Gray


I was looking until thrones were set up, and the Ancient of Days sat; His raiment was as white as snow, and the hair of His head was like clean wool – Daniel 7:9

Amazing are the things of purpose, I’ve been told, I’m looking more like him as I grow old, and gray, and that’s okay.

They arrive at the end of the day, in whispers they say, all they can do is wait, for my age to arrive, for the opening of my eyes. For me to reach that place. Where all is gray. The world moves through the phases of the moon, while one sun goes up, I think a different one greets the evening womb. And birth takes place inside my head, the visions just like my namesake said, turning me back, making my thoughts make room, for you. All my life, I’ve waited for this day, a strange foundation, humble still, is that what you say, stay so humble but wait for the day, you become gray.

And yes, there are many strange visions, broken, and blue, in life this indecision, like an addict needing more sight. Was it “Aerosmith” that sang, “When the moment arrives that you know you’ll be alright”, I think I’m there, with all the places I could go, reaching for G_D it seems like I’m solo, but in a twinkling, without a sound, prophetic terms come out unbound, and all around the world seems to age. I’m not certain but I think, that I’m okay, for just like the “Ancient of Days”, I’m gray, and that’s okay.

Woe unto bitterness, an earthly yoke, I won’t go back to places from where my youth awoke. All the changes in these years of men, maybe I’m better when I don’t think of them. For letters and numbers bring me to a spell, in a better grace, practiced crafts of spirit, done in Adonai’s own grace. And yes, the sunset comes, bringing my name to the place it belongs. Making my delusions real, an amazing song, blessing you with all my gray.

Amazing are the things of purpose, I’ve been told, I’m looking more like him as I grow old, and gray, and that’s okay. – 02.13.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Primal Lord (Jakov’s Song)


And he said: ‘Let me go, for the day breaketh.’ And he said: ‘I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.’ Genesis 32:27

“I won’t let go”!

Here on Lookout Mountain, with Denver far below, it’s February, motionless month, still cold. Just enough winter left to break the soul’s seams, and I, which means the human me, don’t feel so bold. The silence from I-70 tells a story of the day, suspended in some strange glory, just like my hair, that wants to turn gray. I see stars rising, juxtaposed in bitter beams, they strike the whitewashed bones of William Cody, close to me where he lays. A scripture, a vision, some bloodletting, before I scream. If you in space created this mountain, all I ask is help me believe. A trace of action is all I’m thinking, a signal for you to find me.

“I won’t let go”!

Most would look for a redeemer to sooth. A fairy-tale prophet, that speaks to the good. A peaceful solution to hide all that’s bad. I take my shirt off, a sign of my cover, all that most would want, is less than you already gave me.

The Primal Lord can fly on down, join my battle, hold my ground. Give wild incantations in laws and letters that tell me why, and when that primeval light that’s dark spins eternal and turns to go. I will make you bless me, I will hold you still, you will be the primal energy, that knows how to fill. And when you finally find me, then the moon will stand forever, and then upon my fought for blessing I will kneel.

“I won’t let go”!

Here on Lookout Mountain, with roads and houses so far below, I stand in waiting, watching for a sign. When without warning, an utterance or sigh, my cold skin will feel something, a letter or a sign. I’ll look back out of habit, and see William Cody still has died. But when I turn there’s laughter, a ladder from the sky. The Primal Lord descending, his airborne wet clear eyes, and I will make you bless me, I will hold you still, you will be the primal energy that knows how to fill.

“I won’t let go”!

And when you finally find me, really, really find me. Then the moon will stand forever, and upon my fought for blessing I will kneel. – 02.07.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Bisti (All the Souls)


Wednesday February 1, 2017 – Did you just now rise from a dream white boy, did you just rise from a dream?

Wednesday, February 1, 1978 – “It’s a waxing crescent moon”, I say to Davis, “a perfect night to cruise”. “The snow is spinning its way forward, leaving New Mexico, dropping on to Amarillo, underneath the arc of the silent moon”. “What say we take these beers down the “Old Bisti Highway“, through this inch of ice, towards the landscape of the moon”. “There’s bound to be souls down in those old badlands, that we should see, maybe some things we should not do”.

Wednesday February 1, 2017 – Why did you come on out here white boy, trying to replicate in dreams? Thirty-nine years of dust between us, imagination so keen. Why did you instigate our raising, you left us years ago? Here we are in the Bisti Hoodoos, silent still waiting, as the dead cells, in petrified wood. Why did you come here, calling, opening chapters so long closed, bibles so deep, where words don’t mean what they seem? Why did you dream your, book of the shadows, where western winds blow? The legends we thought were gone, in puffs of smoke, now you raise us up. Why did you raise us up, haven’t you seen enough?

Wednesday, February 1, 1978 – “We are voyagers”, a thick voiced Davy, says to me. “Player is on KWYK, the signal weak, “Baby Come Back“, moving the frost back from the “Oldsmobile’s” windows where we can see. “Look at that coyote”, I say, “he’s faster than anything can be”. “He’s faster than me, faster than me”. The air is moving, the hoodoo‘s are alive. And it is the night, where two friends come to a place where there is no retreat. And before “All the Souls”, we “shudder before the beautiful”!

Wednesday February 1, 2017 – Did you rise before midnight white boy, see the waxing crescent, hear the moans still rising from the ancient ruins. Did you really think you were still there upon the Bisti, watching “All the Souls”, of the old worlds watching you? Did you dream of stories, here in your quiet bedroom, going years before now, thinking were they true? Did you learn a lesson now, laying here so quietly, breathing in your spirit, what you saw then you can see now too? Did you stir your vision, from its years of slumber, did you grow to know us, like we know you? Shudder before the beautiful, shudder in the darkness, of this night, “All the Souls” are waiting, now they wait for you.

Wednesday, February 1, 1978 – “The planet is moving”, I say in the cold, outside of the Oldsmobile, watching wide eyed while a story unfolds. “All the Souls”, my friend says with a gasp, “I think the dead are rising, were they ever dying”.

And Davis and I look at the souls, the spirits of ancients, the stories so surprising, in their colors and their hues. And there in the Bisti, the night drawing in, we sober together and watch the dawn bring clarity in. To bring sweet clarity in.

Wednesday February 1, 2017 – Did you just now rise from a dream white boy, did you just rise from a dream? – 02.01.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Face of Light

 

And on that first day, when I’m all alone, when I’m looking across heaven, not like in the movies, seeing those fake disco lights. On that first day, when all is left behind, when a new world is before me, and I’m half high.  Maybe dangerous, looking for what I might find. And all my life is wrapped in a simple shell, could be clam shaped or a Nautilus swell, I’d give anything to have those Magen angels bring me more sight. A high shift dreamer that takes me to the sky. On the last day, I’m a schemer, but the first day what’s this, I don’t cry. And what’s it like to live a dream, where dreams cannot fail, beyond the pale of breathing where the piper in a calm whisper, led me beyond tall tales. On the first day, I slip on my Nike’s, take a run through the edge of the sky, think I see that old black velvet, he for being dead and gone looks like a better man, the old hipster in me whispers now that’s out of sight.

And on the first day, I think I’m happy, traveling, seeing ghost in all of heaven’s wishing wells. No wooden sidewalks, no gold buildings, but there’s a wealth of snow. On the first day, I should be happy, I’m not in hell. If I get through the day, and then run through the night, I’ll do the first day again, and then, I’ll see the face of light. On the first day, when the wind has reached its conclusion and the soul has lost its fight. Maybe I’ll shake my fist, or hold it still at my side, it really doesn’t matter, for time has stopped, and the settlement is near.

And on the first day, I’ll turn to the right, and see the angels fly, some of them with dark wings, there’s a balance across all space, with what I find. If I get through the day and then run through the night, I’ll do the first day again, and then, I’ll see the face of light, the seething face of light. – 01.26.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Apostles


The apostles came when the night was weighty and black, their long shadows filling the window, no breath to see, for they are dead I believe.  It’s two or three AM.  My love’s comfortable, the furnace is working, after all its January. It’s at times like these I wish I had Dante back, earthbound sprite living in and out of me, now I’m thinking he’s a part of that apostle pack. Its egregious I think, looking though the darkness, hearing them scratch the window panes, they should come inside with their riddles, and their claims. I move to the hallway, almost stumbling down the basement stairs.  There’s an anecdote in that.  Maybe I’ll tell you it someday.  You my friends, need to know what’s down there.  It’s so late, I whisper to maybe only you who would be like me.  I’ve lived too long, and it’s too late to be seeing ghost, at a quarter odd three. The dining room seems longer, a never-ending stall.  A shuffling of my feet, my usefulness to these host, it appears a never ceasing call. The sliding glass door, that opens to the cold, outside across the heavens, the Gothic clouds.  I see creatures, without wings, smiling they fall.

For one strange moment, I think I hear so clear, Maureen McGovern sing, “The Morning After” is near. Not for me, I think, the apostles in feverish spin, their faces or spirits, so close, they touch my skin. The darkness has come, all hail the darkness, my insides cry, nothing you can say to me, my apostles, my spirit wants to die. Though I suppose I would rather not freeze, funny how that happens when your depressed, you want to go with ease. I bend down, the patio has snow, and it reflects my breath, I look up to hear my dad say, “your far from dead”.

Thurman a Reverend, from years all sewn up. I look up at him and smile, “I’m a Hebrew now, so different from when you offered the communion cup”. “Doesn’t matter” he says, “I’m now one too, things are a little different beyond, I’m a Levite, it’s what I do”. My Pappy is laughing, he yells, “it’s good to be back”, I start to hear that damn Chihuahua, yapping. The spirit of my grandfather woke it from its late-night nap. The lonely figure, the one standing at the back, it’s my friend Jason, he’s looking me up and down, a sign of disapproval, “there’s something he says, something wondrous you lack”.

Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet“, I turn and look at the moon, the blue-eyed moon, that place from where Dante speaks. It’s his voice, teasing, and cold. “What does he mean”, I yell at the apostles? I have aggrieved the before said Chihuahua, it’s tenor, reaching a falsetto high. The apostles laugh, as in some course, these phantoms, how dare they ruin my depression in the middle of its strongest sigh. “Your life it needs you, take from it and be fed”, my dad backs up, nearly tripping over his own father, if it’s possible for ghost to do such. “I’m drinking too much”, I spit the words out looking first at Pappy than at Thurm. “Drink less”, whisper’s Jason, having come up behind me. “The righteous one eats to satisfy his soul“, it’s the muse Dante again. He’s fading though I notice that. In fact, they all are, they come to visit, now it seems there going back. “Don’t go”, I’m begging now, and it does seem one of them is coming back, but it’s only Dante, no doubt coming for one last tease.

He lands close, squatting on top of the snow-covered fire pit. He reaches out and feels my breath that’s misting towards his face. “I wish I could still breath”, he sounds tender, an accomplishment for him. “What do you want Dante”, I ask, I signal toward the sky, “what do any of you want”? He points toward the snow, that part I thought undisturbed, and I see the honeycomb lying there. “Eat and speak Torah and live“, he laughs. And just as he disappears along with the honeycomb, I think I hear him say,

“listen to Rachmaninoff – Piano Concerto Number Two, it’s a great way to work off a funk, and it’s the apostles favorite”! – 01.18.2017 – דָּנִאֵל


Rawah (The King)


“When the Almighty spreads out for your kingship therein, you will become as white as snow in darkness”.                                                                                                          Psalms 68:16

“I’m the king of my own land. Facing tempest of dust, I’ll fight until the end. Creatures of my dreams raise up and dance with me.  Now and forever, I’m your king”!              M83 – Outro

I went to Rawah to hike and seek, on the Kings land, in this new year it would be me. I climbed through the skies of the Kings country, to lose my soul, so much at stake. In January, it’s so cold you misplace belief, time flies before you know it, it’s too late. In the center of the forest is a frozen magic lake, I can see through it like glass, see all past sad mistakes. They line themselves up, as the wind begins to blow, I could freeze to death I know, so my sins they tell me so. Spinning like a broken angel, a frost covered diamond, no paved roads, still it’s the Kings highway.

Near the sacred symmetry of Medicine Bow, I look to see a glow, it’s just a story, you read I’m told. Could be mine, maybe yourself you know. So many opportunities, so many found mistakes, in these rocks and cervices, their real, but I’m a fake. The thunder up above is more than I can shake, it’s though the King has had it, I’m more than he can take.

And if the world should fall on me, up here where kings would sleep, so high in Rawah, in Wyoming. I ask one gift from G_D, whose company I’d like to keep. Would you return your spirit in me? A small thing, I ask oh my ever-crazy soul you can keep. For trespassing on the Kings land, as human as I can be, it’s frozen anyway, and means little to me.

And the Magen was there, in my frozen steps, the crown was there. And the spirit which takes breath in Rawah as it takes breath everywhere said take from me, take from these dragon mountains your life, for from creation these are your things. All things are your things, and of these things, you are their King. Now and forever you are their KING! – 1.10.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

One More Try (For Yog)


It could have started with a simple little question, a stare in a mirror to something over there, looking at reflections of a lifetime, a moving shadow asking why. The words in a tumble, it happens when we are weary, we stumble over answers, and try not to lie, we wonder if it’s worthwhile reaching for an angel giving our breath, “one more try”. I expect it happened on the morning early, after a night of supplication, oh loneliness, thy cost is high.

Teacher my teacher, it appears so cold, so empty outside, and would I be so small as to ask, that you ask me not to try. And if I ask for absolution, ask that pain not enter my heart, for not to know love is too strong a challenge for me to ever know or try. A scattering of applause, that turns into rivers, smiles and wanton stares, all the world a stage or a highway, somehow my inner rooms don’t care. For nothing is stronger than a life of illusion, voids and lowliness terrors, ever I come to try an end or resolution, still for me I’m still just scared.

Silence, such silence, the room so silent, and at last the careless whisper caused by the whisperer has gone to sleep. A different angel came, his eyes the color of many waters, his kiss not shy and when he finally spoke, he didn’t say goodbye. “Yog“, voices, so many voices, resonating across the weightless sky, could be shadows dancing, no doubt smiling, having released the hold, having found the peace. And the uptown boy has made one more try.

Know this now, there’s changes in the atoms, changes in the air that we breath. A voice is gone, it’s joining in the heavens, praying for time in release. For Yog has sailed a boat on hades waters, though that sea he went on, knew some bounds. Now that one more try has, netted him eternal, the question has been answered, a heart with many questions has found peace – 12.27.2016 –
דָּנִאֵל

Angelica (Candelabrums)


I watched the candle burn, the wax it melted, and dropped without a sound, similar to the memories dyeing inside what used to be the Christian part of me. I lie in leaves of snow by a dead barren tree, the frozen Poudre trickles so lightly near me. It is another holiday, a bed of luminescent passing beyond my conscious so brief. The candle I have brought burns into the cold night seeking the phantom, the spirit of a common flame, so uncommonly. My eyes they close, by design to quicken the shadow of the flame the shape of unformed ghost my destiny internally. And I have come undone, Angelica, she descends the tongues of G_D, the candle burns my soul so incessantly. Far above me the dark sky, lights with candle flames a massive futuristic sea.

Above the ground a song is heard, in triple chords, in six held notes, it freezes like a rhyme in me. Elijah comes, Elijah goes, the cold dark night in the candle glow, still his mantle he will not fold, and warm me. And I think about these things, as the candle burns, what makes a gift, can it be traced, is it spirit, or is it love, are we light, or all the darkness that seems too much. And I have come undone, Angelica, hovers to my loins and breaks my soul, to let my true self through. For in those days she led my people, she led them on through. This holiday, while the candles burning she will guide me too.

I drive the canyon, thinking of lessons, curves and boulders, looming in shadows, the flame of my candles through. I left the candle out by the river, the wax melted to some residue. The old me, there by the river, the light extinguished, another year consumed. If memory bares, a replica of the candle, a truthful deliverance, will lead me through. For now, possessed, an essence inside me I have come undone. I have come undone.

I watched the candle burn, the wax it melted, and dropped without a sound, similar to the memories dyeing inside what used to be the Christian part of me. – 12.21.2-16 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Scotch & Elves (Yuma)


The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided.    

Dante and I are out near South Detroit Street in Yuma, this is last year before the Holidays, a few months before the end of August when he would die. It’s midnight, could be a dream, maybe real, what’s the difference, I’ll let you the reader decide. We are both drunker then catnip, higher than kites. Don’t judge me here fellow citizens, I was just trying to survive. We’re laying right by the railroad tracks, looking at the second star to the right, discussing, what was the meaning of the season and such. An important topic for a muse and his possessed.

“It’s special” I say, “for the mystery inside, the daemons in the firelight, under snow filled skies. The Nicholas in shadows, the one of which I’ll write. I know you have seen him my muse, while inside, painting the pictures from which I will scribe. There’s the eve before midnight, while we pagans dance, and our eyes reflect candles, and sugarplums in our heads.”

“There’s a train coming”, Dante bends forward looking around the silo toward the west. I can see the pale yellow single light stirring the cold darkness in the distance. “It’s a haunt coming”, Dante’s voice is low like a growl, as he turns and looks at me. I can see his teeth, shining. “Your turn”, I say! “What”, Dante looks down studying the cold gravel near the iron track. “YOUR TURN to talk about the season”, I say. The train is getting closer, the distant horn, sounding louder, the light from the single eye brighter. “Well” Dante says as he stands up and steps out onto the tracks, his long dark cloak flowing out behind him.

“It’s special” he says, “for the scotch and elves, and the wishes we toast, the garland in windows and Jimmy Stewarts ghost. The treasure of Gloria, the heavens of host. The storms of strife, looking, to find peace somewhere. The comfort of snow, for it hides what is dead, but promises living, in spring far ahead. The folklore of Dickens, whom I’ve never read, but G-D bless us everyone, well there it’s been said”.

The train is upon us, as Dante gently steps to one side, his hair not moving even with the mighty wind, that stirs around the rumble of the heavy dark cars whipping by. “That was beautiful, really it was Dante”, I say my words rising as I’m having to scream to compete with the moving sound of the train. Our little spot on South Detroit Street, seems centric with our seasonal philosophy. The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided. It’s as if the spell of scotch and elves has brought us together. – 12-16-2016- דָּנִיֵּאל

Frost (The Third Lament)


The watch came upon me at three, the tenor of voices outside, or maybe in the vale of my sleep. I thought, I heard my daddy say, it’s frost outside, but still it’s okay. For trouble in winter is better than spring, your wrapped and you’re ready to weather most anything. It was a dream, or not, for of this I cannot say, for my daddy is dead, and I am in winter, and the frost how it grows, layer upon layer eating my soul. And these hollow hallways where I am not wrapped, my bones feel like the parchment, and my body is bled. And I was not ready, and it was the first lament.

Visions change as hearts do, and so it was a different watch upon a post night, before morning, but still winter. The landscape was white with patterns, I thought myself a child again, in New Mexico, raised upon a high plateau with nothing but frost, that devil so cold. There was nothing else to view. And the spirit of G_D came in lights, racing round my young naked form, cold, and baby blue. It seemed while I wept their raised a testimony, in a voice that sounded like the ghost of my daddy too. And while the frost filled me, I heard the specter, say Hashem has made you the head too. But I was not ready, and it was the second lament.

And the watches changed, for there was no one left before me, and the skies above became like copper, and the earth below made of white iron for the frost knew my name. The dream became me, and I the dream, and I thought of all the clothing I had lost, and what had changed. And I was ready, and it was the third lament.

The dream was morning, with the fire of the December sun burning the frost of the Colorado sky before me. And Adonai burned me, and the third lament was ever within me, a possession, changed and new.

Deuteronomy 28:13 – 12.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Beneath the Sorceress (Shannon)


The coin’s glint in her eyes, weathered, shiny, under the Boulder bright December sky. “You sing well”, I say not able to stay in tune and follow her gray eyes. “My names Shannon Morgana le Fay”, she says. “Yeah, like the sorceress”, I grin out. “Yeah just like the sorceress” she says. Suddenly, Pearl Street seems small to me, the whole world before me is unimportant. It could be her song, that she sang, it could be what she later claimed was beneath the sorceress.

It’s half past noon on Pearl Street, the sun goes down at five. The gypsy with the gray hair sings Shannon, it brings a single tear to my eye. It’s so cold in December, but it’s worth listening to a sorceress bind my mind.

Henry Gross, she says was at Woodstock, Sha Na Na, an apple to my young eye. And my gray hair was blonde then, I saw it reflected in Henry’s eyes. There’s stories about groupies, there’s girls baring their tits, she says with a sigh. But oh, when I saw my reflection in his eyes, spirits happened, Shannon’s not a canine, well maybe in possession, she winks, oh my my.

I look at where she’s looking, to the Southwest, 80 degrees up a rocky slide, The Flatirons are still standing casting cold shadows underneath a cobalt sunny sky. “Beneath me is a secret”, Shannon looks crafty, well may be almost wild. “Does it have to do with Henry”, I ask thinking this story is worthwhile. “Not really”, she’s getting up to leave, the dollar bills in her lap she’s gathering, an offering like her song’s reprieve. “Wait a minute, please”, I’m begging almost flirting, Shannon like a lover, staring back at me. “Henry, wrote Shannon in 1976, Woodstock was in 1969, what does this have to do with…”! I look down, the crumpled piece of paper is laying still in the Pearl Street grime. Lying ever ready, for someone named me to find. I reach for it, and then look up, seeing the ragged back of Shannon Morgana le Fay turning the corner on Broadway.

I waited till now to read the paper, the fine lines flowing in lyrical curves, tails of dragons making love in the underworld beyond finite time. The wrinkled parchment coming from a “Meads” spiral notebook from the local Target. The words swim, congealing, dissipating and then forming, syllables together, congruent from beneath the sorceress, whom I will never see again.

“In an ancient tongue, we are you, and you are we, what’s sewn enough, can’t get free, don’t run away, ask and see, ask again, this time believe, for we are you, and you are we. Blessed Be, Blessed Be. With kindest Love, Shannon Morgana le Fay”

12.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Night & Light Strings (Summer Snow)


(A tragic victory written in the key of life.)

Bet din she came in form free, a savage night symphony, and with me wayward, a song has she played. The night strings came to my door, from Sheol, by stanzas three divided by a score, a part of judgment, that half that forms the major of my name. My Adonai, in seams of darkness you have let me cry, still in your balance did I behold and become your name. I asked in dark, the night sky, it burned with stars, and some dirge did daemons their strings did they play. Perhaps a dangerous game, to play with such things, as with the verdict that rules one’s name. And as the years roll by, I can’t say or deny, that I wish the macabre it did not play.

(A wondrous catastrophe played in an immortal psalm.)

For the summer snow, it strikes a cold heated blow, such a paradox from G-D’s own spirit when now I pray. For is EL light or dark, is he in or out of this ark, this human body, that’s already in decay. I’m old and then I’m new, and in my spirit so confused, sometimes believing that fate owns me over, how Hashem would rule my day. But then again it seems, the darkness can sometimes gleam, with sudden stars, that can light my way. A composition made for strings, in night and light extremes, oh mortal mind, the change of seasons, makes faith your journey, like the universe as it spins in rings.

(A note to kingship uttered before my G_D)

Some notes came to play, they danced lightly my way, unexpected like snow on a summer day. They came not in light at days’ morn, but before darkness in judgments storms. A great awakening, in life’s simple, twisted way. I thought it true to form, the yin and yang of pitch perfect forms, the way it should be, the reason I was brought forward, in shadows was I born. But still you give me light, deliberately while songs they play my night, and mixed together, nothing matters, as my breath immortal, it disappears and takes flight.

(A sound of gratitude given before judgment and delight!)– 11.25.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Americus (From the Inside)


And the daemon says, “while ye lay too long, in your self-absorbed sea, Americus, Americus, I will swallow thee”. And he looks just like the Baptist, in that myth that good men tell, with his curly, curly hair dangling persons over hell. To me he is a movie, that vampire of a beast, maybe Anne Rice’s legend, coming in for his feast. Oh, thou narcissist in spirit who labors in the mirror, thinking your thoughts now the better, than the beggars tasted tears. From Miami’s rich and famous, to Angeles that’s declined, over New York’s darkened skyline, something decayed now it flies. Americus, I’m hungry, and the poor they won’t suffice, your elite in their bourgeois fare on their lust I find divine. And they look just like their movies, where the sun always shines, on their social media empires, talking from their own insides. And the lady is just waiting for the villain to arrive. “I will come down, and dine, I am alive”.

And the daemon says, “perhaps I laid here waiting, on Columbus or those fleets with pale sails, maybe I was dug into the dirt, and plowed by a pioneers’ oxen tail”.  And he looks so gold and shiny, like “Alice” when he sings, a top hat, and some dripping eye liner, eating Americus while she sings, (could be she screams). from the inside. For all the words that we have dropped communicating, in electric from our hands, seems were all fellow strangers, looking for our final stand.  And still the decline and fall, the clock it can’t be stopped, Gibbons will be happy, a book in his next life.  And overhead I hear him coming, oh his wings so open wide, the words come down like winter, they cannot be denied, “I will come down, and dine, I am alive”.

And the daemon says, “in Americus art is the reflection of pain, and I see burning pictures everywhere, portraits of the inside” And he walks among the nightlife, the STD’s and trolls of shame. To me he speaks the kings English, and in Americus, he has found his place from the inside. And while the empty church bells ring, the daemon plays, his words from the inside they say. “I will come down, and dine, I am alive”. – 11.16.2016-דָּנִיֵּאל


Nails


“The light was what brought the wheat, it looked like little Mary Lou, I’m convinced of that, it’s what I saw, I know what I saw”!

RF (Nails) Swearingen

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

Nails walks along Horsetooth headed for the West, all around him vibrations coming from the wheat at rest. It could be there is a savior embedded in these sheaves, or maybe just a rattlesnake, reaching to strike where he can’t breathe. Sometimes when spring comes, and Nails walks his land, he hears the flicker of Henry David, say, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see“. Well yes in fact, Nails see’s frustration, sees a door that’s turning black. His crops and soul are in dispensation, with the L_rd in favor does he lack. It could be no one will come down.

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

The child is up ahead, the little girl, “Mary Lou” is deceased, it matters not on a sun-drenched day. Hell, has no fury, like a dead child at play. Still she blocks him anyway, too young to say Daddy, though her lips move that way. Nails spins around, and he turns once more, matters not his vision is interred with loss. For what he has seen is a sign from his self, the raising of the spirit, it comes from one’s own hell. Suddenly Nails believes, that just like Henry David, it’s what he can see. If the dead can rise so can his wheat. Nails takes his shoulders to his knees, he thinks just like David, he’ll build an altar to what’s his need. And if there is grace, and truth, justified, for in the mind of Nails, in his soul’s own eye. Life in the ground will be.

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

1942, and the worlds at war, Nails walks Horsetooth road, and looks at the floor. The ground of Colorado waves in oceans believed. Under sunny skies an altar of a good omen received. And a little girl is giggling, a tinkle to the ear, the light is resting easy, upon the fields of gold, and Nails might be seeing, something Henry David foretold.

RF (Nails) Swearingen was my grandfather, he always saw what he saw! – 11.12-2016-
דָּנִיֵּאל

From Gallup to Shiprock (Turn the Page, 1980)


I’ve been traveling from Gallup to Shiprock, not really alone in my dreams, learning to turn the page, it still means what it means. And just like yesterday, all those witches and those ghost. Are telling me to turn the page, and learn from my highway’s ghost.

So, she watches lonely highways, just a ghost that most don’t know, and she looks to test her mettle, to prove to others she’s not flesh and bone. In the desert, lonely places near the empty Coors bottles, where wild dogs roam. I turn the page. It is four minutes before midnight on the 5th of a November day, and I just left Gallup headed up Shiprock way. Yes, there’s songs about lonely highways, old Bob Seger has him one, and I’ve danced along lonely highways with this ghost or maybe none. It’s a highway of the devil, it’s named 666 to no one, for that nameless is the devil, known from first boy to the one, and of all my many stories this one should know you like none. For along this very highway from Sheep Springs there is someone. Turn the page.

I’m not special or a whisperer, I’m just meant to see someone. Well the familiar brought me something when, I was oh so young. Along this highway up to Shiprock where, old Bob Seger sings, is a ghost who makes sweet music, bring her loneliness to something. All the legends of Cibola, all the spirits of the Chee’, all the things that make my memory, from the past to modern creed. Nothing beats the lonely story, when I drove out on my own, from Gallup on to Shiprock, where the other side does roam. Oh, she sings just like a siren, from a sweet old melody, takes me to upper places, where Lilith wishes she were free. To take this lonely boy to rapture, take him from his highway, hissing in this dark valley roam. But I can’t travel, for you see this highway guides me. Takes me to a different home. Turn the page.

Well it is from Gallup to Shiprock, that there are some strange things, just fourteen miles out of Gallup there are octaves from essence keys. I am driving on a highway as a young man on my own. 1981 a highway, all the ghost that fill my home. And Bob Seger sends a memory, from his vocal chords they sing. Bringing that young wisp, a harlot as a long, lost spirit she sings. And from Gallup up to Shiprock, on old 666 let’s sing, “Turn the Page”.

I’ve been traveling from Gallup to Shiprock, not alone in my dreams, learning to turn the page, it still means what it means. And just like yesterday, all those witches and those ghost. Are telling me to turn the page, and learn from my highway’s ghost. – 11.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Daisy (On Mars)


“Her daddy Mr. Dalton, often said he suspected, when you died you went to live on Mar’s, that’s what Mr. Dalton said!”

She flounders a small woman by the side of the ruin, an altar she built as a child to the moon. A place near the Valley Springs. Alone, maybe a moonlit dream, near the swing her daddy built, it’s the end of October but still. In all of her books and fantasies, at her advanced age could she believe. She’s alone now, quaking inside from a breeze, that comes from the hollow north, near the fork in the valley, floor, where…

She kissed every star in the sky when she was sixteen, my, my, and why, did her tears fall, she thought she would be so much more. And fortune, held her against her view, wouldn’t let her become something new. Be an actress on the stage, of course her daddy said that’s okay. You’re in the valley, the hills are your home, so now…

She’s one hundred, dancing without a cane, near the oak where she had her first date, ate a picnic that she had spun, from honey, and buttermilk buns, considered the eyes of a fella, the one, who left her in 44, went to Mexico to avoid the great war. To the stars and the moon above, what’s below is still not known, in conceived she still must trust, in the…

Spirit, of water that runs nearby, the family ground on which her daddy died, the hollow north where her sisters knit, crafting magic from all they give, and all around her fall does move, singing songs that only she knew. In her heart Daisy lives on Mars, her imagination takes her so far, from the valley that she loves, takes her character, becomes brand new, dies tonight, because she…

Always knew, she’s going to leave home soon, resurrect herself by common luck, join her daddy, and sisters who say now, it’s not so bad being lights in the dark, incandescent, just like the moon, out in air traveling to and fro, come on Daisy it’s time to go, little Daisy it’s time to go.

“Her daddy Mr. Dalton, often said he suspected, when you died you went to live on Mar’s, that’s what Mr. Dalton said!”

In memory of my great Aunt Daisy, small in stature, bountiful in spirit, who still visits me in magic from time to time from Mars. – 10.30.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Bread


Who would have thought it would still be you and me? You sing “Bread” to me, I cast myself away, it’s a “Sweet Surrender”.

She brings me from beneath the world, that gone dry from frigidly. That dark place without a soul, gone to places where blind men see. There in time, there in pain, a boy that knows how to tell tales untold, so selfishly, does he grow. Still she laughs and on we go. I am me, sometimes lost, hell fires landing, no Pentecost. No Peter or John, or Jesus too, just my tall woman humming “Bread” to sooth. So, there are worlds that I do see, strange little islands on the astral sea, and they mean something for when I’m lost, but not near enough for what they cost. Still unknown to me she hums “Sweet Surrender”.

For all the times, I’ve wondered from bed, found a highway, inside my head, made myself something for what I’m not. Formed silly reasons for pleasures, I don’t want. And no one knows except me and now you, no one knows what we been through. Still there’s something, a secret true, a better myth that brings me through. A mystery you will know now too. When she sings “Bread” I sleep the night through. She say’s “Your a better man, for what your not”.  Demons in my sleep, that are better not sought. A father, husband, hero, whose fight is still fought, but still I’m weak, when the battles are not, then, she play’s “Bread”, and my fears are fought.

I always promised hero’s that looked like me. Expansive, gregarious knights that sailed my stormy, storied seas. Still in all that, for what I was, my dangerous flirtations, with what I couldn’t see. You stayed right here arguing strong, a callous to a pair, but it made me strong. And when you sing, you sing “Bread” to me. A “Sweet Surrender”, and my G_D, I’m free, so very free.

Who would have thought it would still be you and me? You sing “Bread” to me, I cast myself away, it’s a “Sweet Surrender”.

For my Susan, I’m so glad you won! – 10.26.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

  • Bread- Sweet Surrender- All Rights

Potters Trail (Semita veneficas)

The place in my mind is featured as real, as the day I went down it in August. A trail by a creek, where Aspens run deep near the high road that leads to Cowdrey. The etches on rocks make a mind go cross, makes a man turn and look at the weather. And whither it’s right there’s a ghost by my side, a friend I lost three years ago come November. I’m serious now, my mind naked and how, I am telling the whole world my secrets. About things that are real, just hidden distilled by the unlawful code of nature. So here it is now the thin truth of how, I met life, and made it on over.

The trail is old, barely hidden by gold of the high weeds, and dry grasses of autumn. An occasional tree that looks dead with leaves, throws shade across those that walk under. The whispers of old, from something wild, I don’t know, makes me think something comes this way different. I walk on alone, well your never alone, at least some sprites bend to my ear and whisper. But on up ahead where the trail ends at a mill stead, and the wind stops teasing my bare shoulders. For here you see in 1903, Potter Steel thought his own life was over. He was ill and diseased to a cancerous degree, and he’s come to the mountains for closure.

I’d like to see him, the way others do, a real apparition, that glows in wisdom. But strange this day, he doesn’t look that way, why actually he looks discontented.

What’s happened here, the thunder draws near, a sound that mimics nature screaming.

Well it is August, but October’s here, this trail of the twisting, the prospector’s tears. The day is suddenly gray, Mr. Sun grows cold, he has gone away. He has gone away! I guess I’d have to say, this witch’s trail leads the way, from 1903 to here, the truth of the matter is clear. The trail of the Potter hides secrets resigned, healing herbs cooking by witch’s design. And maybe it’s just a trail, “Semita Veneficas” from those who cannot tell what they’ve seen, when they reach the murky water of the stream. For on that day in 1903, Potter Steel made his ill body believe, it’s twin self-came to life. No cancer there, incarnate divine. The fountain of youth laying inside a stream. “Semita Veneficas” what a dream. I think it’s so real, from what I have seen.

The place in my mind is featured as real, as the day I went down it in August.

The Witches Trail is known to locals on the high plateau that borders the Old Roach Ghost Town, near Cowdrey, Colorado. Potters trail makes for a wonderful hike there. Some say that Prospector Potter Steel diseased with cancer, discovered his familiar there in the water of youth, in 1903. I would say that familiar still is there! – 10.24.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Mercy & Elsie

Precious Memories,

Mercy. Says “Elsie are we in a special time, sitting here waiting for fire flies to come by? Upon this porch so still, I look at you my sister, it seems sometimes you’re not breathing still”. “I’m not sure Mercy, say’s Elsie, with her slim smile, a crooked endeavor left from her own style. She’s finishing a blanket crocheted from yarn, the silver needles clash, sometimes just missing the white skin on her arm. And just like a summer globe that shows a different biosphere, the two sisters sit, and watch the world unfold.

Precious Memories

The slope of the green hill glides by, the creek at the bottom, letting the Ozarks cry, and still they sit like stone, two sister’s immortal, statues, time seems to leave them alone. The graveyards down there, in the meadow, with weeds and snakes all around, “Mercy, says Elsie, do you think, that your Sam’s still in the ground”? “I know it was so long away, he was so full of spirit that night”. “You mean”, says Mercy. “Yes” her sister says the night he held that awful knife!

Precious Memories

The string beans snap in two, sitting on the porch the silver sterling bowl, sits like fine china between two. The clouds hang low in the sky, between two sisters there sits no lie. And time and fortune roll, like precious memories, the lines on their faces go. “Elsie”, says Mercy without looking around, “I know of no other I’d rather be around”. They look at each other, and there’s a giggling sound. And just like each evening for many a year. Summer, fall, and springtime, and even on a cold night when the winter is near. Elsie and Mercy sit and stare, looking down the hill, knowing what is real, from life that used to be. But those were the days, when a stranger wild and crazy could be hidden away,

Precious Memories

Elsie slowly stands and stares, down at the base of the hill a man stares, and as the evening shadows start to fall. Elsie, looks at Mercy and she says, “I think that old Sam is here to call again”. “May be my lovely sister we should finally bring this ghost to an end”. “For though his love was different, he was crazy within”.

Precious Memories

And so the screeching owl comes to call, all around the valley it summons spells of awe. And the two sisters known for playing special games, send Sam Lakeef, that murderous thief, that one who held a knife against Mercy one day. They bind him away.  Oh the familiars of the forest come down from a tiny little sphere to unhallowed ground. And two sisters in a coven that live from day to day, They send him so far away. So very far away.

Say’s Mercy, to Elsie, “the evening air is so cool, it’s as if somebody left us, somebody that we knew, must have been somebody that we knew”.

For my great aunties the witches who taught me much. – דָּנִיֵּאל

Depothika (Why Me)

He said, I walk the “Devil’s Backbone” with the lights of Loveland down below, and from here I see the answers, it’s the time apocalyptic, read from words so now I know. Now I answer when Augustus calls me, when he makes a certain sound. Like the church choirs all singing, till the bells come falling down. And the Hammond sounds decrepit when it plays the shepherd’s call not at all the way it’s master planned it, hear it quake before it falls. Still in all this morbid glory in the stars from which I fell, I look onward to a talisman west or east now I can’t tell. And in wrath in certain darkness, beneath the statue of the sky, I turn toward my darkened master, and I say as in reply! Why me?

In a spot torn of its glory, from a land that’s lost in its pride, I come ringing lust and story, thorns to place on weak insides, and I say unto the poor man, you’re not rich like that man there, go and take from his table, make what he earned your own lair. For all around you is injustice, peer upon it with your eyes, take from this land that is plenty, you’ll not be hungry ever inside. And know that no one looking can see you in daylight, but in the night you’ll come a crawling, your want’s not denied. The only question you must answer before the quaking of the dawn, is when your thirsty without an answer, look to him for then I’ll be withdrawn. And in wrath in certain daylight, beneath the statue of the sky, you will turn toward the darkened master, and you’ll say as in reply! Why me?

There’s a time, in place of calling, that has caused the fevered brow, of those good and lowly servants, beneath the heavens and the sun, on those fields not plowed. Now they suffer with their burdens, how they suffer all this night, and it is my time appointed to take their wants and make them right. And I call down fires of greed, and envy, oh I speak of hidden lust for the things that bring on misery, from my father who says I must. I see the eyes that think of present’s, of the flesh of hidden love, of having things most wanted, without the effort or the trust. And I look unto the fathoms of the truth that lies can’t touch, and I tell those most willing learn from me if you must. And in wrath in certain darkness, beneath the statue of the sky, I turn toward my darkened master, and I say as in reply! Why me?

Close enough to October 31, I suppose! – 10.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Angel Peak (Long Time 1977)

She whispers, not breathing, at least not so that I can see, she bathes there in the cover of red rocks just like when she was fifteen. She’s at the two o’clock marker in the shadow of the Angel peak, I’m sixteen or fifty-five now, not no more than yesterday’s dream. The sandstone, looks past petrified mummies, the badlands of the San Juan basin to the back of a wet brown hued lady. “It was “such a long time”, she sings, the pool of clay seems clear at her feet, just sparkling minerals, dropping diamonds of sun beneath her wings.

The world has stopped, moving, and the sun would still it’s shine. The triune strata of the Kirtland Shale, The San Jose Formation, and Nacimiento Formation, bending to catch the sound of her voice singing Boston to me.

“Funny there would be music here”, I think I say, and then I wish there was stars, for maybe under the seven stars, this would all be a different dream, not real, not her making me dare, to be what maybe I can’t perceive.

Her fingers like the canyon, they bend and keep moving, bringing, the raw colors of the world to me. “You’re coming back to find me”, her voice, teasing, the sage carpet of the ancient ocean bending to see what I see.

She whispers, not breathing, at least not so that I can see, “it’s just outside of your front door”, and the angels come down from the peak, and they play with her. And just like the mystery of the song in the Kutz Canyon, she continues to sing to me. “I’ve got to keep on chasing that dream, though I may never find it, I’m always just behind it”. And the angel’s just fifteen, but she’s older than the peak, for it seems the vaults of canyons seem to echo, what she repeats, for a long time, all my life for a long time.

She whispers, not breathing, at least not so that I can see…10.7.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל 

  • All rights to lyrics “Long Time” – Tom Schotz (Boston)

Resurrection

For below me on this mountain, there is a charm, and it knows me, by my sacred name, by my secret name it knows me, and now it loves me, oh how it loves me, in magic it resurrects me. In eternal letters it speaks me.

Resurrection comes in parts, it breathes in pain, it comes in dreams, revealed when nothing else will start. Rising, fulfilling, like a daemon it titillates then comes screaming from the dusk, of what was left in my devil filled heart. Barren oh barren, this broken mind so filled with as many broken parts. Razed, these bones, my white, white bones, nothing left so tossed about, ignored by your light when it would roam.

Resurrection it comes in minor keys. Those long dead scenes, when all is silent, mocking emptiness, that’s when there’s wind that blows on through. Life from the undead, needing spirit, for blood is common, so common, and only breath will do. And it seemed such a little place, I decided to die, such a bitter, lonely, single space, but still filled with pride. For it would not be by my own hand, by dusk my own demise, oh such a drama I thought it true, by G-D’s own will denied. But then thought came in such surprise.

It was upon the mountain, oh my, I think you rolled yourself across my skin. Such a sweet breeze, oh EL, that part of my name, that syllable of fresh fantasy. Adonai, there you are, air upon my flesh, resurrection upon the eastern fire filled sky. And I’m alive immortal in your timeless wind. For below me on this mountain, there is a charm, and it knows me, by my sacred name, by my secret name it knows me, and now it loves me, oh how it loves me, in magic it resurrects me. In eternal letters it speaks me.

Resurrection is not dusk, morning light, or sexual touch. It brings itself if destiny wills, upon G-D’s love or maybe whats real. And I don’t know, why it sought me, alone, inhuman, dark by need, but that could be it, thats a clue. Maybe a divination on the mountain where I stood.  Maybe lonliness, maybe because I thought I could.  For to understand spirit, of the ruach, by his touch, is to rise in air, on this world, immortal, and touch the fine lines of the face of G-D. – 09.30.2016-
דָּנִיֵּאל


What Lenny Brings

“What Lenny brings”!

Children grip your seats now, ladies hold your tea.  Gentlemen, now gentlemen, hear it all from me.  The verse that tells of Lenny, the rhyme that is so cold, is America’s future, that future that is untold.

Lenny knows that’s junk now, crazy in his mind, and he’s not going to know the savior, now before he dies, but there is something wicked, something good inside, that makes him know he’s alright, alright in G_D’s own eyes.  It’s just a simple prison, watching time go by, he didn’t mean to write a hot check, to buy his Walmart rice.  But it’s okay America, while Obama lies, your politicians rape you, and still you vote now why? And they roam around in parties, take each other’s wives, but that’s just course of living for a culture zombie wide.  So Lenny will just do his time, do his time to get on by, while your small business owner cheats on his taxes sigh!

“What Lenny brings”!

So prison blues are not of race, there filled with indecent cry’s, of a two class system, a black market tide.  And some day Lenny will be free, from these old Texas blues, and he will hunt you forward, and bring you G_D’s own dues.  For he is just like David, a king lost in the dark, taking bread from G_D’s own table, blessed in his own ark.

“What Lenny brings”!

So while these bars are spinning, making time go by, Lenny looks around him, and in his mind it’s tried.  For there is Pedro Louis in this hell hole for life, for he just took a Mustang, took it for a ride.  So many just like him, wronged, for a long time.  For this is criminology, backwards justifiably.  America, you have been sold, to the keepers of lost code.  Law and order is not known, from corporate lords who sold their own.  And meanwhile Lenny waits.  His eyes of brilliant, a shiny grey.  For he knows, that someday, these bars will fold.  And all your gilded gates, oh America they won’t be able to take, what Lenny brings.  All the things Lenny brings.

So this is kind of scary, a, boo filled kind of fright, but don’t you think it’s not too late to do what is right.  Challenge your position, on what is wrong and right, and bring a task before your governor’s, bring them to what’s right.  And love your own brother, the one who falls from sight, and demand that the ones who rule, follow the laws that they write.

“What Lenny brings”! – 09.26.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Chasing Light (1981)

I think I will chase light forever, for it was whispered to me once upon a time that it is “All We Are”!

Cecil and I sat there, the air floating by, in those days we termed it a dry special night spring.  The crosses white and crooked glowing ethereal, like turnstiles to another world of kings.  The moon came down and left a ring, and somewhere near the San Juan Mission Cemetery A desert Poorwill began to sing.  “You “chasing light”, he asked, his Navy blue, setting off an odor that smelled like a mixture of a Navajo sweat bath, or maybe the south sea.  “Yea” I say, just talking to the past, that only my soul can see.  The bluffs above us throw sacred shadows, and nearby the Animas meets the San Juan in a muddy reverie.  And just below the lights of Farmington, lean forward, throwing stars that disappear before they reach the cemetery.

Cecil scoots forward, the headstone becoming a poor thin seat, “You chasing light”?   His eyes are a cobalt fire.  This time it’s more a question, than a statement about my spirituality.  “I won’t be back”, I whisper. “Not until your grey”, says he, then smiles.  “Very dramatic”, he whispers, pushing his lips like a Navajo at me, knowing being dead, has more insight than what my brown mortal eyes can ever see.

“What’s chasing light”, I ask, without expecting a reply.  I’ve been here before with Cecil, six crosses in, with my pagan faith by the Bisti Highway.  His questions are the answers, his statements the questions, a conversation behind the veil of life, with a skinny white boy.  It’s a woven discussion between my life, and that which is still.  Not even those other ghost by crosses three, two and five, dare to intercede

It’s sudden, while the dawn’s nearby.  The bluffs leaning in to watch a flicker as a verb say goodbye, and Cecil speaks a phrase, the last to me he’ll ever say, “chasing light, it’s all we are”!  “BOY, are you chasing light”?  It’s sudden, his tattered purple ribbon disappearing, over his star of bronze.  The desert smells like the Pacific, the crooked crosses all around me look like life from another day.  I turn to see Cecil fading away, forever.

I think I will chase light forever, for it was whispered to me once upon a time that it is “All We Are”!

PFC Cecil Hoskey was killed in action on April 2, 1945 during the battle to secure the bridges on the Island of Negros.  He is buried at the San Juan Mission Cemetery.  Sometimes I still see him in my dreams, when I’m “Chasing Light”! – 09.20.2016 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

 

 

 

 

Tongues (The Dream)

Grammy takes the clothes pin, and she runs it across the metal line.  The wire hinge on the two wooden pegs connects with the line, and a screech of metal on metal fills the hot humid Missouri morning.  Grammy’s strawberry bonnet bobs up and down in time as she moves the clothes pin, back and forth across the line.  “Listen” she says, turning towards me, her Cherokee eyes are laughing, “it’s talking in tongues”.  “I don’t hear it”, I say, I’m lying on the damp grass, holding a weed Tom Sawyer like between my teeth.  “It’s a spirit tongue” she says her eyes dancing and then beginning to float.  “You have to listen”, she says.  And my Grammy, my precious, precious Grammy goes away

My dreams I think are like puzzles, each piece moving, to find its place, and just like the vision I had last night, I’m eleven once again, listening to Karen Carpenter, make love to me in grace.  And Grammys there before dawns morning light, her words float by my face, she’s teaching me about things up above, the languages most of my life I cannot face.  And she speaks before I can acknowledge, her words leaving marks behind my face.  She’s a witness from a fallen race.  She instills love in tongues of the angels, speaking beyond hearing and place.  This dream I think it’s symphonic, retired to such a place.  The world going round, what’s lost but then found, an old woman’s wisdom, I can’t replace.

She turns her simple blue dress blurring, the world has grown so still, listen she breathes, her fingers interweaved, and in tongues I believe we are chaste.  For listen to what the storm tells you, put your ear to rocks and the land, and when the time comes, touch metal, climb rungs, and listen until you have found your perfect place.

I awake upon this new day, the tenth of September, sixteen, but it’s still seventy-two the languages, not new, the tongues still whispering away.  I think of all that has happened, with so many voices inside.  I’m going to decide, my fate has arrived, I’m going to talk in tongues till I hear.  I’ll listen to what the storm tells me, my ear I’ll put to the rock, and the land, and when the time comes, I’ll touch metal, climb rungs, and listen to what my Grammy said, I’ll listen to what she said.

“It’s a spirit tongue” she says her eyes dancing and then beginning to float.  “You have to listen”, she says.  And my Grammy, my precious, precious Grammy goes away.  – 09.10.2016 -דָּנִיֵּאל

Dusk (a·da·gio)

“It is dark, so very dark”, said Dante, “yet you fail to speak, and I would say it not impossible that what you’d have to say would not replace that disappearing light you still claim to see”.

So here we are at last, you and me, my reader and me, and it could be that as the night comes, it will be so hard to say, I see.  A darkness comes, like none before, a fortress that holds no shiny keys, and with these two feet, I walk ahead, blinder, no memory, save the elongated dusk my shattered mind, would allow to still be me.

A “Sound of Silence”, in D minor, still whatever does it mean, perhaps Paul and Art could enlighten me.  But still no difference does it make for here in the West, alone, so by myself do the dusk I see.  And if I write for the world what’s inside of me, how selfish would that be, indeed maybe I a narcissist to tell of this grief.

For their against that granite stone, that sky seeking temple of geology, weakens a sun in timidity.   And woe it says, what you have taken for belief.  This night cometh, indeed it rest here now for you with no reprieve, and you are singular, no better light, than your last memory.

“Did you come to walk with me”?  The words whispered, skyward, unaccompanied and in darkness do I breath.  Still, so still, only Dante resting cold inside me.  For now it is a rolling obscurity, that’s colder, then any wound that has ever bled me.  And it does not seem right that darkness, should belong alone, to the death of me.  For that last light, the one that loved me best, somewhere, to make eternity last, it dies with me.

“Perhaps I should go too” I hear Dante say, his words fading fast, for unlike the last light of day, I should not think that even with him inside, they will probably last.

*Authors note – Dante has been a fine muse. – 08.31.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Gethsemane (1867)

It could be I saw her, or maybe, I just wanted too.  It might be I whispered her name, a time or two, and that’s the way she rose, like a young lady, with “lace in her soul”.

“Gethsemane”

She rises in swaddling cotton from reeds, with lace in her soul she follows the river, and somewhere close by she senses the bay, the place wicked boys come to play wicked games.  For what she remembers so cloudy in mind, the syllables of her name seem to rhyme.  It could be under the bridge, or maybe only due south through the gate in the mist, but somehow she only knows.  Her whispered name on a rose.  The one her daddy gave her in play, a garden for Christ he always would say.  For unto who is given so much, here by the swamp, now fare thee by luck.  The preacher would laugh, as he stayed, inside her forever, his large belly naked and grey, oh he played with a wicked game.  He taunted with a wicked game.

“Gethsemane”

Her body fills wet from the surge of the bay, the suns almost up, and she must go away, but in her mind she prays.  The places at sixteen a girl could go, riding her horse with her bonnet to show.  Through Bagdad to Milton, the county boys know, she is a lovely tow, with the garden of Christ, on your arm. There you go, a smile upon your face.  The dear farmer’s daughter, with lace in her soul.  The humid hot sunshine, the streets all aglow.  Please make a way, her thoughts from the past begging how to know.  The place that she entered and what sin did sew, in all a wicked game.  In all it was a wicked game.

“Gethsemane”

As she slips through the dawn, the mud cools her toes, her restless spirit, makes her a ghost.  She died under the waning Gibbous his hands on her throat, her nakedness displayed, white under the moon, she strayed.  And over and over the water it flows, a Sunday night missing, while they seek her by boat.  The preacher looking, the scratches hidden under his cloak.  He’s laid her all away.  In swaddling cotton, in reeds by the bay.  The garden of Christ, with lace in her soul, she gathered herself, refusing to play, those wicked, wicked games.  Those wicked games.

“Gethsemane”

Gethsemane Simmons, was murdered, and hidden away near the East Bay, close to Bagdad, Florida, on Sunday, August 18, 1867.  There was a waning gibbous moon. – 08.18.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Huns of Waverly

Waverly, Colorado 6:00 AM August 14, 2016,

Wonderful glory, and beer fumes till dawn, in a lean-to that looks upon fields like a lawn.  For this is the kingdom, of barren red sun, the steppes of the front range of heaven.  Those boys in their hidden tattoos, those knights that fight dragons, that no one has a clue.  Says Bleda to brother Shen, “let’s dig a hole there, fill it with water, and trap us that bear.  The one who took our sheep, lets skin him alive, let his hide cover our feet.  All winter a song, truth praise to the maker, it will be so long.  With snow upon the ground, nothing in Waverly will admit a sound.  We’ll be swords in hiding, Huns without our bounds, and come spring we’ll be so tall.  We’ll work in the fields, it won’t be so long, our bare backs turned over, making us strong”.

“Climb down that open well”, Pa says to Octar, “prime it, till water drills down to hell.  The water brings us life, the Huns of Waverly, will drink to suffice, and all of these open fields, and we’ll plant grain to heaven, the rich soil we’ll till.  And hail to the dawn, bring Shen and Bleda, our secrets withheld.  We’re farmers or we’re ghost, higher than glory, lord of the host, and all that nature brings, we bring on back in triple our deed.  In triple of our deed”.

Its legend or truth that lives on, ancestral lineage that turns over ground, and the Colorado sun, makes father and sons spiritually found.  From time and places they trace.  Footprints in consciousness of another place, when they brought the Roman down.  Once warriors now farmers, they’ve traced what they’ve found.  And when Attila their father says “go”, they jump to their feet, with seeds they do sew.  For they can never die, even in death their spirits suffice, to conquer all that’s soil, for life’s in the dirt, when ashes do spill, when ashes do spill unto life’s great unknown. – – 08.14.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Red Cliffs (Absentia)

“The end of life is like a stage under red cliffs, except I’m absent”, he said, his words a mere gasp, his watery blue eyes staring nowhere.  “Who’s the cowboy”, I asked?  I was curious about the reference.  “Just some clown”, he whispered, and then repeated, “just some clown”.

I saw a mirror of my heart, it lay in a basket, underneath the red cliffs above the arid floor.  While all around me flew the dust of time, and I thought what was this meme meant for?  Far above on the ridge there was a cowboy, and he rode like a concrete stick toward the dawn.  And when he glanced beyond the red cliffs, he smiled, like he knew the devil owned the door.

There are times in this life when I feel absent, and those times it seems to me come more and more.  While I long for more attraction, that place of being, I knew before.  I know it seems like this is one big paradox, forever clinging to aloneness like it’s a shore.

For all around me minutes are passing, racing through my empty soul to reach its core.  And the red cliffs up above they seem cerebral, like a dying brain, can’t crumble anymore.

And absentia whirls around me, while I’m still breathing, and it curses anyone, who laughs or is a bore.  While the red cliffs shudder above my skinny frame, till I can’t remember how to breathe no more.  And those ridges up above, where that cowboy rides with no love, turn too steep to attempt to climb anymore.

For my mind births desolation, in it, prions come to feed, and when they jump for the last time, my contractions give pause to disaffect.  Under these red cliffs I see no reason, such bitterness, no content, and when I look upon that ridge one more time, no cowboy rides, just emptiness.

And then here I go, in a sunset glow, just laughter everywhere, red cliffs they disappear, and up and down, my lungs so full of oxygen, my breath, and absentia here I go, over the ridge to find my soul.

This is written for the absent, with minds consumed by Alzheimer’s, Dementia, or like my own dear father, with the watery blue eyes, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.  May they find their soul over that last ridge. – 08.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Red Barn (Cold Cold Heart)

Cold, cold heart!

On 14 just toward the bend in the road, toward the prairie grassland, where wild banshee’s roam.  On 14 there where there is an old farm, guards the opening of Sheol, stands the old red barn.  So I stand here alone, and I feel the hot wind, of a thousand voices, of a thousand sins.  I think some are within, and they sing all the same, if they be in or out, they say don’t you please want to stay.

And I wonder to myself, as my spine turns into chills, would the moon upon this night turn my fate into a kill?  Would my soul go deep inside, where it might be never found, would my actions be a coward, could my future be never still.

Cold, cold heart!

I suppose the red barn once upon a time held hay, or just a horse or two, before the devil came to play, and made the barn pay its due.  It could be just inside near the hooks, where the sheep would lay, there was an unease about the future of darkened days.  And standing in this sun, and standing still I do, I can’t but help but think, what it is about this red barn that made a mad man do what insane men do.

For Sharpe he was a wise man, who started on that day, with his face as red, as a dying star, to do his wife and friend away.  And he ran his Ford from Ault, with two hooks in the back, and he drove on down 14, to take his missus back.  For Sharpe he was desirous to have what was lacked, to bring the spirit of divorce to bring it to a fact.

Cold, cold heart!

In his eyes he saw a red barn, as magenta as his face, and inside of that old red wood, lay his wife upon her back.  And Sharpe he pictured murder, oh he pictured his friend’s back, moving up and down upon his dear wife, in their passion they did not lack.

So I stood upon the highway with the sun burning red, and it showed the paint was peeling from the red barn where Sharpe attacked.  And it seemed I heard the screams now, as the hooks came raining fire, or it could be banshees laughing, as they brought the dead on back.  And I thought about my thinking, of waiting on the moon, to see what would happen, or think what if it could.  And I moved myself transfixed then, not determined in anyway, and thought maybe it better to wait another day.  So I drove on to the highway and I headed my way home, and I passed an oncoming Ford pickup truck, with a man looking onward.  His face was red, and his eyes were rolled on back.

Cold, cold heart!

Eddie Sharpe murdered his wife Edith and best friend Drew, in a red barn that sits off of Highway 14 near the Pawnee National Grasslands on Monday, August 8, 1960.  The barn is said to be haunted, and it certainly appears that way to me. – 08.08.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Waiting

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O day star, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, that didst cast lots over the nations! Isaiah 14:12

Winter it comes when it’s warm, takes my thought with a faire storm, and then it’s a dusty, dry deep ravine, that causes my staring grief. Closing in now near midnight, in a wash near mountain heights, so far the dawn can’t seem too strong, and I can’t leave. It seems to me all these years my desperate heart can’t steer me from the thought, spirits debunked, a tattered creed. For just this once in my life, can’t I be whole, just so nice, will you not recognize, my name, why do you still push me, to tumble into disbelief. Yonder the plains of barren land, straight on to Kansas, where corn stands, it’s all a cycle, winter, spring, summer and fall relief. Yet I don’t think it happens now, standing here believing, but yet some doubt, would it be something if you would give me eternity.

Still in the darkest, purest night, with my loins ready of hardest might, yet in the light waiting, nocturnal jest, making, I’m still not free. Better it be so cold, so cold, bastardly fires baking my immortal soul, still you will not look at me. Waiting it could be for someone, cast down, from the highest, where sun abounds, justified, no man, angels or heavens do not know me. So you come to me, and pass on by, here upon crags, that cut my thighs, though there is no blood, yet my heart is pumping inside of me. Then if not my time to come on up, where thought travels in speed insane, would you rather keep me here below. Down to those railroad tracks so thin, you keep me waiting, terribly angry just in need.

So it would seem before the morn, as the swallow fly’s by. Nature curses that, foreseen, forlorn, cast from the mountain, I am still waiting to be like what you asked I see. All around me summer time, still it feels like judgement sublime, my eyes like coals, blindly they rove, but something I see. Could be a deficient in your light I perceive.

Yes, it is true, for all these years cast out of sky’s, fettered by tears, still as I wait something in states, and wizens me. Could it be as I fell, lack of humor, or some say hell, could be I’m the left of your right, and judgment of all you see. If it’s a truth of all you need, I am here waiting cast low indeed, and all the world, all of the world is waiting, just like me. – 07.22.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Dante’s Ruse (Baby Blue)

At seven you approached me familiar of the light, baby blue, falling incandescent light, the alfalfa in that field by Nenahnezad, so purple, it became blue, my flame of spirit, possessed by wild winds beautiful, that took my soul. Light as a child, I become interweaved with you, forever in your breath I’m cured by inner sight. Grandma Blackhorse she told me, near Shiprock she told me, while other children played in her sight…. “Look at what you see, say what you trust, nothing about you is new, and yesterday, you came to light, do you remember, baby white boy, born your mind so blue”. “Everything from here on out is not you, it’s what controls you, yes, yes it becomes what you do”.

At sixteen I reached a place I thought I should not go, light near Durango, driving deep into the night, and I forgot where I was going, near midnight I couldn’t remember my very name. Outside of Hesperus, things become overwhelming, in your baby blue, and then ghost came into my sight. Then light came, like a cure, something like skin, that nothing, and nobody should touch, my baby blue. And what I can remember, is something is worth having, something that I’ll never touch, esoterically illusional true. Better than reality, sometimes fiction you can’t touch, can make you cry. Better than reality on that Colorado highway, neurological daemon, from my little boy clues. From my little boy clues.

Dante he comes, sometimes he knows, that every word, from his flimsy touch, is a rhetorical verb, that is light. “It’s light,” he says, he grins against the blue ray, that sprinkles gloom and glitter against the dark Fort Collins sky. He says, “Are you ready, to write, baby blue, I possess you, can we get high”? I think it’s a ruse, but I remember, when I was new. Before I was seven, without you, baby blue. And so I deliver, and these lines, these words that are you, bring me something I’ll never touch. No I’ll never touch.

At seven you approached me! – 07.15.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Another one for my damn muse!

Black Tree (La Plata Song)

When you bade me hello, standing near the road, it could have been farewell, you probably were the truth. For on that day in July, Saturday, of thirteen, nineteen seventy-four, you came on past me. Said you from my eyes, bathed me till I cried, I no longer knew, what was me, and what was you. Black tree you covered me, fared me so well. Silver lining blue, La Plata what a spell. You spake to me in lies, you wounded me in truths, you prophesied my life, a little boy I’m you. Highway in my dreams, a neurological new, always standing there, black tree who knows who. What came before, a child, a spawn before a man, is that child inside me, afraid of who I am. Cover me like that, black tree turned in earth, fight the light of heaven, opened here on earth. Above you only color, a silver lining roof, down here near earth tones, it’s what I’m fortuned to. It’s what I’m fortuned to.

Now I am a man, with silver on my scalp, but still in dreams like tunnels, my inner vision south, I drive along the La Plata, the state line so near, that black tree is waiting, swallowing up my fears. It says to me your different, not full of sap of sky, but introverted passion, the answer to not why. And in your inner vision, along this highway true, you’re not a transgressed beggar, you’re not what’s new. For there are many forest, along the plains of earth, but only one black tree, near the state line, around a curve. And just like it was summer in nineteen seventy-four, when you were still a virgin, craving an open door. Reach inside my mystery, let covers float on high, let all my black leaves cover, all your broken mind. For there are book of shadows, and shattered broken rhymes, that could not best the riddle, like I can in your mind. Like I can in your mind.

Along the La Plata, a curve that leads towards birth, a younger me waiting, a black tree in the earth. A sign of the coven, a sign forever new, a curtain of the calling. The me forever new. I will not forget you, I bet your standing real, forty-two years, a yesteryear but still. But still…So still. Black tree. – 07.13.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Virginia Dale (Soaked)

She stood at forty-nine, just a sprite on the ninth of May. Well she stood like a banshee a bride denied, before the moths flew about colder still near the Wyoming blue, on the Colorado side. Just a ghost watching cars go by. My Missus looks over, says” it seems a little colder”, meanwhile Bruno Mar’s sings about his oh so selfish ways. I look and see the church at the Dale, the witch she pleads stay with me. I’d like to tell you as you read, I’d like to paint a picture of what I see. For the ancients from the highlands on the other side, those silent that only speak after they have died. Say they come and know the spirit as their soaked, as their soaked.

We drove on for a minute or two, I turn to her, “did you see her too”? She looks away and cry’s, the tears are so hard to find, for there at Virginia Dale, lightning falls, and tears the vale, of rocks and wind and trees. The spirits ascend and so do we. And driving on to the Forks, 287, turns from the North, and all of a sudden we look and we see the far end of heaven the host of banshee’s, crying out, you will never leave, and I know. I’m soaked to the bone, I’m left in a flood, of the ghost I see. For there in Virginia Dale, in the bow of the highlands, where heaven does dwell. For some say heaven’s gate, most would say have you had more enough then you can take. I look to the Missus and say, can we forsake. Life and all its monetary dreams. Can we stay here where Cantor’s can’t sing, and no religion dwells. Especially that church we saw in the Dale. And hallows will ring, and through the thin air we will fly and be soaked.

She stood at forty-nine, a siren, rhyming, where mountains do climb, and just by Virginia Dale, she soaked my soul, and she left my mind to dwell. I look to the Missus and see, she’s lost in a dream, and what hurts, is I can’t tell her I see, it all too well. Were lost and Soaked in the dark rim of rock that surrounds Virginia Dale. Eternity left with stories to tell, eternity left with stories to tell. (Soaked).

MF …lost his wife in a car accident outside the Virginia Dale, Colorado Church on Highway 287, Friday, May 9, 2014. It was raining. He died from complications from the physical injuries he sustained from the automobile accident one week later. He claimed he saw and heard his missus, as he passed before his Rabbi’s eyes, and his final word was soaked. – 07.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Greyrock (Precious Things)

Her eyes are on Greyrock, not invested in what I believe, not interested in my virginity. She likes the cool end of the clear, cold water, and when she breathes, she sees, from all the lonely, barren trees around me. Her thoughts whisper come bathe with me. She says, “I am your G_D, these are the better of precious things”.

The white light fades upon Greyrock, the ending of my hopeless faith, of what Tori Amos sung, she said it was her reprieve. The human skin that we trap ourselves in, when we go to war. That we determine is our sex, the life skills of our sum. The stuff we think we are built for. Adonai, Adonai, better I see you, your spirit, fastened brief across the July Colorado sky. You, you, dancing before me, spirit elongated within, without. An ever daring letter, (Ruach) embedded, character, for you I think I’ve sought. That in its self is my precious thing. So better than flesh, a precious thing.

My sweet Danny, Danny, it’s not a part of your virginity. Do you feel me, understand me, want to bathe with me, on Greyrock, here on Greyrock? It becomes for us a precious thing, to know by water and breeze.

The river, below, the great, great plains, the bosom, that part of life, that is real, that constructs your pain. That illusion, that most would call the bed where you have lain. Here on Greyrock, maybe you are fragile, maybe you are strong, may be, just may be it is your precious thing.

The meaning of the day up on Greyrock, the sum of the passion, I sometimes seek. The betterment of all I ever had to offer, was the knowledge life does not end with loss of virginity. And while this world may be spinning in its classless form of struggle, for what means skin or substance, or a better form of me. Greyrock is a lesson of the precious point of living, for it taught me that breath, is blessing G_D while on your back. Taking all you have lost, bowing let it all be cost, and taking your precious things. Those blessings inside your skin that rage. Building them higher. Like Greyrock sits, there higher. Knowing you are filled with precious things. Precious things.

Her eyes are on Greyrock, not invested in what I believe, not interested in my virginity. She likes the cool end of the clear, cold water, and when she breathes, she sees, from all the lonely, barren trees around me. Her thoughts whisper come bathe with me. She says, “I am your G_D, these are the better of precious things”. – 07.06.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Bill & Me (1992)

That’s Cinnamon Girl, the curtains part, well her best body was some lyrical art, and in her curves her bones and parts, we sang, wouldn’t Neil be proud today, of Bill and me.

The song we put together, on a Sunday afternoon, while, the beer was flowing smoothly, a new friendship was in bloom. Laughter born on arches of something that’s not new, like two spinning daft propellers finding oxygen on the moon. And brother, brother you might not know this, that’s okay it’s still cool, but when we sang together, the kings rose from tatters, their tombs indescribably, not ready for what our voices could do. And me and Bill were different, but what can difference do? A stutterer like Moses, can talk to G_D too, and when we stand together, matched those times, and letters, better. Breathed emotion to the spirit, and the circle closed without glue, and we played a psalm for two.

Bill said oh gee, did we just sing in that key, well I feel my hearts made of Dixie cups, filled with water and then it erupts, and moon pies and bottled RC, could not complete. This song that we sing. Blended views, that mix free. Well you sing soft, and I’ll rhyme too, and you just watch that nun we sing for, tilt her head, the tears she brings forth, what we’ve done we will never know the reason for. Will we. Bill and me.

Some duo’s start with a rage and a spark, well it seems that we were different, just some laughter, while some ghost do wale, say sing seriously, dirge octaves out of key, Gregorian chants, oh my oh me. It’s not us two, we are like Jimmy Page and a synchronization cook book, such a pair it comes down to part the sea, in song, it’s Bill and me.

That’s Cinnamon Girl, the curtains part, well her best body was some lyrical art, and in her curves her bones and parts, we sang, wouldn’t Neil be proud today, of Bill and me. Of Bill and me.

In the fall of 1991 and the spring of 1992, William Smith and I formed a musical Duo that did little to rock the music, world. We practiced every Sunday afternoon at my modest beach side Condo, laughing, drinking, and forming a spiritual brotherly friendship, that exist to this very day. We blended perfectly, our voices summoning spirits, of both laughter and song, plenty of alcohol too. This ones for Bill!  We were good weren’t we? – 06.30.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Sante Fe (Chaco Canyon 1978)


There’s a place I went, when I was just something of a kid, a Cibola somewhere south, where spirits in the Chaco speak to only those who know, that earth is in the bow, of a terrestrial time.  When daemons will not still their selves and they will fly to Santé Fe, on the seven rocks, they will lay. I have heard them when I drove 371 South through the nomenclature wars. I heard them when I drove through judgement to Santé Fe.  Those words, modern man, does not know what they are for, and what those whispers say.  Oh and here in Chaco Canyon clear, once upon a time when I was just by myself, the seven altars stood, and those rocks in all their witch hood, rained down fire from all the sky, upon my soul.  And Santé Fe you took me, I cried, and declared I would not die, before I walked beyond the door. Those Rocks of legend, fire and before, of destiny, they took away my pride, brought me down to beyond, pure Christian pride. Right inside me while Jesus died, the peace and calm, from the deserts dawn, I became Santé Fe.  I might be seventeen, and so withdrawn, but I know, of what is true, golden light insight my love for you, Santé Fe.

Took me upon the desert floor, took me upon the granites door, to where the sandstone carved my eyes, took me inside, made me Chaco’s bride, then I saw Santé Fe, Santé Fe! There some say, New Mexico has swum away, upon some sand, or some tide, desert specters haunt some minds, but not mine, no not mine.  For I have found an old home. A place in the desert, hearts can come to cry, I was there when Chaco Canyon spun from the sky, I was only seventeen when I died, then I rose in Santé Fe, my true boyhood, rose in play, Anasazi, moonlight play, while all around the wind and ghost do relay.  Holy Ghost, or special play, I am risen here by the weather or a whim.  Upon the seven rocks Cibola lays, her legs stretched to catch my wanton eyes that stray. Here in the desert I come to lay, and I rise, rise to say. I’m alive, my mind is alive in Santé Fe.

And oh just like the boyhood dream of seventeen in 1978, I will fly, by myself in Chaco Canyon to the seven altars, there I will find holy faith, Santé Fe.

Santé Fe means “Holy Ground”.  This is written in memory of a solitary June trip to Chaco Canyon when I was seventeen! – 06.25.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Integrity (Orlando)

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might, for integrity.

Integrity it finds a soul in not what is new or bold. Across the electrical currents of media, it’s not bound up and sold. And if you think that it is found in left or right your political goals, your deluded in your ideology stop reading go back to your soul. I ask myself a question, when I pray at night, do I say please protect me, from my enemies I think aren’t right. Or is a better prayer said, Oh HaShem you are as is, from back beyond primordial to the time of future tense. Would now as all the world swims round me everything so tense, where there is both good and bad, and there is ego spent. Will you come down to this desert, life that’s ever spent. Will you fall like reigning fire and right the spirit bent? Will now oh legend all who worships, dark and light, crescent. Arced upon the grave and life the world that we pervade. Will you in all the storms of tatters, liars, norms and depths, in deathly faces.  Will you for those who think wrong and right, stifle their mad matter, let them think with insight, in integrity.

A warrior, you said, a warrior makes right, here in hard deserts where the wind blows with right, and all around me caters to wolves and the sheep, all around me fortresses of thought and deceit. And G_d of many ancients, Adonai oh Ruach of leads, Shekinah of  my dreams, you who with your breath makes Orion and the seven stars, come so still, bring them now still.  Come unto the willing, those in pain without creed, those who here tonight, care not of ideology. Make now a potion, of your right and left, send now a matter to those with no heart left. Fill now a prayer not against enemies, take this spell higher to integrity. When this all is over, make death even less, make no one with thought, think their right or left.

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might for integrity.

Psalms 25:21 – 06.13.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Winslow (1977)

“A true story from Friday June 10, 1977”

We drove to Winslow…. Winslow, Arizona, “Taking it Easy” as we motored along. It’s bluer then ether, how can that be? Better light up while we still can, not seventeen or eighteen, just sixteen and so full of Chee, so full of the land. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time. There’s Hopi girls slowing down to see a white and a red, slowing down, GD wee! Near Newcomb, we will get high there, before we even reach service road 19B. Old friend, young friend, someone who has always known me, it’s nineteen seventy free. And Jimmy Carter’s holed up in the white house, he with his peanuts, means nothing, on this the Navajo and me agree. Davey and I, can ride in the pickup high, listening to Bob Seger, smoking, our own brand of weed, right now it’s all we want to believe. It could be that we were something, back in third grade that old grade school known as Grace B. And right now we believe in jesus, but that’s just because we are afraid of this open highway, plain scared of what we know America will be. It’s true like prophecy falling, dangerous with the knowledge beyond where we should be.

Tohatchi, has lightning, a thunderstorm that rains, meeting our laughter, joining our carelessness, with something that we need. When you think back Davey, from boot camp, when that ass hat’s screaming at Pendleton, think of me.

I’ll be standing in a pickup, a white kid, scrawny, wearing a blue Hanes T. Sixteen, driving with that Navajo, talking shit, with our hearts on our sleeves. And when we reached Winslow, if we saw love, in nineteen seventy free, for the rest of our lives we would be all we could be. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time.

Near the Yellow Horse Trading post on 40 we forgot we were alive, from there on to Winslow we thought we could fly, and sometimes your daddy’s truck did 105, could be we were drunk, more likely we only believed, that Navajo and me. Supposed we in the great all we see, took a laugh at our destiny, and when we arrived in Winslow we were still sixteen. Damn right we were still sixteen! That was the Navajo and me.

We drove to Winslow…. Winslow, Arizona, “Taking it Easy” as we motored along. It’s bluer then ether, how can that be? Better light up while we still can, not seventeen or eighteen, just sixteen and so full of Chee, so full of the land. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time. There’s Hopi girls slowing down to see a white and a red, slowing down, GD wee! – 06.09.2016 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

The House of Dragon


Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?”  John Lennon

“In the House of Dragon”

And in the house of Dragon something beautiful came, outside the bottle, where it was, I think in a nightmare that was a wind, that creature did fly.

I arrive here in the house of Dragon, the moment I have held throughout my life, a dread and distress, with no light anywhere that seems to suffice. Grace does not abound here and the only senses that abide, are those that taste, instinctual, without elegance or those that cannot face sound. Around, turn around, nothing imagined, day to day, and it’s a heat that’s bound in a cold, cold war. Around the world seems to survive, my G_D all it does is circle round and round, senses not arising with the coming of each new sun.

“In the House of Dragon”

In the house of dragon, the poor do dwell, weather weak in spirit or under some chemicals daemons spell. And time stands still when you are immortal in pain, here in the flames, the cold, cold blaze.

And I will give, give more than I can forsake, while everything will not change, I will rise in what is a dream, for treasure I cannot attain, all attraction in the house of pain, and here in the house that is broken, I will feel that hot breath of Cain tickle my fate. Here where angels come to watch what in my humanity they did forsake.

“In the House of Dragon”

In the house of dragon, something filled with fright, here the fading light still it does not abate, and what a wonder that my heart will not placate, for some lesson is birthed, in a mouth full of alcohol deep inside of me. What ruins has this dragon caused, what change, has that devil caused within, perhaps as no change comes, is something innate beautiful, like a spirit spawned like fate so insane where my soulless tears begin.

And in the house of Dragon something beautiful came, outside the bottle, where it was, I think in a nightmare that was a wind, that creature did fly.

And Adonai you were fire, you were scales in rain, and you came as a dragon in flame, what a surprise, Ruach, you made me wait, till destruction was upon me, you a dragon came like a discomfort without release. And you were without color, or joy, you were the being that is life. And in the house of dragon, you brought grace to what I could not receive, and you made my soul so strong it could not break.

In the House of Dragon” – 06.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Cheyenne (Walls)

There’s enough room around Cheyenne, Wyoming, to see the son of G_D come down, and as he falls, he drops with speed, and I see under this silent moon, with somewhat of a relief, that this particular I Am is me! Indeed, yes, as my Pappy bequeathed to me, in a childhood brief dream, “you are a witness of the lighting that is in me, a purer form of the great gospel, that the spirit has been released”. He said, “you and I make two, I is no longer a solo treatise”. So here it is on the high plains of Wyoming, I believe in what is non-belief, and as, I love the walls fall down with a violent release.

Interned in the scape that is my reason, the commitment, that is thought out like a barrister’s brief, comes my daddy’s words in the legend, that defines my belief. He said, “Deuteronomy is your creed, for you’re the head that drags the tail”. Could be true daddy but sometimes that tail breaks down walls, those fortresses inside of us all. And yes, I smell relief, like a beautiful spirit inhabiting me, and outside of Cheyenne near 25, speaks the long lonesome prairie as if it cried, and bled in seed, and it comes up rolling inside of me. “Won’t you be a man, be a man spirit begs me”. Then the walls fall down and I’m free.

I’m a witness, yes a falling fire decidedly, woven into the fabric of Wyoming, could be a ghost I might be. And I fall with the daemons, like the risen, bastardly, and what is the letter of G_Ds compassion breaks every damn weakness inside of me, and the walls come down.

My son tells me, he’s not a Christian, I say, “bless you now, and bless you forever, for these are the words inscribed in what is we”. “Right here outside of Cheyenne as your falling with me”. “Deuteronomy is your creed, for you’re the head that drags the tail”. He smiles and the passion is unspoken, and his love breaths wonderful belief. I say, “you are a witness of the lighting that is in me, a purer form of the great gospel, that the spirit has been released”. I said, “you and I make two, I is no longer a solo treatise”. I say it loud then as I am falling, the walls have come down. The walls are falling down.

There’s enough room around Cheyenne, Wyoming, to see the son of G_D come down! – 06.01.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Many thanks to the wonderful music of JR Richards, for the inspiration.

The Joy (Lost Stars)

(Lost Stars)

There is joy in just a shadow, there are smiles in a cry, there is unbelievable mystery, when you think you’re not worthwhile. There is pleasure in a cigar on a beach when your wicked and defiled, you’re the worth of all the heavens, your G_D’s child. You’re the emporium of all lessons you’re the flirt that brings the smile, you’re the dream that I’ve been given when you’ve given your worthwhile. You’re the heaven, living water, that makes a witch smile, your forever, human living, come make G_D smile.

I was looking at the pictures of where I used to be, just a white boy on the Rez, listening to the wind, and hearing it scream. If you really think about it I was a strange child out there, a Bilagáana with neurons twisted weirdly under my hair. There stood I, little Danny singing the “No Dark Valley” sing, and on the bluffs above the river there rose a bunch of wings.

The crows they flew upwards and covered the light, there rotating wings blocked the heat from my sight, Gloria with trepidation came in coolness from their circular flight, and it’s true that there is joy in everything.

(Lost Stars)

There’s joy in the moment of minds in bloom, of reacting to little ones who teach us what’s new. There’s joy in running till you can’t breathe, up mountains so high, where the clouds are so far beneath. There’s joy in darkness, when grief cuts like knives, and severs your connection, and then wails to you goodbye. There’s joy in renewing what you thought was beyond your belief, and gaining your freedom, while inhabited by your spirits, that prosper when you receive.

Well you think that maybe I just go back, and reside in history, but I’m here to tell you, I’m possessed by eschatology, for the world has grown in color as I travel to a man, and here’s what happened now and then.

From that moment on the bluffs, when I saw the water deep, with the crows taking heaven over my head when I did not sleep. Oh the joy that did happen when I was just a child, I will take you with my memory, now were a child.

(Lost Stars)

There is joy in just a shadow, there is smiles in a cry, there is unbelievable mystery, when you think you’re not worthwhile. There is pleasure in a cigar on a beach when your wicked and defiled, you’re the worth of all the heavens, your G_D’s child. You’re the emporium of all lessons you’re the flirt that brings the smile, you’re the dream that I’ve been given when you’ve given your worthwhile. You’re the heaven, living water, that makes a witch smile, your forever, human living, come make G_D smile.

(Lost Stars)

A peculiar kind of joy has placed itself in me, like a boy of yesterday, I think it makes me free, makes me want to bring you with me over highland beyond the sea, take you in the joy of immortality. That’s it, I’ll take you with me in the joy of immortality. Lose you with me in lost stars. – 05.25.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Ad Finem (Witches)


It waits so patient, some say so strong, it’s beauty a part of the terror of a song. A melody sung to a right minor key, sometimes hummed backwards, now those novice notes wait inward in me. Oh upwards G minor, and down to B flat, and somewhere a violin, without strings, well, there’s that. And just like at Salem, a witch that knows she’s dead, all I have to say to G_D is “I’m innocent of all that”.

Outside this door. At fifty-five, bored, I’m not fond of counting, that shadow waits for more, and in disguise that shade of gray that has death on its tongue, you see it’s a little secret, darkness, has no sex. That non feeling matter, that thought has assigned, that angel or devil, that Daemon divined. That secret of carrion, no respecter that comes when your dark shadows, play with you, while you drink some cheap rum. Time when fairness leaves you and Facebook is not real. You stand just at the end, and bugger that film reel. It’s not in digital stereo, it’s sixteen millimeters, and how you deal, with all the pops and sounds of how your life is whacked.

Well enough for covers of what I thought, that tomb of Jesus still stands sought, and after all this life and dreams I have to say. G_D, would you take me with all my fears, a stranger in darkness, on ever clear, an immature old man whose old and gray. Look at these shambles I think I am, this witch of a man, whose magic can, write him a song to the master-plan of grace. For I do adore, the after lore, of shadows and play, the left hand of G_D, that Ad Finem, who takes a witch to a greater place. It surprises me some of what could be, this place of greatness, in ecstasy, why is it we think, that death is the way, our world sets in place our days. It’s something that witches adore. Ad Finem when they open that desperate door.

It waits so patient, some say so strong, it’s beauty a part of the terror of a song. A melody sung to a right minor key, sometimes hummed backwards, now those novice notes wait inward in me. Oh upwards G minor, and down to B flat, and somewhere a violin, without strings, well, there’s that. And just like at Salem, a witch that knows she’s dead, all I have to say to G_D is “I’m innocent of all that”.

A dream 05.17.2016 and you were in it! – 05.18.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

GHOST (Feathers)


“Feathers”

A step into technology, a moment without truth, the brilliance of a time and age, wasted on the youth. A time a dream, apostles, they moved around a fire, and settled in painted sand, and bled under the stars. In ghost they moved onward, by whatever they did see, intuitive religion, a prayer held by their deeds. A haunted way of virtue, the things that we can’t see, the foot that moves without a print, needs no technology. Come down from that steep mesa, the one that paints the night, with tears of all the fallen warriors, they did not die from fright. And look into the desert, where tombs you cannot see, alone with your I pads or wireless, electricity outside belief.

“Feathers”

There are feathers falling, laying like carpet in the split of my soul. Indigenous in it, a creature cries, oh what a sound. Pureness, no plastic needed, no wires to be ground., Now, now in this great spirit, crows flying, I would turn seeking, how wonderful to pray and disappear without a sound. Knowing that as you flew, your past met your future unbound. And like a ghost who staked no claim, to heaven, or hells entitlements to a spirit’s claim. Like a floating feather, I will rise all around you, my daily prayer, and forever proclamation understanding divination I’ll be there. No one can fight a ghost prayer.

“Feathers”

It was a dream, at least my Grammy said so, her strawberry bonnet lying lazily on her head. Your glimmer is the Cherokee, but your Jewish so she said. It’s embedded, it’s really something you can’t shed. I turn to her could be I’m grown, I know I’m just like her, could be I’m not yet dead, and she says it’s a dance. And no one knows the reason in these modern times, with holograms, and Instagram’s, those seconds how they fly. But Ghost they last a lifetime, and then on by design, our prayers in needing, they float on till they find. A basic need in its detriment, a painted face, near earth, can’t forget. That Ghost prayers hold the answer, whisper alleluias after, no mission church can fill our answers, like the air under feathers, they float on. They float on.

“Feathers” – 05.15.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Radiance (May 7,2016)


A foggy cold, cloud filled morn, Isaiah said you would know, no scorn. For like the rays that fall from up above, my daughter. You are radiant with love.

Last Saturday morning, I wrote a song in your soul, just like I did twenty-one years ago when you cried on all I know. And you swept the vision of fatherhood against the image I had been told, and made my depression go away, with your radiance you turned me whole. I read in Isaiah that spirit will take control, and burn away the images of thought that takes its toll. Well if I was to be a better man, a father that gave more than a damn, I’d open up my memory, tell you ides of all the shadows I’ve retrained, inform you of the mystery of the light that fills your plan.

For you are like a shooting star, that was born in tomorrow, a siren screaming, I can’t wait no more. And from my past I tell you true, for once my seed was just me too, but now it fills the footprint in your plan. And I saw it on Saturday morn, a young woman so adorned, a high honor, a radiance. A better reason I fought and planned, and you too will feel judgments hand, but you’ll fly, where I ran. In radiance, far away, across these Colorado skies. Radiance it’s in life plan.

Last Saturday morning, Shekinah flowed through the day, and all the sense of prophecy, I had predicted through the years you see, all the dreams that fell and died in me stood to play. You stood there like a light filled star, still a headache away from last night’s bar. Just an Achilles weakness that’s gone today. And forward to the titles held, all Cum Laude honors, an earthquake felt. I turn and look your smiling, you take the day, in rays, the clouds just float on by and away.

A foggy cold, cloud filled morn, Isaiah said you would know, no scorn. For like the rays that fall from up above, my daughter. You are radiant with love.

For my daughter Kaitlyn, who graduated Cum Laude from the University of Colorado Boulder last Saturday, you are (Isaiah 60:5) radiant. – 05.11.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


After All (O Daniel,)


And after all is done, you might look to me as I run, after all it’s just a chance I take. That my stars will still fall, my lightning mystery moonbeam, will still call. And I will feel the wind touch my hair, break out of this puzzle, a body left on dare, and after all, I will fly away. After all.

The kid in me would like to grow tall, leap over buildings, and watch as I fall. The joy in my ethos would like to convince you of a call, attention is a moment, but many moments make an all. For unto me, that’s born where stars fall, a creek a meadow, a kid who just saw, himself an old man in a mirror in the hall. Oh my, such passion, to climb that fourteener there, to write a Hardy Boy story, maybe one that really scares. To feel the wind just touching my gray hair, I’m not really old so there is no need to really stare. I’m the child in after all, a Trojan hiding in after all.

In after all, the moon is made of sand, it harbors Tom Swift, and his flying lab of glam. I twist and shout forget how old I am, and see the rooftop where stars imagine it’s the summer when Carter ran. Oh New Mexico a story, those summers in the sand.

Is it just old me, or does anybody else see in after all, there’s treasures that mend a soul, it could be internal, a spiritual kind of virtual, that plants the seeds that blossoms one’s mind. Why is it said that to go back is so bad, when sometimes the best lessons are free? In after all the boy in me, didn’t ever see the need to have anything but just love. And just because it feels the air, my answer still is filled with care from just in me a kid, my thoughts are random and kind. Not the same in adulthood one might find.

The kid in me would like to own all the seas, and hoist the Jolly Roger above the leaves. Of the fair immortal tree house of my mind. And when after all the stories had been told, I would like to find a secret passage and understand. Why mystery invigorates the boy in me who holds the old gray haired man in his hand.

And after all is done, you might look to me as I run, after all it’s just a chance I take. That my stars will still fall, my lightning mystery moonbeam, will still call. And I will feel the wind touch my hair, break out of this puzzle, a body left on dare, and after all, I will fly away. After all.

The Latin form of Daniel Immortal is “O Daniel,” For my son Daniel Ryan 😉 – 05.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Mama (Bullet in a Bright Blue Sky)


Mama

She runs where her Mama dared her don’t try, the girl in her dares, the woman she would try. And all of the Mama’s with their lines say why? Yes, they do, they say it while their so tried. Where there’s a girl pregnant there’s a choice to hold a gift, and make it nice. To hold that precious and make it know her eyes.  And spirit and blood and grace in her smile, it’s a Mama who will make a child. Alone, so alone, even when he’s by her side, she will take her insides, and make the angel who gets her by. Sperm makes the real cry, but the womb, ask the child why, and Mama, you make him question why he lied, make the woman in her ask why she’s wild? Mama makes all the trials of childhood worthwhile.

Mama

Like Bono sang “Bullet in a bright blue sky it means there’s a labor of a woman, somehow, somewhere, read the words. The Mama wrestles with the angel while she breathes on this damn earth. And then Mama takes the darkness, and remembers her own Mama told her how and why, to preach the news in doctrine, how to bring a child. And then like the precious of knowing when all hell is gone. Mama takes her own, and we all know why. For you are crazy, just like your Mama’s child, you’re a witch doctor, that makes so many G_D’s smile, and you’re such a sweet, sweet child. Become such a child. For you are not wounded, that’s just your pride, you are alive, your, just your Mama’s child.

Mama

Mama is the loneliest woman, that really knows why, she’s the powerful one, when your alone, and the cries have long said goodbye. But it’s okay, for you have looked in a mirror, and whether you be a boy or a girl, in your own face you’ve seen a witches smile. And it’s there my friend by blood you’ve seen your Mama’s trial, and better than that you’ve seen her smile. And tomorrow, that day, that will soon be gone. Like a bullet you came into this time, from your Mama, you shot into this earth. And she knows you, she made you from her own, and the blue sky’s waiting, waiting to bring you home.

Mama – 04.30.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Picnic (Gaither 1909)


“Everything begins and ends at exactly the right place” – Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock

Oh the hills could they sing, bring the gathering to a ring, for the food that families eat is a sacrifice to where history sleeps.

“The full moon has just left us”, said Mr. Dalton with a sigh, his eyes searching for spirits as they ran increasingly by. It’s the fourth of June in 1909, in a circle near Gaither with the Ozarks marking time, the spell for memory is nigh. It was what begins a family or a friend, a neighbor wanting closure on a funeral that’s just been, a picnic in the meadow, near a grave or two or ten, and the woods of twilight’s future watches all over them. It’s the Dalton’s, with the chicken, and the Miller’s with the pies, someone whispered lightning’s there in Crooked Creek, by where little Ably Watkins drowned and died, like Lazarus he just went to sleep.  He won’t wake up and we don’t know why.

Daisy said, “the picnic brings us one under sky, the Fullerton’s a yonder I haven’t seen them, in week’s gone by.  And all of us together at Gaither, how time does fly”. All the woods around them whispering legends of epochs and by gone lies.  And the children run together, two by two they look for lore, until Ethel calls them forward unto lunch on the grass floor. And each ear she does whisper, “play and feel your own sweet worth, but keep wares that you see each others face where spirits might lurk”. “And you should not go where your unawares, for keepers will stay you there”.

Now it could be that no one looks to notice what is there, in the shady trees of Gaither round the mountain a specters lair, for it comes from layers deep, bringing questions when it speaks. Be it witches or be it spells, from the time that legends dwell. Oh the hills could they sing, bring the gathering to a ring, for the food that families eat, is a sacrifice to where history sleeps.

“The sun is setting soon”, said Joe Sylvie to his sister Zella, where she stood, “and I think I do declare, this days ending without a dare”. And they laugh and turn away, for they know they cannot say, what is family, what is faith, in the history of this place. For what begins and ends in rest, all around the circle crest, hats and bonnets, beards and bows, an eternal spirit glows. And the picture shows it best, fading faces all are blessed, at Gaither, where in coven, the families make the right place a nest.

Oh the hills could they sing, bring the gathering to a ring, for the food that families eat is a sacrifice to where history sleeps. – 04.28.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Horsetooth (04.20.2000)


For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

There was a shudder felt last night, around the windows the wind so light. Came an apprehensive sort of feeling when things aren’t right. Said one spirit to the next, can we fly inward at 6:00 take his soul, no one is watching, they’ll just think he went. Though one might think that this is done, that a gentle man died under sun, that’s not true, that’s not the way he went on through. For according to us on site, his family that watched that night, from all of us at 12:31 came a different view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

So it was around the appointed time, the skies did open where a star refused to shine, for it was a pathway for wings of ancient blue. And they flew enamored with him, knowing his vestige was with them true, came they through the passage of the rocks they knew. For Horsetooth opened to them, gave them rock burns on their lack of foreskins, brought them down to escort a gentle fellow through.

And we watched him sail away of angels, through that portal new, Horsetooth split Precambrian waiting for these angels to come through. Of angels, without cause of death or torture, he lived life no one knew, and it could be such a gentleman reached G_D without a clue, for she liked him for his spirit that harbored love only Jack knew.

For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

My Dad passed away on April 20, 2000 at 12:31. When he left, it was of angels, trees scraping the side of house with complaint, and the wind rolled down from Horsetooth rock, and simply took his spirit away. – 04.20.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Brigitta (The Pirate)


“It is a blessing for a man to have a hand in determining his own fate”. – Blackbeard

Brigitta sails from the lights to the north, she sets her self-flying it could be she’s Norse, a pirate a poet, a soft spoken lamb, the nature of politics the one here I am. Oh Iceland sweet Iceland, the leader of course, you chart yourself forward with cross bones on shores. The world at dawn waiting for time now stands still, a billion elating that new ways are real, and old politicals of left and the right, those ways that play drivel with your life and might. Those systems that sail on the high seas of old, now Brigitta says it’s time that they fold. For all human hearts are of human songs old, your right as a person makes the fold whole.

And pirates they fly on the history of soul, taking from riches those bankers of old, those unG-Dly priest that run congress of seas, oh Brigitta is coming, in soft words decreed. And children of nothing, for nothing they see, will build a new world, on the old world of greed. For take your sail flying, of Billy pure bones, and follow the Norse to Valhalla for known. And all of the world will know freedom someday, it’s not Armageddon, it’s the end of old ways. It starts now in Iceland with Brigitta the queen, and oh how she rhymes and she weans you and me. From Iceland to Europe, to Asia of old, and on to Africa, the continent of gold, and finally America, the last to see, that freedom is built on the Jurassic of me. For when a pure pirate has found his soul owned, she takes to another, and steals her old owned, and then self is taught not to be owned or sold. Oh know self is great G-ds gift for all that’s known.

Into the lights filled with green and blue, the night sky of winter alight with all clues, and Brigitta says it’s a whole world for you, will you be a pirate, will you fight for you. Will you fight for you…Will you fight for you!

For Brigitta the pirate – 04.14.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל