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

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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

THE MØMENT


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

Hérodiade


{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

SWEAT


“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

Sisters


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


Gloria


“Who loves not music and the heavenly muse, That man G_D hates” – John Dowland

Words born in Gloria, my kingdom done, words born in Gloria my kingdom won.

When I was young, Gloria came to me gave herself to me all night long. Rested she spirit while I was learning, sang hallelujah as we were one. Varied the names that I would call her, maybe a him, they all would come. Never a dark valley in my childhood, Gloria made sure my eyes saw none. Some build their holiness as a witness, spending their time toward a grander sum. Waiting for some eternal wisdom, Gloria told me it never comes.

When I grew taller, Gloria was distant, leaving by hours, and days or weeks. No longer did I see her labor, testing my body when I felt her need. Though it was true there were some others muses of old and ancient creeds. One by one in times of haunting, they gave me their words by poems and deeds. Every meaning, they did filter, deviled it’s meaning by faulty belief. So many thoughts did I often falter, never expressed in true relief.

When I was older, voices grew softer, dreams came swifter, their meanings brief. How is it so, I would wonder, did Gloria leave, when I still had need. One such moment, as January grew longer, howling winds, and I couldn’t sleep. Out my window, the moon grew stronger, Gloria appeared, and made my soul complete.

Writing in craft, the spells growing stronger, words like bodies entwined in heat. Gloria, Gloria, adjectives, adverbs, heaven and hell, my sentences complete. Every syllable, comes in a picture, probing my mind, like a pleasure treat. Never before has there been another, the witch of verbiage with tales that speak.

Gloria comes in small bits of timing, teasing my mind when the evening comes. Sometimes she’s ghost in the midst of lightning, mostly she’s air when the pain recedes. I have knelt when the storm was coming, I have risen high when the moon has come, Gloria has been in my dead mind crying, now in the heat of creation we leap. So, it is when I am bleeding, begging relief from the mid-day sun. Torn from my safety of where I’m breathing, book of my shadows a spell undone. Words of a psalm that go by singing, night on a highway, trip not done. Words born in Gloria, my kingdom done, words born in Gloria my kingdom won. – 01.28.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Veni in fletu


Do you judge my curiosity or my questions, do you pronounce sentence upon my lack of faith or civility, and when I rise at night, do you watch me with compassion, or cold insensitivity? And when I ran away to you, why did you run from me? Why did you run from me? For I have come to tears in my grave you made for me, and I watch you, as you stare back at me, yes, I watch you, as you stare back at me.

There’s a tomb now, dug beneath the dreams inside of me, where there’s castles built on songs of what used to be, and still the darkness, it’s quieter than I need, such stilled darkness, much quieter than I need. Layered stories of what’s supposed to be, good and bad taught by teachers who can’t teach. Still I lay here gritting my teeth, in the mercy of something I can’t reach. In the mercy of something I can’t reach.

I marched armies over reason, in the conscious part of me. Made decisions that were never done complete. Ran thorns through light, that showed callous indifference to the spells that would make me free. Shook my fist at the night sky, drunk on the spirit of your mystery, and you laughed then, smiling coldly down at me, oh how you laughed then, smiling coldly down at me. There’s a shadow, that moves from left to right, in me, when I’m sleeping, and again when I’m in flight, like a bat that cannot see. Is it G_D now, or just humanity, life or after, that haunts me when I sleep. Let me go now, go where I can feed, feed on you now, and make you part of me.

Its adventure, to live what most don’t conceive, in a valley, of an opposing apostasy. To rise each evening, and pronounce what you believe, to live forever, in the sight of what you can’t see. Still I wonder, what would happen to me, if I rose once, in his sunlight crystal sea, dared his judgment to take my pain from me. Rising screaming, with my darkness before me, burdened cost of a ransom lost believed, what’s not given, was never received, what’s not given, was never received.

It is winter, in a grave beneath G_D’s sun, and there’s bones there, white unbroken by no one, still in dimness, they form a puzzled dream. What’s forgiveness, if your sins lay, in wrongs that you can’t see. The same as love given, if you can’t love in your need. Under heaven in the darkness of a spell, I lie waiting, for the sound of a final bell, that towards evening, when the moon brings light to me, waiting mercy of something I can’t reach. In the mercy of something I can’t reach. – 01.22.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Many thanks to JR Richards for another fine tune leading me to what I should write.

Endings


“There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story” – Frank Herbert

The ending comes as all ends do, with a kiss of sadness, and a question of what now, should I do?

I sat down to write before sunrise, just now a mark across the Colorado eastern sky. And I wondered about where I’d been, in the darkest night before the hour that I sat in. The pillow marked its crest upon my cheek, as if to say last night was a repeat, of something stronger than all my whims, perhaps a fathom of wonder within. The stranger beyond past doors, the darkened blonde of silhouettes shores. The lady standing with hips undraped. Her wrist with stories in marks untraced, and she turns without and within. While all the night it comes to end, and she whispers her lips at my nape, can you see me when your awake. I stumble and stutter from my bed awake, the darkness of ending, my soul in her take.

I sipped my coffee and wondered of fate, of crossings of spirits, and life we attain. I thought of the night, the pictures and weights, the balance of dreams, and what all I take. The hours of the watch, that float from my view, the mystery of stories, her body unwinds, the marks on her arms, the shapes on my mind. And though it’s now morning, another cold day, the words that she whispered, bring still life to play. For it is a phantom of light in my life, that chases my ego, and drowns it each night. I turn to the morning my coffee in hand, and see her face ending, and all things begin.

The stars of the old night they signal withdraw, and the winter’s morning comes early to call. While something of last night, a whisper retrieved, disappears quite rapidly, and hides it own need. And I wonder it’s ending, those wrist with their signs, of sorceress stories, and rhymes in her thighs. Where off has she gotten, as the sun comes to rise, what endings does she tell of, and why is it mine.

The ending comes as all ends do, with a kiss of sadness, and a question of what now, should I do? – 01-15-2018 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

January (Silence)


Grant Wood – January

“I killed my ex-lovers and buried to my memories’ grave. 
It is January and I am tired of being brave.” –
Arzum Uzun

Silence

Cold, thy name it comes to roam, a place inside from cold darkened stone. Death thy grip too, touches bone, none the less I am not alone. Life thy grip is underground, frozen tundra where still is sound. Catacombs thy layers make, graves of takers, awaiting their take. Hope not risen from bleak winds blow, a bent leaf bare aspen with ice it tows. Ode thy note it has no sound, a broken string has fallen to ground, and scarcely shows a light this day, from a distant sun, with clouds in its way. Now sharper is that cold dark bright, which comes from dead stars that own cold nights. It cuts with precision just like some tongue; speaking into shadows that nothing comes. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.

Silence

The festive moved from where love staid, retreated to December much far away. Fog and dire it moved in slow, expecting to labor were dead leaves blow. Said I so stiff, that speech came not, where is the purpose of such this month, and why should one expect much mirth when G_Ds of old have abandoned earth. Cry out some soul, thy blood will not run, for now it stands a colligated sum. For spirit, thy strength cannot fight this month, which fights a war and fights it much. The summer sun so far away, be still the tempest her warmth delayed. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.

Silence

I have heard “Bleak Winter” within my heart, where earth stood iron, that chorus enough, for in this place where rain does freeze, my soul, my core, it cry’s relief. For every judgment, this month brings clear, in darkened clouds, and silent fears. For every tear, thy need does cry, for fire of warmth beneath iced skies. Summon this now, oh here me speak, with frozen syllables of witches creed, let now this dragon clear the air, bring down this month without its care. For by thy promise, this winter speaks, broken only by a wind that shrieks. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.

Silence

01.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Adeste Melancholia


Through the last year, I thought myself many things.  Often lost, too much a crazy prophet, and often broken, without a schematic in front of me on how to heal.  Somewhere around Christmas or perhaps a little bit afterwards, I took the time to just sit in one place still, and there in the most extraordinary way I found myself home. – דָּנִיֵּאל

The mirrors are placed upon each side, one so deep in the winter snow, tall dark firs, and a candle that glows. The other goes forward to what, who knows. The year ahead in a stranger’s clothes. But here in the silence of what is warm, Augustus Santa, and a Christ child, would you think stillborn.  So many shadows in lessons of things untried. Still here by this tree side, with lights and ribbons now untied. What is forward or back, I cannot decide. So many times, lost after Christmas, in winter tide, changing what used to be, reaching for the child inside. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

I have seen angels at Christmas time, they are like witches, and both can fly. They leave their charms by my bedside, and when I awake there’s snow outside. Still all this magic, in Yuletide, when it’s December, my mind is right. So, these reflections of one past night, an instant forward, and both are right. To be caught inside the light, of past and future sight, I cannot begin, to cry enough, to end what is held in. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

Adeste Melancholia is a dragon that eats your soul, it comes when you are not ready, and you feel so old. Your temples are not built, and your gospels just fold. Faith can’t treat the daemons of that Christmas so old. Still there’s something I will tell you if you want to be told, hiding in your winter snow. Deeper than any secret you can hold.

Time is a present not forward or past; it is built of instant treasure in the footing you possess. And when you cross the breech from Christmas to the brand new year, torn between Adeste Melancholia and the premise you think clear. Close your eyes an instant and join the note. Hear of a thousand languages of stillness that time bespoke. And to yourself make clear, one moment ever clear. Call down the heavens and say I AM here, this way, I AM here, always. I AM here!

O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide! – 12.30.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Invictus 1896


“Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul”. – William Ernest Henley – Invictus

“At Christmas, all roads lead home”. – Marjorie Holmes

The specter came upon them that Christmas morn, dressed as the ancient, her eyes weary and worn. And it was when each looked to see, they saw only the reflection of themselves set free. And each favored lady took it to mind, what did it mean, to know the beginning of time. So, they all gathered where all ladies wait, in the main quarters of their mysterious estate. For something had happened, that they needed to know, what was their bloodline, and from where did it flow.

The needles of pine stopped falling precisely, the minute the clock in the great hallway rang one. The darkened hearth came too so suddenly, as if awakened by some ethereally song. The aroma of secrets of soft cloth and bedding, the richness of kisses, and spells done till dawn. The veil is closing, from those so blinded. For centuries, they thirsted, for now what is won. Come dresses of linen of silk, on rose skin scented, the candles are burning, so tapered so thin. The snowflakes fall, from windows in heaven. Tongues twist to catch them to mix with hot gin. The tale the sum, the time of investment, the thousand years must stretch to no end. Time is sewn into gowns and vestments. The Invictus has come and the coven is ready for the tale to spin.

“Gather this midnight; come near my mind”, whispers sweet Mina, she whispers in rhyme, “Come ladies of mine”.

I will tell you a story, with night as its start, a legend, a secret, held deep in my heart. A dream of a talon that scratched a skin bare, in December’s wonder, a woman so faire. She bled only one drop of blood in the snow, and from it rose daemons, in beauty they glowed. What came out of Streoneshalh, from that ancient day, the birth of a witch from an Abbess that strayed? Upon such ground so formed by the ice, came manners of beings that conjure by night. And here by a summons of that woman so faire, rose a loft manor, the rooms of our lair. Oh, dreamers dream dreams, sweet ladies you are melding, dancing in spirit, your hearts all aglow. I beg you by name; bring forth the “Invictus”, come winter spirit, and in Whitby unfold.

By term, they arise, to dance in the essence, of the forboden. Past particle present, of where they began. In twos and threes, they summon the abbess, spirit that is chambered immortal within. Amazing grace, the music is playing, the manor shakes so warm from within, the half-moon falls from its place in the heavens, sweet witches pleasured by familiars of sin.

Words with no sound they come from sweet Mina, with names and stories from what has been.

The half-moon strikes the ruins of the abbey; the snow on its arches highlights shadows from in. Deep underground lies an ocean of spirits, minus one abbess who has risen again. Across winter skies comes a dark dragon, a flying red leviathan from before time began. An icy gale moves throughout Lucy’s garden, breeching dead petals, and hedgerows thick limbs. Inside the manor the festive are dancing, the ball of the “Invictus” begins! Gather your hearts, and feast from this table, the call from dead fables spins round again. Each witch’s soul has been searched by an angel, that which is ever is planted within.

“It’s the beginning,” thinks Mina, as lights cross the sky. The embers reflected like sparks in her eyes. “The beginning of ever, beyond never end”!

A very happy holiday to all and a special kiss under the mistletoe for my Whitby Ladies, Lucy, Mina, Madison Poe, Elisheba, Resa, Carlotta and Evangeline, you have certainly made the year interesting. – 12.24.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Snowman (Cameron Pass)


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

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

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

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

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

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

My Neighbor the Shaman


“The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep! You must ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep! People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don’t go back to sleep!” – Rumi

My neighbor is a Shaman, I see him out at night, he stands still while his spirits take dawn flight. The grass in his yard is never dormant; the leaves in his trees never die. The deep cries out for answers, the heavens drop their stars, the wind it forms creation, with the response next door, how bizarre. The dead they come from the living, sometimes they have no place to go, so my neighbor just takes their mind, and for them he whispers very low. He tells them we are together, the particles of the words, announced before stars were shattered, at the announcement of this earth.

The night it seems to gather, with swarming of lights above, a brightness this December, from what my neighbor does. The peace inside a city, of a great municipality, of those that have gone before us, it must be what my neighbor sees. What questions could be answered, what sharing could be done, if one could enter my neighbor’s yard, and know their soul has won.

My neighbor is a Shaman, I see him living in two worlds, the next and one in which we stand. He knits no self-made fortunes; his craft is simple sweet, and often times when evening falls, we talk of what one should seek. To live within the threshold, provided from all sums, of that which gives us voyage, on spirit in which we have come. To not mix with the magic, of that which would deny, to bring us all together, from the world in which we have died. To listen to the whisper, the ghost of a still, still night, to know that all creation has fashioned our destiny right.

It is the hour of dawn after midnight, the time when spirits rise; my neighbor takes his coat off in the mild December night. He looks across his backyard to the window where I stare, and I see that he is smiling, as he talks to the whipped-up air. The word it forges reason from one world when two is there, and as he mouths together, the lights fill all the air.

Our time left here is a short one, with breath and dreams we dare, but rarely do we venture beyond the veil of our air. What gathers in our backyards, what shadows alone not shared, will one day see a Shaman, and ask for another world to share. The late fall snow will fall soon, upon a December dawn, the angels will make indentions within my neighbor’s lawn.

My neighbor is a Shaman! – 12.02.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Los Angeles Redux


“No second chances in the land of a thousand dances, the valley of ten million insanities.” 
― Ry CooderLos Angeles Stories

The principality winces only once, as he hovers above Los Angeles, and once is enough, once is enough!

It arrives a mild Thanksgiving in the ladder of the days, with the dark clouds approaching, still the sun holds them at bay. As she drives from west Los Angeles with shadows in her heart, she thinks herself in broken syllables, without language, falling apart, and she hears the sky rumble behind her. In the desert all around the palms droop from sudden heat, it could be that that they need water, or just there bowing to defeat. Over her left shoulder on the side of judgement comes, Belial carrying weights of finding, of what is dead and done.

She pulls her car over in failure, sending queries to her mind, thinking these must be delusions or else the end is finally here. Did she not feign excitement when she heard Adele sing, act grateful at the Oscars when Michelle Obama called her name? In the stark landscape around her where dead beetles come to play, no wonder Charlie Manson led his children out here to pray. However, this is no decider of the difference in her heart, is she a child of something greater, or a starlet who plays her part. If there is a real Thanksgiving, why is she in hell today, the scent of opioid’s and vitamins tint her breath as she delays.

It is not that she would deny providence, and let the daemon come; to play. His smoky figure lines Los Angeles and in her mind, she hears him say, “Did I not cast you as my favorite, and hold you to the part, underneath Harvey’s squirming loins, did you not obligate your heart”. Why aren’t you grateful to the business and the culture when your body is the art? “If you leave this arid valley, and you learn to drive away, what is it you will be thankful for when your skin is old and decayed”?

She could howl in madness as a tumbleweed rolls by. As the scorpion nears her Gucci’s it shakes its tail, well she might cry. However, the truth is ever greater when it comes from deep inside. The honesty moves mountains from the heartland until the San Andreas sighs. When she was just a small girl, waiting by her Nona’s side, a withered hand it felt her blonde hair, a soft voice whispered now don’t you cry. “Gold dust in the creek again, when you see it, is when you win”. “Gold dust made so long ago, ancient queen, has your soul”. “She has your soul”!

It arrives a mild Thanksgiving in the ladder of the days, with the dark clouds approaching, still the sun holds them at bay. She drives the desert to the mountains until she no longer can see LA, and she shakes her hair free, it the color of gold dust, and she thinks herself free, she thinks herself free.

The principality winces only once, as he hovers above Los Angeles, watching the unbroken sealed colored capsules baking in the heat on the broken desert ground! – 11.26.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Daniel and the Old Man


“I’ve still got a twinkle in me”. – Robert Plant

The spitting old man, just spit some more, sitting near the highway, someone you cannot ignore. His clothes they looked spun from an old weave, the kind done by hand, by a spell, you cannot see. And, everything about him was hard to judge, was he from the past or the future up above. The wrinkles in his face drew a roadway in my brain. A whispered little prayer about something strange. Oh boy, brother, here on thirty-four, on my way to Estes, I have seen you before. For some strange reason Robert Plant’s voice just darkened my door. I hear “Bob” say, “I’ve still got a twinkle” in me today, yes sir that is what I say, right now, my reflection is causing my energy to drain.

The spitting old man, just spit some more, he talks just a little than he talks a little more. The Colorado Cherry Company just lent me their porch, there is a change in his face as a shadow darkens the near door. “You look surprised to see me here”; he says looking up as the shadow draws near. The bones of my future or may be my past look to teach me something, as the shadow disappears it was not meant to last. “I am sent by something”, says the spitting old man, “that walks in beauty, and it sends you a test”. “It asks for self-evaluation, says the mean won’t do, the law of common averages are not for you”. “The “Ancient of Days“, wants to let you judge, if your life is beneficial, before the daemon comes and say’s, you don’t know much”.

The spitting old man, just spit some more, he suddenly stands up his eyes flashing neon, like the sign in the store. He says, “I’ve seen you before”! I know it then, suddenly, as the Big Thompson Canyon starts to roar.  I have looked into myself, and seen an elaborate sin. Seen my life growing colder, a lack of excitement within. No longer delving into the mystery of the child in me, to snatch appreciation and turn it to belief. I have strayed a little longer through the web of din, wrapped my arms into the clasp of where pain comes in. Stared a little bit too long into mediocrity, wrote the poem of a blind man that claimed oh woe is me.

The spitting old man, just spit once more, then he began to back away, until he shimmered in the door. He said, “Don’t get me wrong I’m leaving you alone, but I hope you set me free, let me be, one and done”. “For first he built the temple built it right inside of you, and now he builds the walls up higher to protect what’s true. “For I don’t really care, if I ever see you again, for if I ever do I’ll be trapped till the end”.

I looked up all around me standing outside that canyon store, at the mighty rock formations where an eagle goes to soar. And behind me flowed a river carving structure through the land, and I thought myself most fortunate to have seen the spitting old, old man! – 11.19.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Covenant (Safe and Sound)


The angel entered covered up as all bad angels do. Disjointed thoughts in spider webs, so no one understood. Came he swiftly in the form of rapid movements and times, carrying life’s nothing’s, rhythms or what should really rhyme. Came he all of confusion, bringing violence in his name, possessed he the soul of the innocent to destroy and to maim. Oh, my son you are the victim of a cruel unusual joke, played upon your gentle feelings, your mind gone when you awoke. Came the fire of rapid synapses, over running neurons spokes, and your defenses fell a writhing, when the demon in pictures spoke. Showed upon the canvas of the inner child in you. A world that is burning, dragons, while reality spins from view. Human beings pulled apart, while monsters call your name, faster spinning thoughts they come, while the doctors diagnose blame.

Oh, my precious son, I’m helpless to mend your screams and cries, even Adonai, has left me, left me only here dried eyed. I look into your mother’s eyes as she holds you in your pain, the resolution repeated loud in safe there is a way. We repeat it through the path of broken thoughts and nightmare weaves. We keep you in our arms at night as the fear refuses to leave. The motion of a moving shadow seems to bring such terror, such cold. G_D my G_D you are so quiet, have you gone away, all we hear are platitudes from Facebook people who play their silly games. I thought by now, you’d come on down in roaring promised rage, delete the noun of madness sounds, and help us face this day.

Well my son, my precious son, the promise seems delayed, another day in Hade’s tomb, while madness has her way. Nothing really matters now, for what is lost was never found, we reach the place of no sound, but whispers we have to say, “safe and sound”, our love, “safe and sound”, today.

A dawn it comes as November’s sun, and your mother’s eyes look my way, the tears they pour like a river draining from a storm-filled lake. Somewhere in this broken house, within this finite place, a power of one is seeking how; in truth, we find the way. Safe and sound is the gift now found, from what we cannot pray. In this moment, quietness comes, and in the silence plays, oh my son, my precious son, you are okay. Above me whispers a voice, I am the same, in all silence, I am the same, safe and sound still here today! Still here today!

The angel took a quieter exit, covered, as all bad angels do! – 11.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For My beautiful son who fulfills the covenant!

Fifty-7


3 days past-

I woke up early this morning, from a dream. My Grammy, is telling me to walk in beauty, be who I am, stop searching for G_D, she is not lost. Stuff like that. Of course, I am not one to let things go. Her words have been on my mind all day. I suppose it is a gift to have a spirit talk to you. Dreams or not. Who am I to say? I am another year older today, and the familiars are starting to fade away. I know they know who I am, and where I live, I suppose it is time I knew the same!

I wondered if you would know me if I just spoke aloud, came beyond this mask into view. Brought down all the verbiage of how I know how, and just mouthed words from me to you. I read upon a time that G_D is a verb, and then I saw that was not true. I have found you cannot conceptualize the ideas of all we are, and factionalize it into truth. I do not think you will find me a poster child for the better and the wise, but still between the lines, I think you will understand. What is good about me, rest from somewhere deep inside, not instilled there by G-D or man.

This day is so uncommon, that it strikes me as surreal, surrounded by an empty thought reprieve. It could be that this is just a gift from G_D to such a fallen man, or may be a blessing on my birthday. So here, I stand just mouthing words, and trying to take a stand, to know what is real, or just perceived. The spot I am staring at, lies just up ahead, it falls into the open skies beyond a holy belief. And…

Just beyond the Seraphim, the chorus of tumbled stars, just a point a little higher than the body that we are. Over in a cradle by the ending of how far? Comes the light of G_D that reflects my dry, dry bones. The spirit to which to aspire, I have come this far.

Perhaps it dose me better to speak from this view, to recognize a pattern of what is not new. To believe that once again you hold me just above the stars, no matter what my age perhaps I move as they are. At fifty-seven, I cannot conceptualize the ideas of all I am, and factionalize it into truth. That is the truth, yes, yes, that is the truth! – 011.06.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Harrowing of Hattie Killabrew

O’ terrible willow bent willow, born shady in back, taint not one star found you, by here near this shack. no sunlight, established or daemons begat, your seed from beginning, the hollow is black. The chorus of the sparrows has died by the crows, what used to be feathers has whitewashed to bones. The spell of the valley is from what this witch mourned. Her time born in living by mankind is scorned.

A great ream of pavement has woven its way, round the township of Pindall toward the valley it strays, it brings standing water that spills from the hills, and swamps Hattie’s back yard in the hallow so still. She thought herself dead, when the tractor came by, asleep sitting up in the year of Azrael, in 1925. She folded her cold fingers round her churn by the door, and pulled herself upward from where she sat so straight back, her bones so sore. A new U.S. Highway called 65, to Hattie its changing her life, comes her anger, its changing her life.

Round circles, embedded in oaks to the sky. O’ terrible willow bent willow, tattered and tried. The new moon brings darkness darker than before. Old woman seen, striding, then gliding cross the frost filled hollow floor. She hisses, “I’m harrowed” as she passes each grave, the ones in the clearing, filled by eons of age. The road crew from Harrison their fires burning bright, the smell of their lightning, tells something not right.

“Come Shemyaza”, “come Azazyel”, “come Amazarek”, with sight, bring “Akibeel”, “o host, taint a star fall, this hollow this night”. The stillness is closing the clamor and din, of faces round moving, the arrival of wind. The dirt dug grows closer, where men sing their songs, all wide eyed and laughing within. The one that leans forward and studies the flame. Sees in it his childhood, his lifetime of pain. “Come Danel”, “come Jazele”, “come hazeel” with pain, bring “slipknot”, “o host let blind eyes see shame”.

A great chasm opens from which comes the roar. The hollow grows wider all flames nothings warm, the road crew from Harrison gleans wisdom not born, the waking of nature, the eye of the storm. The twisting of tractors, of steel into earth, the hallow comes forward, and takes of its worth. The defect of ignorance has brought men, no more, the highway transitioned a mile from this lore. An old woman turns and walks backwards her feet tired her back sore.

O’ terrible willow bent willow, born shady in back, taint not one star found you, by here near this shack. – 10.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

When Winnie met Jack

It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time. – Winston Churchill

I vow to thee, so is this day my fingers touch, dark clouds arrayed. The child’s red nose down near the Thames, I can hear it sniffle within my brain. The crowds all about in mourning love, they sway and they move, with the cantor’s thrust. Hymn oh hymn, delay, delay, I cannot leave this earth this way. The dark dress of the throngs I view. So many, so many, they pass my view. The spirit it moves in light so faire, beyond all England, without my care. So close these steeples, that I can touch, their steel damp smoothness, so cold it cuts. A kingdom comes, it falls so fast, now what is value, when breath is past. Intern it all, embalmed old crust, a shell for the living, in G_D they trust. But what of sweet Clementine standing there, in dark black linen, her eyes without care. Nothing matters, to be so plain, in death no vanity, no new worlds to claim. Without no battles, or worlds to claim, what is this death, what’s left to obtain.

The bells toll for something they cannot reach. Big Ben rings hallows from out of the streets, for just beyond that forthright, shadowed stack. Something in this shaded place is staring back, swaying in the tones that strike this day, comes a tall hat, swinging arms displayed. Oh, soul be ready stand firm, intact, be hard and willing to fight this back. This cold gray dawn beyond the grave sends errant adventure, that carries unto me his blade. The background roars with cannon fire, count ninety, nigh each year so far, but that is earth now pale below, up here in rapture comes such a ghoul. Be still my soul, oh G_D be still my soul.

Hark now the day mere men can’t touch, the knight of England, has hailed his last, while Hurrsars carry metals below, do bend the heavens for battle to show.

Does stride the man of Mahdist fame, who faced the Dervish, and wrote their fame, but something darker in death now be lames, calls for his rod now, his favorite cane. Give death its purpose beyond the grave, to face the ripper in heavens game. The shadow cometh, so loosed and bare, his white teeth flashing, his scalpel bare.

I vow to thee, I hear it play, my casket sails upon the Thames, below a funeral, above a war. Hear hark oh angels, my fate restored, to hand the evil, that blocks my way onward to heaven, his final fame. Let now his death be lost in flames.

I vow to thee, so is this day my fingers touch, dark clouds arrayed.

I wanted to write an October piece in the vein of “Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter”. It seems to me the purpose after death should not be to have no purpose, rather, a continuation of our destiny, do to what we do best. I am sure Winston Churchill, went on to destiny with further battles to overcome than those that were in his mind. It was surely his destiny to hold more ground. – 10.13.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Where Pictures Go


Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of forever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

The picture is still wet from its birth, hanging by a paperclip on a string by my shirt. I know I shouldn’t be staring, for what glares back at me, are the eyes of an empty child that’s lost in time and infamy. There’s voices all around my room, an icy cold, wet touch. An unbearable force of desperateness that ask me now, “how much”? Now it screams, “HOW MUCH”?

Beyond the settlement of time and space, so far beyond these years. Further than my experience in a world that knows no tears. A calling is entered in, to come forth now this day. To bring the phantom of a child to the second window on the right, to show in vague display. It was not by choice I walked too far, or selection to go that way. It was by not, my guiding hand, that brought this camera to take.  The doorway to a million Daemons, that travel around our place. That shriek in silence inside my mind, “let us out to play”. “LET US OUT TO PLAY”!

So, it was in this determination, of other earthly spheres, that I became called upon to see the shadow by no use of smoke or mirrors. The barren holds the farmhouse, of tales of by gone days, of the daughter of the household, that came not home from play. The search of all ridge lines, nothing held her way.  Pray tell, pray tell of simple pennies on the road, that faded away.  Voices calling, saying, “Lilith’s chosen, look away”. With much more capacity now, the dark band crying “LOOK AWAY”!

The picture sits in story, it might soon drift away, out beyond my recognition to simply turn to gray. I stare into the distant forms, that reach from in their day, to complete the puzzle now, I think I know a way. To find out why those pennies led to the road, beyond the day. Why do voices call in vacuum, to take me back to that strange place. Where pictures go, the voices say, “to know, to know”, they say “TO KNOW”!

I stray from my good sense of fortune, to a darker place. In moonlight given there I stand and look at a black iron gate. From all around me summons come, the lights and something wicked runs. The picture comes from rooms above, and shadows fall beyond the child’s face. Oh, death you are not justice sworn, you come to some in uneven sums, and now I think that balance demands a pay. If it will bring the end to come, I will assist this child, this one, I bring my hand a pennies sum, a cry goes up, sings, “redemption won”. From stars above comes a deeper sound, that reigns! “Go out and play”, my child, “GO OUT AND PLAY”!

I sit alone, with the picture there, the moon shines bright right through her white blonde hair, the empty eyes turn copper in their stare, as free she fades away. She fades away.

Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of ever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

Dream from 10/09/77 before all went black. – 10.09.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Los Angeles


“The entrance to the underworld is in Los Angeles” – Rick Riordan

In the dream, I watched Belial watch her. His gaze followed her in steps, and moves, counts and rhythms. He definitely was watching, and I think she felt him. Yes, sir, I know she did!

She dry’s inside, her shell replete, with modern crimes, of living, she is sleepy in deceit, the sun so high beyond those Hollywood hills, bares down its breath in a drug fogged spill. And all about her, it’s the end of days, the angels cry, while “The Miracles” play, “Going to a Go-Go” in the dark tinted windows of a hearse going by. Colors holding knifes it’s another day, in LA. Star’s line up, while the moon stands still, an operatic drama for the damned and ill, the same man who decries war and hate, makes his art on screen, with violence displayed. Dehumanizing life in another state of mind. The craven of the culture, look to the vultures that fly around LA. Could be the final of her days, yes sir, could be the final of her days.

A song of many tenor’s flies across her wound, a second chance of playing while there’s still some room. She walks through the Getty Center to see the photographs displayed. On a Sunday Afternoon, the “Cotton Mill Worker” helps to keep her thoughts displaced. She thinks it would be nice if the clouds split from the sky, drove her deep underground. Still she thinks, her smile drawn back until it becomes a certain frown, I’d still be in LA. I’d still be in LA!

The darkness is heir apparent as the sun stands still, the smog that prisms colors, makes the coming night have will. She turns her mind divining, she’s got to drive away, open up, leave LA, to the desert, she will leave LA. It is her final day. Yes, sir, it’s her final day!

Life holds no demeanor, out on the filled freeway, sirens mix with chanted sounds of rap debased, she looks in her rearview mirror and see’s the demon wave, she opens up, but she wants to return to LA. Yes, sir she’s moving on but she wants to go back and stay.

In the dream, I watched Belial turn. His gaze followed the white broken lines dividing the far-right lane until it meets the western horizon, somewhere near the Santa Monica Pier. His eyes weren’t empty, no sir, they were not, and I think he saw me dreaming up there. His eyes just started to unwrap from there in steps, and moves, counts and rhythms. “I’m open to the desert”, I heard him say, far away. Yes, sir I’m open to the desert! – 10.03.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל


Post Script

And so, it begins, the month of spirits and spells, and Daemons that fell. These are Daniel Swearingen’s haunted, neurotic dreams. I invite you to a celebration of fear so strong, that what you see, is what you don’t read, you will harbor it in your heart, and it will never go away. Yes, sir you will laugh, for it’s not real, it’s just in that crazy writer’s imaginings. You will breathe and recognize your alive, and how you will smile your mouth disjointed in that crazy smile….and then your smile will disappear for your dreams will start too, and you will know Belial is alive, yes, sir he is! – 10.03.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל


Our Image

All rights to art Dawid Planeta

“Let us make man in our image” – Genesis 1:26

Who are you?

I stand inside the seal, defiance rising from the ground, and I ask the question, I inquire my wrist bare, and yes unbound. Who are you, that brings me here, your barren womb, no answer clear. Who is our, and is she nice, does she protect me with her soft touch, is her whisper in my prayers all night? Where is this, you’ve brought me too, oh man, this man, I feel a fool. And is this love oh G_D of prey, that pecks and pulls my faith away. Who are you, I stand inside, this seal, of salt, mixed so quiet. The dark, so dark, a new mooned night, my Judas goat sent to find that angel of light. I stand inside the seal, to your, or our, I ask what’s right.

Who is this our, where is this us? The theologians have disappeared into a worm filled dust, baiting each other with bitter scorn, of crosses and cycles, and vegetarian scorn. I stand inside the seal still tough. With bluster bellowed, in defiant trust. Is wisdom patient, is love kind, the balance to the question is hidden in the find. Cold so cold. Inside the seal, this father, this beggar stands shimmering steel. I will not deal, no Adonai I will not deal!

A simple lesser question as I stand inside the seal, do I dare let “our” holiness, try and make a deal. It could be just this mystery, that makes me have to kneel, but how many is one of you, and which one of you is real? As I edge a little closer, as a fool is known to do, I see plurality in your likeness is it in my likeness too. Then the universe in spinning and the lights are growing dim, and with a sudden movement, there’s a mirror, and a face that looks to be my twin.

“You’re the man of all our images, the creature of our heart, whisper’s muses to my consciousness, flowing sparks upon my heart. You’re the prey that pecks at heaven, and pulls, thunder from its perch, you are the spirit of our likeness, made manifest on earth. Who are you?

She dances in my lineage, when he laughs he crafts my heart, wonder children of the womb and flame, born love unto our hearts, when I look into their glowing eyes, I see no answer clear, just the images of paradigm, of what’s been always here!

Who are you? – 09.25.2017

For Susan who gave me the idea! – 09.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


2:10 A.M.


He reveals the deep and secret things; He knows what is in the darkness, and the light dwells with Him. – Daniel 2:22

It wasn’t 1983 anymore and Zebra wasn’t playing on MTV, still little difference for life was still a storm, and a dream. The same dream. And behind the door was a mystery, and I wish I knew, now that I know, what to do, how to do it!

The small voice whispers, like rain drops on paper, just a little bit, nothing like an angel’s roar. Something surrounds it like a soft worn habit, that tells me nothing of what it’s here for. Still so quickly, I must follow, take my spirit and beg my leave. Go from my warm sleep and slumber, follow this secret to where it leads.

What we have here, is an old, old story that hardly belongs to just only me. Flights and patterns, the second star right of way. Going off to dreamland eternally. And who should I meet this night, will it be a pleasure or a fright? I’ve heard it said we die and go to judgment when we dream. Please let it be at 2:10 A.M. a pleasing aroma unto my G_D’s hands that reach. Coming down through all this world of weaves, dropping into my own heart just to talk to me.

Leaps and shadows, crawling up my psyche, nothing of interest, guilt or fame. Nothing wanting, no chords of passion, a little dirty secret, to leave a stain. It’s a question, it’s a mystery, sound after sound you leave without any pain. Leaving nothing answered, no destination, the map of all my life still holds no place. Still maybe it’s written by your name.

At 2:10 A.M., I leave as I’m returning, crossing longitudinally, I can’t complain. All the world is in my dominion, as long, as you ask me to obtain. The reflection of your face, someday, I’ll retain, the reflection of your face. – 09.19.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Evangeline


“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. – Arthur Conan Doyle

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. He’s speaking before her feet can move, the frosty air seeping from his twisted and thin lips. “You’ve dreamed again, haven’t yu “Eve”, bout that place, I heard yu singing about it, while yu did service to the lad’s. The service makes her shiver, the large bodies close to hers, eyes blurred, the smell of death and Opium on their breath, the reaper coming forth. The reaper coming forth.

From the Private papers of A.C. Doyle (a synopsis) – Saturday, June 7, 1890

She sings like crystal, with her eyes stark bare, looking towards something above us all that’s maybe in darkness there. The chandelier turns above her swaying but will not fall, my Louisa claims there’s soft skin writhing in each glass tear shaped swollen areola bare. I’m amiss at my judgment to think this maiden is earth, something turns with her vocal’s that makes my loins burn with thirst. My friend Stoker should be here to witness of what we see, the east enders crying before the angel of super naturality. All around the Haymarket, the air is so thick, her majesty, Victoria, asleep in her mist, of wonder that weaving, while this phantom sings. Evangeline oh poet, in me the hounds of Baskerville scream.

An act in two parts, she says between stanzas and times, she works magic in cunning, between high notes that climb. This lady from Whitby that knows all my mind, her wanton eyes searching, above north, for ladders I shall never climb. The fates have done risen, in graveyards sublime, her soft cockney voice inviting the audience, those around me so refined. It seems I can’t think straight, the melody is like a web, I look over at my Louisa she’s not breathing as if dead. The song of a night bird, falls around my company. Evangeline in her movements, what is she, I wonder what is she?

Her gown is luminous liquid, that runs high from her thighs, the gasp in the theatre, when her arms sway from side to side. Her enchanting voice, with lilt and so fine, and then she lowers her tones, all the world is entwined. Oh, magic sweet magic, from where does she arrive, I wonder of her outcome, this night so divine.

The chandelier lowers, calling deep unto deep, she mounts it, with her voice rising and touching. Her tenderness, comes in rushes, and I a doctor who have seen the arctic cold, cannot explain her frozen touches. Her frozen tender touches. And she rest me, and all torment becomes beauty, while she sings.

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. A different time perhaps, as all times are different. Sail me home to Whitby, Evangeline whispers. Her frozen breath crosses things unseen.

They pass the Roman tunnels; that place from long ago. The crypts sail by in the damp air. She looks at Uriah, “that was a long time ago she whispers, a long time ago”. “Aye, he says, all is different now, still, he says, still…. – 09.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Silo

Within our grasp it’s not to ask questions, make judgments or wonder why. It’s not for us to strike the earth, and curse at stone blue skies, and though, the heavens move from us, and leave us standing by. There’s nothing still, but stillness still that ask we store inside. It is that deep calls to us, from somewhere hidden nigh, and ask us to equate it’s worth with passions of the sky. To use us as a conduit, a traveling death filled storm, to birth with in our womb of cold dark steel, and open, why yes, we open to who knows why. And if Rachel is crying, a balm of deadly sighs, in the valley of strange tears asking us to fly, then we will feel our furnace burn, a billion they will die.

A whisper came within my walls, a quaking that was so dry, I had not heard such secret words since 1959. The syllables they were broken into codes and counter signs, a song by Bob Dylan it reached my cellar deep, “Cold dark cloud is coming down”, the angels seemed to weep. Oh, little town that stands so near, here by U.S. 85, you will never hear them, the silence, when missiles fly. The tremors of some shaking, the split across the sky, the cobwebs beneath this roof shaking, a changing, and a time.

“Getting too dark, too dark too see”! Apocalyptic vision, a daring rhyme, a blasphemy. A twit says Jesus is a selfie of the “Ancient Light”. I don’t know about that, if anything ends all time it will be that lack of sight. The fields of corn close on all sides, the silo seems so red against a dark cobalt sky. And I look over to the side of the road see a beggar of our culture holding a sign, that says we are on overload. So, it is, and so it was, the silo is a guardian of a trust. This covenant is different from a time before, says rise from your valleys before no one cares no more.

Within our grasp it’s not to ask questions, make judgments or wonder why. – 09.04.2017 – דָּנִאֵל

Heaven’s Gate (Surround Me)

The Acts of one!

He catches time in the palm of his hand, with his hair growing whiter where the old train station stands. The gleam in his eyes could be laughter or death, it’s all up to you, as you read the rest. The high land all around him rises to a rocky slope, filled with all sorts of angels, and lithesome tiresome ghost. In both of his hands rides specters of a kind, could be maps to salvation, or the gate that opens time. In the twinkling of an eye, he draws a certain plan, to take him up in spirit to where the Seraphim stand. For it stands here in Wyoming, below a certain peak, and when the eclipse covers nature, he’ll see the gate that he would seek.

Brother cries a certain essence, phantom, screams a long-lost daemon freak. Can you leave two sides of living, switch the train at certain speeds? Can you go to certain mountains, and claim them as your prize? He turns now quickly without breathing; says he, love is on all sides, for the heavens are all falling and with spells they must now rise, when heaven’s gate is found wide open, the loss I’ve gained will go inside. Today Wyoming is an answer, where the things lost go to sleep, to arise in all creation when the sun escapes it’s keep. And so, it is he deems an answer from the future he has lost. Why is it we seldom travel to the gates that have a cost? Does not the shield of all our valor, hold no reason without love, says he now to higher purpose open heaven I am not lost.

So, he treasures his arrival, and the sound of walking feet, leaving the tracks of his departure, for the grace that’s hard to keep. Goes he on without reflecting, through the gate to the rocky peak. Conquers he without bad feeling, slays he loss to not re seek. With his eyes cast not downwards, opened skies, no words he speaks. Just a thought that comes in passing, as tomorrow passes renewed, how can he survive the love that’s crushing, glowing holy all that’s new! Surround me! – 08-27-2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Secret Things (The Embrace)


“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.”   Rainer Maria Rilke

Secret things,

What I write now, could cause a great uproar, maybe shift a fissure thinly, from a steam to a fire filled phantom gorge. A righteous man has come in me, came he through another door, and played he upon my mist of doubt, until they were no more. It was like a dragon roar. A cave of ancient signs and gates, has come into this dream, a spirit deemed awakening, what does it mean? I’m not a traveler, looking north, I am hozho, so it seems. Oh, beauty in secret things, pray beauty in secret things. The whispers of this inward home, have become my seers and lords, they lead me into a far lost craft, of which I can’t ignore. Rilke wrote to a young man lost, elegies and many thoughts delayed. I will not be like Maria; I will tell you what this means this day.

Secret things,

The mysteries of the caves and rhyme, the characteristics of the numbers of the days. Times, you know witches are dancing by threes and fours. Why that number you must seek more. A circle, sealed from an unseen grace. The parts of symbiotic blessings, fight the curse of those disgraced, and with that said in humbleness, I say blessed be this day. There is no hidden formula to spells, or fighting for an inner faith. Did you see any procedure when Led Zeppelin, used to play? The truth it is not backwards hidden in shadows of G_D’s face, it’s becoming all the synergy of the love the spirits interlace. Becoming such a mystery, first love of heavens first taste, of dancing before your chosen other, the spiritual embrace.

Secret things,

Somewhere someone is reading this, and confused by what I say. Consider yourself the chosen one, because you will find a specialized different way. For if there is a commandment done, it splits an unnumbered way, and glistens with such magic webs, for all who catch its faith. I will not walk into the sun, blinded by a written way, a plan that maps salvation by what not is, but by a fallen shame. For in this universal dissonance, there are many open ways, let that mystery come inside, and surround yourself, within and without, the spiritual embrace.

Secret things!

Oh, beauty in secret things, pray beauty in secret things -08.17.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Twenty-Three


Bare it now, bare all things, in the trouble that life brings, come on down, come on down, at twenty-three let spirit drown. Not in pain, or numbing fame, in glossy pictures from cultural stain. Turn around, turn around, reflections they are a game. Ghost they dance, on full display, in the mountains, in the night of the desolate desert where I knew not to play. Be it now, be a queen, for nothing ever love’s you like the word’s, the syllables and sounds that come from a king. Understand it at once, do not wait, for life is to short, and that which has no name, cannot contain, for you Kaitlyn it will not wait, at twenty-three without sound it cannot be explained. Love it now, that seed, I’m in you, better than faith, easier to say. For what swam forth found its way, in love oh how it came, and it became you, while feelings sang, biology made my love you.

Be the firebird, be the rain, make a choice, at twenty-three, choose an unreturnable way, I know right now that sounds insane. Be the warrior, that G_D loves to blame, for nothing at all but that, will last forever. Say hello, sweet hello, an echo in the value of accurate love forever. Raise the goddess, fly the change, human instance, born where those without soul, can never play. Wear it now, be it yourself, while the love of a burning G_D changes your shadow forever.

Past away, I’m past away, at fifty-six I’m aged forever. At twenty-three, your bound, with nothing seen and it does not matter. Drowning now encased in Daemons, now without notice a risen frailty, a man that G_D loves, your father is not so clever. It binds you now, without fear, everything has changed, and all that is me, is you, in endeavor, my familiar encased in love in you forever. When I am gone, I’m never gone, for my footstep is in your heart, and with it my love is you, forever. My love is you forever!

For my daughter Kaitlyn who turns Twenty-three upon this day, my seed, of my love for her, nothing will ever change. Love exists! – 08-12-2017 – Dad (דָּנִיֵּאל)

The Child you used to Know (Dragons)


“When the prison doors are open, the real dragon will fly out.” Ho Chi Minh

“The child you used to know is a dragon.” דָּנִיֵּאל

The questions I ask myself are many, perhaps you’d like some too, share if you will this seat right next to me looking down upon this tumultuous view. Perched above the world. Here upon rocks our butts growing colder, looking out on a human sea. Dare ask yourself with me, or unto yourself mutter, what is it we should be? Challenge your mind in triangulation, use a debate that’s not won easily. Twist yourself backwards in confabulation, stare straight ahead in obligation, but really it matters not to me. Go on and rest your head, backwards upon the cold slab that’s red, a granite unlike most, my wife tells me it’s garnet the stone of a ghost. Can you feel it sing, vibrating right through your seams, a choir of electromagnetic that screams?

Beware the ground so far below, think not of yourself, but how you should know, if you’re really free, sitting so high in eternity. Are you a beggar or a holy host, a victim of logic, or a trainer of ghost? For just between you and me, I’d rather an adventure, than to grow old grace free. For now, that you’re here beside me, I’ll tell you in short words what’s behind, what’s we. That slab of cold garnet’s that turning warm, upon it is keys of the future that’s born. Behind you and I is a dragon unloosed, crafted in heaven and hell so new. Turning inside and outside too, shaking your soul, to enter you. Call up the fears of all you see below, they cannot save your old life from the child you used to know.

The sun stands still so near in the sky, just like it did when the five kings died. Nothing worth ventured brings only still death, I can’t hold you up now, there’s no room on this ledge. The fire of the garnet has melted the sheath, of that, heavy garment that held such defeat. Everything calls out your new born name, that from above, is dragons wings. Somewhere somebody’s playing Black Sabbath in jest, probably those losers headed up here next. Doesn’t matter to us were too young to know. We’re turning inside and outside too, letting the dragon be born anew, and were laughing as we go, for nothing can save us from the child we used to know. That beautiful child we used to know!

The blood of a dragon it crests on your face, developing a map, charting toward Avalon, a far better place, that seat on that ledge, seems lost to you now, for your mapping heaven, the child that is you, knows not how, but now!

Dedicated to my Susan, (I Love you) who has unloosed the dragon in me. – 08.09.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Carlotta


“Your heart was lifted up because of your beauty; you corrupted your wisdom because of your splendor. I cast you to the ground; I put you before kings, that they may see you”. – Ezekiel 28:17

Letters moving within letters, sounds within sounds, flesh unto flesh, and then, and then…

A ripping of the temple curtain, that which blankets the sky. The giving of flesh, the naming of the daughter of man, breathing into her “Carlotta”, for she wishes to be free, and her expulsion from that high altar called grace, to the coven of Whitby, where she will always remain!

Stories come to her like the night birds do, falling, their angel red lips open, screaming, descending from the highest womb of beauty. Falling their mouths forming pictures, and passions and finally impotent, silent as the earth draws them into her bend, termed the pale. She moves away from the water, the North Sea has forced the channels flow, and the best that she can do, is ignore the dark angels who hit the sandy shore, and oft to the cold dark sea they go. Her eyes strike a silver pale, unlike her father’s, gold, an affront his tenor voice says, somewhere so oft below. The moors outside of Whitby, surround her now. In by the flowing Esk she goes, so near to the manor where the light of the hearth does glow. Black curls they fall around her, and tangle in a bow, they move as in progression to touch her breast below. The softness holds a heat no man will ever know. Inside of her in a small place, she goes to rest, for even there, her father, can’t hear the shadow words she chants behest.

She could have fallen by order, the last but not the first, the sons of men in frenzy, they scrambled on the earth. The place and time of entry, the past before the flood, that place where great leviathans crafted within and out the sons. It matters not, this she knows, for when she fell so fast below, picked she Whitby with its time that never ends, eternal life, she thinks and smiles. She turns and takes her feet to fly, matters not, her human size, other things are new inside, she turns and grins at her father lost in the sky. The stars look back so cold, some still falling, their judgement within.

The moors they reek of bastards, hidden from a grace, in lower bogs and pastures, the earth becomes their place. It could be she’s home with them, but something is calling her, calling within, a musky smell, and bathing in gin, an innocence lost, but she’s already sinned, she laughs, and runs towards Lucy’s garden so fast. The damp marsh air, tangles her hair, her collar has come undone. And how should she present herself to Mina and the circle itself. Her gifts undiscovered, but for light she has seen, discovered the secrets behind the veil. Was she not a princess the first born above, created when Adam made Lilith his love, or at least her father has told her so, that he mentioned before he told her no.

The fires are glowing from windows arched above, and Resa’s at the gate, her fingers moving making stitches in the air. I watched you fall, she smiles, you’ll be with us for such a while. “When Lucifer fell he took a third of the angels with him”, she says, “but none such as you, none such as you”. And with the sweetest touch, that feeling of magic, before the sun comes up, she smiles like an old friend or a lover that’s new, and says come inside, theirs such a mystery and so much mischief for us to do. – 08.04.2017 – דָּנִאֵל

By the Hours


Authors Note: I have only asked this before, once. If you start the unbelievable music below by Philip Glass, before you read, that which is sewn together by mystery and the sirens gasp. If that you start before you read “by the hours” then you too, will know, you will know!

“Every extraordinary occurrence unsettles the heads of hundreds of thousands of men for a few moments or hours or days.” – Mark Twain

By the hours when the flesh dies to knowledge, hands so carefully placed to feel, transferring faith on cold stones of remembering only good thoughts, while some are still sealed. In the dark here a boy on stone so cold, I see them move. Oh, they transfuse. In the dark, keepers are sleeping, staying quietly, air up above, angels of “El” meet phantoms of love. By the hours, when equity meets love, thought is, thinking thought is! And it meets conditions, hallelujah, alleluia, and all is thought, by the hours, as Samael moves in notes, by stanzas look around, behind you with such a spirit, does that feeling move, is it without a sound. Oh, you will see even while the day comes, the next day, with tides, decreed by G_D she moves. And the times by numbers, for you who can see, beyond me, the picture is all beyond me, for I am everything, I am nothing, by the hours, oh spirit that dwells so ingrained in all that is you, that which is strange, not by man, your eternal light unto me.

By the hours, great seconds, by the clocks man made, under nourished man, oh knowledge, you cannot fathom, where great giants do lay. A quiet space, beyond the sun’s rays, when air is suspended, upon the grave. Oh, perpetual feeling, all that, that is against nothing, the final escape. Into thy places, the dare that goes alone, and I without known beauty, into your secrets there my so long forsaken grave, that great kingdom, next to your seraphim, by the hours in their mystery I find my home. Such is this place, I have never known. A wonder still I must know.

By the hours in language, unspoken, but yet still alone, where phantoms, bestow wisdom, they give unto others, now unto me it’s finally shown. And this in life is mystery, as in death it is by angels bemoaned, that earth in her time is a beauty, as in your breath, all wonder bestowed, and by the hours there are favors, that each second this gift is grown. For G_D does not judge that which is compassion, that given, that by the hours which you do own! In life do not let it go, for in death, by the hours, you will not ever go! You will not ever go! – 07.23.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל