed for your lonely shadows, that they would connect your mind somehow. Voiced my words for trouble consternation where the evil ebb does flow. I whirled the names into the air, with an unconscious cry, with the atoms of creation lining up by myside. I prayed for my family, a world that I do not know, and the when I stared into the womb of heaven my inward eyes did glow. For falling fast with angels, like lightning before the rain, came the kindness of the ancient one, in the ancient of its days. An energy unto itself with the universe at its display.

And it turned the seventy-second word the name of its command, burned itself into my soul from where the water from its hand ran. Came a knowledge that though I was dead in resurrection here I AM, came a small voice from deep inside me whispering from dusk to resurrection here I AM. – 04.23.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Ruins by the River

“Where were you and where are you going? Here I built the ruin in the stone-crushed. Sage leaves my hands scented as long ago. When I liked to press the desert against my head to think”. – Dan Beachy-Quick

“Testimony – Evidence or proof provided by the existence or appearance of something”.

When we were boys of youth, we found a secret, a rock filled wall, and tunnel that led away and yes, I know it is time to tell a secret; the moonlit ruins are calling me back today.

They came to be under moonlight, a ray a world time away, with hallow calling to hallow, what is lost can always be retained. White air it moved between kivas, lovers of smooth rock and clay. A rattle with chips of dried bone broke the silence, in a world lost to time and date. The river ran without speaking, low water a drought of malaise. The tall cottonwood bending toward; looking to cast doubt at its own shade. The tall bluff across the shallow water births the large shadow of gray. The night it could lead to delusions, or render a story or two, there could be a death by the ruins of forever, or a life born in imagination new.

They came to be under moonlight, near a tunnel, a time warp of old worlds and new. One boy could say to another, lets cross the electron tide to take a view. The tunnel it went into a new space, a fourth of dimensional view, a round room centered by an altar, with a well of water beneath its purview. The spirits of the ancient’s cried endeavor. Bring your eyes so wide into the center of our view. By the ruins beneath this center, know what every pure mind would do. It seemed as if the round room grew closer. The fortune of the night at once renewed, for the moon shifted to a small peephole, and displayed all the colors and all the hues.

They came to be under moonlight, the last of testimony, the chosen few. The ruins of old cried out for an attention, one boy looked to the other and made it true. They came forth from the tunnel into the open; they came into the light under the moon. There it was they swore an oath blood given. The ruins would be the secret they knew.

The ruins are a true story, found sometime late in the spring of 1972, by the San Juan River, by my pal Jason and I. Others probably knew of them, but we found no evidence that they did. One summer night in July of 1972, we followed a spot of moonlight there. This is a fragment of our testimony. – 04.17.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Witch Master Key

“The dark dangerous forest is still there, my friends”. – Fritz Leiber

“And I will destroy sorcery from your hand, and you will have no soothsayers”. – Micah 5:11

We search in our souls for the connecting code. The witch master key to unlock the words we know, the symbols that will take us to a different day, the one outside of Victorian gates. Three billion people don’t believe in Jesus while one billion do, another billion-chanting sunshine, while a billion wish they could, and further down the slippery slope of what’s next of when. Another says I have been here before many times over again. Across the old world in genetic code, something is exploring what’s known of us; a question asked from age to age, is what we are and what we must. We look to the sun, while we gather dust; the footprints “Jung” said are dug deep in questions of what we mistrust. In circles, we gather in churches in squares, one looking for synergy, one control from higher air.

We search in the canyons, I have been in some too, the “Canyon De Chelly” I saw ghost in their hue. But this is not me, it is hardly us, it is a we searching when thoughts are not enough. For we in our spirit that stretch to explore, the witch master key to bring G_D to our door. What of such a key that most do not describe, except when their searching to cross this divide. From here on this earth in sacred abides, in glens of the forest, or rocky inclines, I dare say in deserts where banshee’s cry, oh look ever yonder is the searching throng mollified.

We search in our souls for the connecting code. In lamb’s blood on doorpost, as if one would know, the riddles in blood that satisfy one, is it guardian or judgment, we forget which one won. The truth is the more that we search for the light, the witch master key, it becomes dark as night. In one day, you are staring too hard at the fire. A thundering of all burning, the magic of art. The flames they engulf you, and eat what was we, they know no such treatise of souls that are free. They burn your safe harbor the code of your ark. The search is not over, for it did not start.

So, what is the answer the answer for we, in search of the witch master, the spiritual key? Perhaps it is simple not filled with much noise; perhaps it begins with arms raised to the void. Perhaps it surrounds all that is you or me; in separate our union, of individuality. I would not try craft that is another’s art, for that key is different from what grows naturally in your own heart. – 04.12.18 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Small Steps in LA

Each step is visual memory, a compulsion of the past; each step makes sure her sensory of Belial does not last. Steps she counts in sixes, numbers scored by a test, circles of obsession, a preventive with no rest.

She finds herself in and out of the City of the Angels, the warmness invites her at times it makes her freeze. There is never a springtime in Southern California; the many tons of concrete keep season’s barren seed. The shadows they move from one cloud to another, looking for altars on the ground below. Dry lightning strikes when it has smelled an ion, rising or falling but when it dies, how cold. Hold up your head and see those red-eyed angels, when in despair they hold an even glow. Preachers mope about looking for heaven, when dusk arrives; they will paint the pavement, with anything they you want to believe. Nothing stills like the flesh of temptation, pierced and ready a Christian deceived.

She holds herself in a heavy sweater; her arms covered though it is one hundred and nine degrees. What was there is gone behind her, it is a daemon, that will never leave. Did he press you, subtly hold you, and exhale without breath when you would breathe? No doubt, he is willing to wait for you here in LA, where life’s monsters breed. So she thinks about what is opportunity, for a thirty-eight year old with a past of mental disease. While overhead, the red-eyed angels grin and whisper obsession is your need. Another day she will take an Uber may be go down to the beach, but for now, she stands near Hollywood, scratching at something only she sees.

Perhaps she finds the time going quickly, much faster as she has aged, for in the twinkling as the lights come on, she is alone in west LA. The sky above her tilts it’s features, and the clouds looks darker still, and the coastal demons are falling, none the less she will do what she will. On an empty corner in darkness, near an old house in decay, she loses her thick sweater, and her arms they lift in grace.

And the G-Ds they love her madness, and they bend to kiss her scars, from a lifetime of insanity to find out just what they are. For the queen of random tragedy is dancing in near dark. In a truth, she floats with angels, in the steps of her inner flame, for she counts off all the numbers that make the matrix of G-Ds true name. It is a rapture of pure essence, a hypothesis not known, that sends her beauty to the heavens, to escape the asylum where she has grown, in LA. – 04.04.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Round Mountain (Passover 2018)

What do you want from me? Here near this late hour over by this tree, in the dark, with no moon above, the sky winks in a cold frown, the silence has a sound, and it’s you, nearby, I know, I see. So, what do you want from me? Have the altars I have built not exacted to your need? Has heaven not come down, why should it when there’s rancor all around, and unbelief, I know, dear Adonai to me, and what do you want from me? Here we are the western sky in sheets, stars that cannot shine, they look like their painted all the time. You say the sunrise is reprieve, it could be that or the last day that I breathe. It’s you nearby a familiar in majesty, so silent in all your mystery, a phalanx, that’s blood on three by three to three. The darkness like a cracked old creed, a blackness fly’s in design, non-Chee, like “Marilyn Manson’s” sad song disease, the dead, it passes on, it goes flying on over me. What do you want from me?

Round Mountain hangs over me. It’s not so round in a diameter one can read. A poor schematic from the USDA! I suppose it’s like this night for me, in our relationship it is definition written in form free. Perhaps I say to no one listening, at least that’s what’s perceived. It’s only a question from all time, but what do you want from me? The coldness seeps in me, making my high blood pressure, a little uneasy, for those things I can’t see like a razor edged dark wing dipping through the trees. What is the answer, what is the need, from question to question, it swings beyond belief?

Round mountain seems to weave, a dear old story here in me, all my doubts come in three’s. I look the canyon down, the Big Thompson roars without a sound. The highways closed, but still I’m up here, no one knows, except the sound of wings. They come swooping down, big dark wings. The sound of mettle, carrion bones, somewhere cherubim’s weep. But not for me, oh Adonai not for me!

For here on Round Mountain with the deer, a simple little place solitude in my tears, I look to see the better part of you. You turn, most holy G_D you demand I bless you! And as the pass comes over me, here in symphony upon my knees, I am so simple in my needs, my G_D, my G_D, Ruach, Elohim, Chayim, Ruach mi Ruach, Myim mi Ruach, esh mi Myim, Ruach Elohim Chayim! It is what you want from me, all that you want from me! – 04.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל


“We do not go into ceremony to talk about G_D. We go into ceremony to talk with G_D.” – Quanah Parker

“The finest steel has to go through the hottest fire”. – Richard M. Nixon

I am going to do a sweat, by heat and degree, going to march myself indigenous, and just let it go free. I really must confess this might not be for me; I might turn around and turn again, and find myself on my knees. I never thought it so; never concurred it would be me, to enter into something unlike me, and burn internally. I am going to do a sweat, and see truth or hell, it could be one will be the other, or may be separate only time will tell. I find myself so close, to hearing drums inside, may be it is just my heart beating telling me to turn aside. For now conscious comes to instill fear in me, but what is fear but motive for a caution that blinds the real purpose I need.

It is time for counting sums, of what I might see. Somehow, I do not think I am style in new age mythology. For something tolls, like bells in eternity. A countless band of cycles words and sounds phonetically. I am not making fun so seriously, for its Passover in my soul so a sweat is harmony. I think I am modern man, lost in a cosmic sea, of signals, verbs and scenes of G_D, that have not made sense to me. So it is time to sweat, bring forth an ancient me, and grab the dragon of harmonic grace, a former complexity.

These last days must come, titled so they be, and if they come well then they go with sweat pouring forth from me. What is not denied is a purity, that there is silence all around, as a force in three by threes. I am going to do a sweat cross through my own red sea, for I know while I sweat the death filled angel will Passover me. For as the year will go, as it will be, I will always remember how the sweat burned G_D in me.

I am going to do a sweat! – 03.27.2018 – דניאל

Wounded Woman and Crooked Tree

“There is nothing so terrible as activity without insight.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Wounded woman went to crooked tree, and though its shade fell a little strangely, she said it met her needs. On a hot day in Arizona, wounded woman cried, said this sun is killing me, it must be this stupid tree’s pride. For if, it would just straighten its arm up above, and condition itself to accept my love. It is not as if I am expecting it to come down to me, all I want is a little structural relevancy. Wounded woman tore her blouse and she covered her burns with sand, she said she really did not understand, the crooked tree, and she raised her burning hand. Said she doubted that the crooked tree would ever change. Still she would wait another day. Yes, she would wait another day.

Brother Jensen, preached his sermon to an empty seat, and he thought the words outside would bring a sinner’s defeat. With just the right amount of venom spent the righteous ground to a bitter rent. The reverend could not recall why his church was empty at all. As “Eleanor Rigby” plays nearby, Brother Jensen sinks inside. How can unrepentant man, dig deeper into sin, oh the ocean is so wide? Would the water of truth wash all sins away, were it as a purifying fire, vetted forth in a righteous kind of way? Brother Jensen looks to the mirror, perhaps more practice to bring the sinner to the way. Yes, he should preach another day.

See you government, see you queens, standing over, what they glean. Stand’s the master under blue sky, over the beggar, who do not know why. What is parliament, and the master hand, when the sky is cracked, and still they stand? Do they wonder why toil and fears? Term they weakness of a thousand tears. Still they look on at another day. Yes, they would wait another day. – 03.23.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Angels of Gath and Bloody Jack

It’s a place where your wish will be granted
Come, you’ll see I’m right
It’s a force that will live on within you
Dark as day is night
It’s a place where your dreams will be sanctioned
And will always be
It’s a force that was sent out to win you
Just you wait and see” – Epica

The angels of Gath they came from the sea, on a March night when the ice broke free. Came they to a wooden dock down from a wooden gate that is often not seen, hidden by hedgerows and a lock without a key. Stood they by so silently could they be children who do not breathe, led they were by one so tall, a bloody Jack who sired them all you see. Came they from a land so dark before the tower of babel, before the ark, knew they each man’s own sin and even women her thoughts within. Landed all these phantoms upon a dock near Whitby’s harbor at three A.M., saw they above them cliffs of white, the harbormaster saw them and died of fright. For they came to fight and maim, to destroy, the world, that women made they came to make it void. There above the sea so cold, those ancient witches with hearts so bold. And no matter what providence or lack of foresight or evidence, knew they once, all the same. This night would come a fire would come a flame. For it was by bloody Jack the Lord bereaved. The angels would strike by air and by sea. Their eyes rolling red, their souls bruised by need. For somewhere ahead on this cold springtime eve rested a fortune in magic of deeds.

And what of the women that rose from their beds, unwrapping their bodies from sated desire unsaid. The scent of their bodies mixed of oil, of spices and musk; with pleasure their toil, so spent from their lust. The manor still sleeping from parties at dusk, Lucy’s gardens outside hiding all that it must. Not seeming aware that so far below, bloody Jack waited to claim what he owed.

For it seemed once in Yorkshire upon such a day, a bloody thief had stolen away, the book of all shadows of an abbess that strayed. In a tavern off Pickering, on Whitby Way, in drunken debauchery, beneath the table they say. A floorboard was loosened, and a treasure displayed. Of writings of secrets, of magic enflamed, of women of Whitby who receive what they say.

So it was that this man darkened his face, with envy of what he had read of this place, and at night he cut on his arms with a knife, and bled bloody circles to end inner strife, and called he up fallen, the angels of Gath. They came from the highlands their purpose in store. To follow from Yorkshire and take witches down, to learn all their secrets, while in blood they did drown.

We come back to three that hour early morn, when witches are rising to praise their light Lord, and thunder it greets them from high in the sky, and somewhere below them, they hear a strange cry. Resa sweet lady looks startled at best, dear “Mina” my mistress have you seen “Poussee Seth”. He stands by the gate, Carlotta says with a sigh, dragging a boa across her own naked thigh. The coven looks wary, as a second sound is heard, and then there is another, of which moves the earth.

The Shilling it twist and it falls to the earth, before the gate closes a dragon is heard, the summoned the called for, the guardian of Din, the judgment of angels of bloody Jacks end. The witch’s familiar, the tide that rolls in. A talon left grasping a book owned by all, the shadows returning to eternity’s call.

And what of the women who rose from their beds, looking on westward to a dawn now that is red. In coven, they call down the light from above, and bless their familiar who returns to their love. The circle unbroken by angels or man, the manor alive now, its rooms all aglow, the spring has arrived now, with sunlight in tow. The angels of Gath have returned whence they came, and bloody Jack vanquished, and all is the same, as we go onward as we go. – 03.22.2018 – דניאל

Roadside Souls

“The praises of a man are that he did not follow the counsel of the wicked, neither did he stand in the way of sinners nor sit in the way of sinners nor sit in the company of scorners. But his desire is in the law of the Lord, and in his law, he meditates day and night. He shall be as a tree planted beside rivulets of water, which brings forth its fruit in its season, and its leaves do not wilt; and whatever he does prospers. Not so the wicked, but they are like chaff that the wind drives away.
Therefore, the wicked shall not stand up in judgment, nor shall the sinners in the congregation of the righteous. For the Lord knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked shall perish”.
Psalm I

Somewhere in Colorado on U.S. 50

Fall this prodigious open night; keep dropping, thy great dark curtains wide. Inclosing this abandoned road, this lane of loneliness, fall now shy daemons, left and right, darkened with your errant light. What lies so barren, between my eyes, what doors are open, what lies so quiet, here by this corridor under moonlight? The patched top pavement where patterns glare, pointing to roadside, the dark tree is there, as if a corpse upon this plain, without a leaf its sap decayed its limbs in grief. Bob Segers notes and raspy odes would not begin to set the scene of what arrives here near this tree, this light of Babylon this unholy see. It is a highway in the dark, a sliver of moon that dices my heart. I stop when nothing is around, to go and turn off my headlights, they die without a sound.

Oh grant me composure on this I pray, as the circles of hot wind comes near my face, the tree so near me it takes some shape, that of giants from hells own gate. There seems a question, that I should ask, or some password, that would let me pass. May be a doorway into its way, and further on maybe a cave. For sure, I read upon a time, that Luz is waiting on the other side. Or, it could be a desert opened wide. What do you want I say inside looking around for a sign of life, but nothing happens, at least from sight of common origin, that will not fright.

Instead, a voice, inside my head, it could have been thought, of things I dread, it opened dialogue from by the tree, upon this night by U.S. 50.

“Tell me contrary to all I ask”, said something withering from life gone past. “Give me the opposite of all I say, this is your challenge to pass by this way”. I tried to reason within myself could this be Lucifer, or my own self. Had I gone mad out here away, without the confines of rules to obey? I had no time, as the night closed in, and the roadside went out within, the voice it intoned a game to play, and it was too late then to drive away.

The words flew fast then as words do, with syllables clashing, in darkened hue. It said,

“What of your origin”, I said, “your past”. It said “your future”, I said G_Ds plans. It spoke of opera, I spoke of blues, it mentioned Bocelli, and I hummed “Howlin Wolf“. It said, “Your soul”, I said, “depends”, its shape was shivering, so I said, “Psalms one, all verses are within”. The conversation lasted past a quarter of three, no lights on the highway, no birds in the tree, and the ground was still but not so the sky, for it seems my answers had pleased something high.

For just a moment, there was a split in the night sky, a moonbeam shot downward, and illuminated my eye, and I saw before me the tree now a stump. The souls of the roadside flying up. A release had occurred, for why I know not, could be an illusion, you decide if it happened or not. Yes, you decide if it happened or not. 03.10.2018 – דניאל

At 25 (Seraphim)

“We are old flames”, she laughs, her green eyes shining, sending signals to a part of me that has thoughts for later. “You mean like old lover’s I say”, knowing somehow, she is headed in a different direction, but not certain where. “No”, she smiles, and suddenly looks thoughtful, “we were much more”, “probably glowing darkness”, she continues, “intertwined, cobalt blue, flames falling from the heavens, aliens to this earth, we are the seraphim”!

What thought is this that touches breathe, from sub realm worlds our net is cast, to bring us warmth before this day, to bind our hearts to what G_D would say. We walk as one, we fight as two, and we make our bonds, of rougher hew. To know our hearts of what should be, but Lord Let us not strip our identity. For years go by, grant this we pray, when we are hard, our souls so gray, bring us to dreams, and let us be free, and bring us to make our myth reality.

When we were young, much younger still, we lived so hard, with tragic skill. We sought to make what we could not build, and so we stopped while time stood still. From eye to eye, our rage contained, we entered a cave of pain, but still something that was a dream, helped us go on. With love achieved a root deep song. What thought is this, we gave to love; we christened babes with skies above. Gave we them spells upon their lives, said we your blessed, by stars above. For beauty came into their own hearts, my wife my love, how did we start. To know ourselves through what life brought, the lines of time have been our sparks.

What old ways come, to bruise us through, what future kingdom, do we hew, upon our love nobility, rest spirit of our fallibility. For on and on we strike the stone until, the house rest, solid home. To rest in arms not built just flesh, but ideas of G_D built on happiness. The angel turns she is in you, the seraphim mystery, flames of flesh, the girl grown strong, by challenge till death. I parse my thoughts, and I turn too, I bring my seraphim in line with you. For we our strong, much stronger two, unto this day we cast our view, and single out where we go now, all time is ours to say just how.

What thought is this that touches flame, from sub realm worlds our net is cast to bring us warmth before this day, to bind our hearts to what G_D would say. This shore, this shore is our land too, this mountain that would block we cut in two, for unto us is joined a charm, built long ago by G_D’s own arm. Beyond, beyond an octave blue, we shimmer, move in angel blue, at twenty-five and one more too, my heart, my love, I still ask for you.

Twenty-five years ago, this day I married a Seraphim! – – 03.06.2018 – דָּנִיאֵל

The Lost Prayer of Billy Jack

“Billy Jack: And where’s Bob and Jack Kennedy?

Jean: Dead.

Billy Jack: Not “Dead”, their brains blown out! Because your people wouldn’t even put the same controls on their guns as they do their dogs, their bicycles, their cats, and their automobiles.” – Billy Jack -1971

Somethings in the valley, Billy, Billy, something with a red eye that time has willed, something off the reservation Billy, Billy, is it something that you can’t kill? Somethings in the minds of all our children, Billy, Billy, from our small schools to that Hollywood hill. A hard rain has come down now Billy, Billy, can you save us from this ghost that kills. Everywhere is fear now, when it’s not high, drugged and out of it American Pie. All our answers have gone to sleep, dead in their prayers in your tomb where you sleep. WIFI has come to make us complete, while wild horses run with your spirit in their feet. Where are the heroes where are their prayers, somewhere on the rez where the wind turns to a ghost song stare.

Somethings in the shadows, Billy, Billy, something with a bad thought, that makes G_D cry. Something that runs down a lonely desert highway, into the moonlight, where it shakes its hand against the sky. A bitter pill, is given now Billy, Billy, a medicine that teaches us to kill. No one knows now what’s the answer, still in your lost prayer, you say defend your will. For all of this land belongs, to a people, to a spirit that wishes well. From the desert to a high place, can we save ourselves at will.

Somethings in the children Billy, Billy, somethings in the language that teaches us to kill. Death in a culture Billy, Billy, zombies glorified by a nation that kills. Guns and infanticide, Billy, Billy, out of the circle, where life does dwell, turn of the world now Billy, Billy, defend our way, with what’s instilled.

Your lost prayer now Billy, Billy, something in the words now, Billy, Billy, honor that’s instilled now Billy, Billy, value taught that’s real now Billy, Billy. Somethings in the valley, Billy, Billy, something with a red eye that time has willed.

For the children of school shootings everywhere, I wish they had Billy Jack. – 02-24-2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Sunrise with Georgia (de Chaco)

“I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life – and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do”. – Georgia O’Keeffe

“When there’s nothing left to do I pray for sunrise”. – Scott Stapp

The shades of desert night are birthed before the dawn, with a shard of red that beckons on, and on, and I think I’m in de Chaco, in my bare feet, without grace, and my heart withdrawn. I cannot see the reason why, but still, I think it’s my way of life. And to my right O’Keeffe she smiles, “I’m putting touches with my paint, let’s watch it dry”, her voice like a sound of lightning, “let’s let it dry. “there’s a lesson son in dreams to those who wait”. “Some terrified in moments before they see the paint”.

It could have been the pizza, of just the night before, but chills just don’t seem suited, to this vision, what is it for? The silence in the statues of the rocks where the dark angels died, the ark of the holy covenant rises fire from the eastern sky. It is such a mystery, mystery, with the ruins, gone by. My G_D to thee this morning when I’m born to die, is in a dream that you look me in the eye.

“It is a duty to paint her face”, says a dreamlike “Georgia” turning the brush like my fate. Those hands were pictures, I start to say, but it’s not important when you’re in this place. “Oh G_D you’re an element, in this dream, before the canyons and my dried streams, of hopes and thoughts about where I’ve been, from the top of a mountain, to the taste of sin. “A turn of her shoulder brings a certain pink”, says Georgia, whispering, as between her teeth. I haven’t thought to question, for my mind is a whirl, why G_D has chosen a dead painters world. But back to the silence of the morning that is, with de Chaco moving in my soul somewhere within. “The rising of the child is what you want to see”, suddenly Georgia’s voice is distant outside of me. For the walls of nature rise and arc and stand, before creation’s first thought of first man.

“No dark valley”, Georgia whispers to me, and I turn, and she’s gone, instead there’s just a pinon tree, but I turn again, and what I love the most, is “Adonai” that brought me shining down his ghost. Unto you all my whispers, and all my errant dreams, you of blended cells of mystery, that makes a child of me. For here in de Chaco in the sunrise of the worlds, all suddenly O’Keeffe’s words come into my heart and swirl. “I’m putting touches with my paint” a voice rumbles in my dream, it’s been drying in the desert while you walk in your sleep. I brought you to my birthplace here, the land an inward sea. And though I think I am asleep, the day awakens me from my keep, and all I hated has gone away, the black and white of my mistakes. A sunrise color like Georgia makes, has painted me with the coat of many colors for my destiny, the coat of many colors for my destiny! – 02.18.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Tree Line

It’s a quarter till seven, that’s right, and I’m a driving towards first light. Never thought I’d say this now, not sure if I’m ready, but hear it now, my life is in the spirit of wind, along the tree line I’m driving in. I’m not really sure if G_D’s a he or a she, not sure it really matters for their inquiring in me.

I stare upon a tree line on a cold February day, the frozen mist drives north from Boulder, those limbs are darkened gray. The oaks they stand defiant, a division from street to land, but just the same they cannot stop the mist that penetrates their stand. Upon me rides the business of the coming day, to work, and all its details life’s troubles, comes what may. The swarming of the winter this day it seems always, the judgment down from heaven on this road, a right of way. The tree line goes on southward, dividing in its own way. What promise do I wonder does look the other way?

A whisper of a siren, the wetness of a tongue, a glance beyond toward westward, in fog where the trees look on. The fields roll out in body, their magic under sun. A sudden change in climate from pavement to a mystery sum. The question then on this early morn, when fate weighs heavily, to drive on to the fog that is known, or cross the tree line near. What then the voice does echo, does make thy soul draw near, the plainness of the day ahead, with cloudiness and drear.

Over land there draws the energy of the sun, while on this side of the tree line, there seems to be none. Is it something magic in a prayer that I must say, to cross over markers to where your angels play. What is it now that your good, it asks of me, on this side of Jordan here beneath these winter trees. There through the vale now, I see another sun, the better part of harvest, beneath what you have won. A radiance of better grace, a hope that’s better done. I’m driving down this side of fortune, and my spirits come undone. Pick me up, my better, pick me up, I’ve got to run.

This car it has no steering on this cold February day, the daemons hold it’s steering and it heads down straight away. Down there close to honesty, that makes a better man, but he’s worn and he’s dyeing, and he needs your promised land, there you are through the tree line, there you are.

For a moment, just because I can, I turn the wheel and enter a wind filled promised land, and I fly into a better sun I have always known, as my best friend!

It’s a quarter till seven, that’s right, and I’m a driving towards first light. Never thought I’d say this now, not sure if I’m ready but hear it now, my life is in the spirit of wind, along the tree line I’m driving in. I’m not really sure if G_D’s a he or a she, not sure it really matters for their inquiring in me. – 02.11.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Before there was Stephen King and “The Shining“, there was the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, and three sisters from Georgia who made a holiday in July of 1922.

Tessie say’s Elsie, it’s such a warm day, much warmer in the Rockies, the sun’s closer they say. Mary holds her dress high to step over a stone, say’s she, it’s not the land of cotton, but I don’t miss our home. The air it’s right for small talk, of what should have been, a bit of gin drinking, with tonic mixed within. Beyond the western terrace, the valley golden lays, behind the haunted walls of luxury, the rocks climb to where eagles stay. The evening grows much closer, as evenings always do, Mary looks at Elsie, what’s a girl to do? I’ve just been so lonely, since we left our boys, do you think they miss us. Hush dear now, says Tessie, they really have no choice. The sisters watch the sun set, crooked down it strays, Elsie says to Mary, it reminds me of our ways, as it goes towards Grand Lake as it goes away.

Tessie hears “Claude Debussy”, the piano in the dark, something from the ballroom, where music is an art. “Nocturnes” playing softly, while near her sisters lay, it’s been a day in Estes, where no one knows their names. Shadows play so distant, from a different time, once upon a small town, when all in life was fine. Outside time is moving under stars that play, someone mixing magic along the milky way. All is where it should be except a dark shadow on the stairs. A moving fist of darkness, a dameon of past care.

Elsie wakes to sunrise, a coldness in the room, her sisters are missing, for a moment she holds a fearful swoon. What if they decided to leave her here alone, and travel back to Georgia, to let the boys be not left to roam. But that would be so silly, for together they have strayed, and then she hears Tessie giggle from the doorway, and she’s okay. Another day in heaven, up where graces stray, up where a guilty soul, can hear angels say it’s okay. For here they are just sisters, women joined by heart, never would they let each other suffer from another’s harm. What they have together, muses in a way, better their sin forgotten, upon this sunny day. This sunny day.

Tessie say’s Elsie, it’s such a warm day, much warmer in the Rockies, the sun’s closer they say. 02.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Bluecoats (Evermore)

The bluecoats were a mighty force that held the highland, from the driveway to the dried mud hill near the weeds. They had a town and village and it was made of tuna cans, but their fort made of tin foil, was the pride for all to see. They took up their positions with their plastic weaponry, and in unison, they beheld what they could see. And, they called their mighty plateau “Evermore”, for with their mighty fortress, they would gain immortality, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

Upon a very sunny day, when the air stood still and hot, the bluecoats looked down upon the driveway called a sea. There arose a string of makeshift ships from a cardboard box, with a green army that numbered infinity. The flag that they mustered was cut from old cloth, painted black for misery, and they made their home for war upon their fleet. Stood they tall with axes high, as they looked at “Evermore” said this too belongs to us or so we will see. And the greens set their catapults upon dried mud land near the weeds, and said let us wait for dusk, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

The bluecoats of the highland, looked down upon the greens, and they found themselves filled with pride and practicality. What is violence without reason, when we have our fort so strong, in “Evermore”, we have been here for eternity. Let us throw down rocks like bullets rain our war upon the greens, for in our souls we have superiority. We shall hold our mighty highland, we shall stand for “Evermore”, our enemies will become but a false dream, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

So the bluecoats rained down rocks like bullets upon the greens by the weeds, and the greens dodged their pellets beneath the thick leaves. At a point in time, the sun did dip, and the greens counted their deceased, total losses amounted to twenty-three. We have slain them they are conquered said the bluecoats on the hill, let us retreat to our fortress and watch them leave, it will be a sign of our true wealth, or better yet our “Evermore” superiority, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

In the valley by the weed growth near the driveway called a sea, crept the warriors of the Greens an army. Looked they up onto the highlands in the dusk all they could see, was the tin foil fort of the enemy. Bent they back their plastic catapults held by rubber bands tightly, held within the cups of each a gas-soaked gravel, to fly when touched by a match lit carefully. Up above in “Evermore” not a bluecoat could be seen, tucked away secure not afraid of that which lies beneath, some boy said, I know, some boy said.

In the evening on the highland, that looked over a driveway sea, came a rain of fire that was birthed from near the weeds. Burning gravel falling terror from the green army, hit the tin foil keep of the bluecoat infantry. The foil it held the fire for just a little while, but the shards of gravel pierced it through. The wooden sticks that held the fort began to burn as the embers grew. The end the end, the bluecoats sang, as the tin stronghold ripped in two. Some boy said, I know, some boy said.

But what has legend taught us, of battles that we fight, just when we lose our fight, there comes a faithful rite. For just as when the bluecoats fell, and recognized their plight, they called upon compassion from a holy recognized light. The boy in his compassion, of all he did control, sent streams of dribbling water down from a bucket near the knoll. His role was like a being, that looks upon a land, and brings about a miracle when nobody thinks he can. Look up, look up, ye bluecoats, from the highlands where ye stand, your G_D is like a boy, with a bucket in his hand. Some boy said, I know, some boy said. – 1.31.2018 –דָּנִיֵּאל