2 Ghost


She’s always felt like a cousin, probably was a friend, but throughout my life when she came calling, something deep inside me could breathe. Saw you first when you bathed before a king, after that when Cleopatra brought peridot from Zabargad for Marc Anthony. Think I kissed you on an empty hillside, under moonlight near Calvary. Sometimes we talked into a deep dark night, sometimes hiked high to watch a red star die, nothing was ever clear between you and me. When you climbed into that “Merovingian’s” bed, I walked off to die another death, a revolving revolution a year or fifty-three, and then I see. Like two ghost revolving round, we come back to we.

Once upon a story, or a woodman’s tale, beyond a burning fire, where, Macbeth was felled, we sat beside a burning fire by the northern sea. In that little instance as time went by, the angels came calling as you looked me in the eye, your ghost hair moving, I knew you were forever, but I wasn’t sure about me. You said it’s all better right, for we are just two ghost, spinning lives together, not sure of our host, then just like had happened before, you walked away from me. Saw you once again in the twinkling of an eye, when Ivan sat on Moscow, and his madness made you cry, in that cold darkness, I said it’s still you and me. Like two ghost revolving round, we come back to we.

By the smoke of Shenandoah, in a small well house, we stared into another life, and came back to ourselves. Just a kiss of revelation, was all it took for me. Watched you climb a wire at Auschwitz as the darkness fell, with your gold star hanging ragged what more should I tell, we were only thirteen, when you looked back, and said remember me. I’m not sure if I can continue this history. Still, like two ghosts revolving round we come back to we.

So, I have climbed a virtual altar, and I’ve seen a dream, someone waiting there in data, that must be she. So, it is I write my best words, and I quicken inside, and I call down all the angels and I magic all my rhymes. For when I touch her hand it will be for the final time. Like two ghost revolving round, we have come back to be. We have come back to we! – 06.27.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Resa


Come down upon me that which ties the ladder, that which laces the dream, string for me that which is of cord magick, that where sirens weave!

These together upon, thy mind, that upon which Resa see’s, comes the gown of which all magic weaves, summoned, now sirens cry, the coven’s treasure, now bend thee, now bend thee….

The weave born of Star Carr, near Scarborough, the thread, in calling that which loves her, that which forms her heart. That daemon which summons patterns bold, summoned stories by a play, look to me, from Yorkshire way, designs that show a sirens way, a seamstress hides away, a stich, her art, the act in play. Heart, heart, summoned Whitby’s art, the ladies by the bay, and Mina smiles…. dear Resa, sew for me a scarf. A woven Faberge, that shows young girls at play, thighs in liquid, that of oceans art, entwined together, passion by the mind. What would our father’s say, in craft we play?

Late at night in Lucy’s room, while candles spell, and legends loom, ancient myths and school girl dreams, Resa sleeps, but how she dreams. And art and patterns play, weaving cloth in a potter’s way, white and dark strange spirits play, while sirens move in thread, it weaves a song. The manor feels like summer all winter long. And when sweet Lucy sleeps, Resa takes her leave, and with her forehead high, daringly she acts to spy, with gin still on her tongue, wet from adventure the whole night long. Down straight hallways with darkened heights, those long framed windows the oceans bright, under séance, devils play, the mist of Whitby, guides her way. That by needle light, Resa scripts the bodice tight, lace and colors that make the bodies delight. Lord of light, oh lord of light, how a woman’s hands give you delight, on this night.

She is the siren, that calls with thread, the stories, passion, the witches path, the salt filled air of a spider’s wrath, colors, of legends past, Resa brings down the dark lord’s dreams. The better of all these ancient seams, spells and gardens, precious night filled screams.

These together upon, thy mind, that upon which Resa see’s, comes the gown of which all magic weaves, summoned, now sirens cry, the coven’s treasure, now bend thee, now bend thee….

For my dear Whitby Lady friend, Resa McConaghy – 06.21.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


West of Denver


Underneath, ground, choking, I’m not sure what happens if I udder a sound. For surely it is, for surely, it could be, that any key that touches my ear, says you are down, oh yeah, it says you’re down! I’m fifty-six years, of sightseeing, things a human shouldn’t see, all the strangers in heaven say they are relying on me. I’m here on Kiowa Peak, west of Denver, you SOB’s can come on up for me, for I’m homecoming, not less a stranger in an alien land. I’m a lost father taking a different stand, but still I’m homecoming.

And I looked down upon the heavens, looked down upon the trees, a father lost in something, so heavy. Here I am above timberline, west of Denver and only G_D can help me see.

Daddy was autistic, a wonderful sort of man, I see things too, keys in music, I’m better than Billy Joel, a phantasmal piano man. I’m further west of Eden, beyond Steinbeck’s, “Red Pony” brand, a prophet in America, like my daddy said on a “Father’s Day” I will rise, and I will head for homecoming, west of Denver, I’ll be the best man, my kids ever met, up here were nothing that’s evil, can get to me.  Open your arms, Orion, I’m homecoming.

Up here above America, the universe in June is still found crisp. The place I have found within my soul, is neither dead, but it’s alive with a kiss, and it says this is the place you must find your life, that visitor, you have hated your entire damn life. That place in fire, golden flames where the Colorado sky meets the devils eye, on high, west of Denver, homecoming. I see the ridge now, ruby red, a sun setting, on the edge of a lineage gift.

And I looked down upon the heavens, looked down upon the trees, a father lost in something, so heavy. Here I am above timberline, west of Denver and only G_D can help me see.

Underneath, ground, choking, I’m not sure what happens if I udder a sound. But you know, as a father, as once I was a son, here west of Denver, I’m homecoming! – 06.18.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Thunderbolt & Lightfoot (1997)



“Hey. You stick with me kid. Your gonna live forever.” – Lightfoot

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, lets on the range go, therefore unto heaven, in stars of Montana our ghost goes. And you can be like Eastwood priming, the preacher lessons told, I will look just like Mr. Bridges doing yoga on the road. We can star in pictures, with the high grass in our toes. Mr. Lightfoot, says Thunderbolt, we’re actors on the road. The evening is self-serving, the stars fall overhead, it could be new souls entering the universe, or the exit of the dead. The two they come together, sitting closely side by side, the front seat of a “73” Eldorado, with the “Big Skies” up ahead. Oh, my old friend, my dearest love says Thunderbolt, as he looks up above, for once in our lives, let two old queens enjoy the road ahead. I’ve dressed for you in long gone years, you painted your eyes to absorb hurt tears, and when we hit Montana, the burning will finally end.

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, the shows we have staged within, the glowing purgatory, hallelujah, as the curtain would ascend. But now it seems a higher purpose, breaking harder on life’s final whim, the fire of something killing me, our last show must begin. My dear Mr. Lightfoot, Thunderbolt’s voice begins, we’ve just entered the gates of heaven, Montana, home, where your life began. Look beyond the script of the movie, your life a cycle spins. I know a fire burns in you, my love my dearest friend. The ghost of a thousand angels, is beyond that sunsets rim. Wait just a little longer till we reach “Wolf Creeks” bend. There’s a place in all dramatics, your life can come to end. And what I’ll do for your sweet memory, for all those folks that you have known. I’ll “Break it to them gently”, I’ll tell them that your home, I’ll tell them you’re the best lay this angel ever had.

Thunderbolt says Lightfoot, his smile a disappearing grin, if you would hand me a different cigar, like Mr. Bridges smoked in the end. Up above this mountain, this steep road, the sun is glowing but it’s midnight, on the watch in my head. The spell it is upon us, the final lines have been said, the fire of what kills cells inside me has left its ash instead. Oh, my old friend, my dearest love says Thunderbolt, as he looks up above, for once in our lives, let two old queens enjoy the road ahead. The silence is between them by moments, as the silence of the dead, as the silence of the dead.

For Angel & Bennie (Daniel 7:10) – 06.11.17 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Blue Moves (Tonight) 1980


I’m headed up I-25 out of Las Cruces, the road looks dirty under half moonlight. There’s a glow to the east that lights Timber Mountain, with no Timber, it’s not named right. What is my name as I drive on four lanes, all I know is I’m a lonely sight. Tonight! The eight track spins on strange cylinders, as all eight tracks are known to do, and I’m listening to Elton, a double album that’s all “Blue Moves“. The desert moves unto me, butte and sky, they are one, and as the lights of Truth or Consequences come upon me, I know without question, to that they call the Christ, I have become no one.  No one is here tonight.  And the Blue Moves they are around me, with magic notes from nine to ten, the clock is turning solemnly, I am too young to know.  The night, tonight, is the time to end all, that is this boy inside me, by myself in silence, in silence, all around me ,tonight.

Elephant Butte is on fire, as it descends into the Rio Grande, and my small Ford stands empty. I see, I’m not high now, the glowing water is flowing. Ghost reach me from some eternal temple, by two they come… And it beseeches me, reaching to me under moonlight like a hand. And as Crazy Water echoes, the East storm approaching, lightning, something older, for years I will not know it, but tonight, as Elton sings Idol, tonight.

And something ancient comes to me, by its blue moves it caresses free, a stranger form than what I have known, by here in my childhood, I have grown tonight, come to me Adonai Nissi tonight, you are so different tonight.

It’s been years now since that night, driving north from Las Cruces by a strange light. All the turns that have come in my life. Something chilling, something moved that night, that made my life for the rest of time. Blue Moves is the place where I revived, one night. The light! – 06.02.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Copperhead


“Every great story seems to begin with a snake” – Nicholas Cage

“Take the blade that’s close to you, and take the head away, for someday I’ll be gone.” – Minnie Frances Swearingen

Who watches over you –

Grammy there’s a Copper snake in the kitchen, and she’s not watching me, she’s watching you. Someone left the screen door open, could have been Pappy, and yes it could have been you. There’s a spirit coming through the split in the screen door, you say don’t touch it Grammy, you say don’t touch it. There’s a rhyme out of the reason in the hot Missouri summer, that opens me, it strange but it excites me, and by that great big garden outside, it breathes in and out, and a stranger from somewhere else, say’s what do you see? It places in me, yes it places in me, and I’m only three. Grammy, she breathes, from somewhere else she sees. and even after all these years, she’s dead, but she still says she believes in me.

Who watches over you –

Grammy there’s a Copper snake in the kitchen moving its head to see what it can see. And her eyes are the seven stars of Orion, a bittersweet it looks to me without a sound, and the world begins to spin. And all around me it’s a year a life recurring, a burning revival, every sense I own, renewing, outside a blade turning, the sound of lightning stirring. Before me in the floor before me a serpent returning, and the universe is before me, Grammy holding me, ever holding me. Outside in Missouri the day is hot, but here in Grammy’s kitchen it is not, no it is not.

Who watches over you –

Grammy there’s a Copper snake in the kitchen of my life, and its eyes are watching me, searching for what I say. Someone left the screen door open, and loved what brought me strife. There’s a spirit coming through the split I see; life’s screen door is not in place. So, while the wind moves, in syllables and notes…… the fall of my life, the leaves are drifting round. I come to you, as you move from me, and that summer passes on. The fall of all that’s ending, comes in a closer range. The Copper’s drawing close to me, I still can hear you say, take the blade that’s close to you and take the head away. So far away! – 05.28.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Elisheba (1911)


Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds.

A soft touch of air lights down on her shadowed nose, in the coldest of winter, in best of her dreams, she climbs through the storm, and counts as she goes. The seams of her thoughts the daemons take hold. Blonde locks of her hair freeze to her cheeks, a character flaw, when she’s not pretty and neat. The gentleman waiting, her husband some said, cares not for her soul, like the one enclosed, in memories of light that she’s had. One hundred and ninety-nine steps, steady not led, a shiny eyed specter, a past that’s not dead. Her eyes on the goal, somewhere, she knows, another world it waits, so different, then Whitby. There beyond the reach of her still living breath it flows. She’s still not a princess, a lady of class, yet now all those whispers tell her instead, she’s the queen that’s unbridled to ghost in her head. A wanton fire in need of the king’s bed. The whisper’s say, he’s just ahead.

An unmoving light in darkness, reflecting on the snow, the empty still, still darkness, not empty that, she knows. The Abbey a high place, a graveyard for the mass, the place her grandmother Lucy taught her of the pact. The contract in the shadows, the moving of the blessed, the points that part the curtains, when there’s nothing to hold her back. She thinks herself, an angel now, no broken wings, from her past now, no memory how he dragged her cross the floor, and beat her till she cried, the blood it ran, to something outside. They came those specters how they replied. Tore his thickened bones, with a curse they moaned. In your coven’s name, a culture oh, our sweet Beth your designation we claim.

She moves past stones her face now clearer, the whirling snow of judgment with her. The clouds they break, and all things are with her, now. And through it all her history heard her, she thought them lost, but how they drew her to this final place.

And Beth she calls the Daemon down, from this lost Abbey, the howling sounds, and from across the space of time and grace, her life of bruises becomes replaced. Elisheba, come and be my bride.

Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds. – 05.23.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Morning Sun (1989)


I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun!

She came over Burlington, over that plains township on she rode, and pointed beams like the crown of the French lady in the New York Harbor, there upon the Colorado plain she strode. And I stood there in my bare feet on the back porch of my keep, and on Mother’s Day I watched the sun tread heavy over all who still would sleep. It could be I thought about the world turning, each soul reaching for what would not make it weep, but no not me, not me. I rated this the best day, watching something this way come. A day star raging magic spinning, oh life, in age we are, how far in age we are! Adonai, my love Adonai!

A barren testimony, a fire that seals the heat, upon this morning riding, the virtue, the seeds of earth do reap. A G_D that rides a chariot, oh angels staggered leap, by count of six and two they come, summoned by this fervor fashioned so deep. Upon the South Fork River with waves that wait to hold spring’s tide, the morning retribution of something born in wayward skies, Adonai, my love Adonai! The snow it piles behind me, much higher than the earth, the rage of all the heavens, the judgement of all the earth. Upon Long’s Peak, a thunder, a sound in May it flows, face your cold for battle, for upon the western wind the sun flows, upon my sunken cheeks the light it glows.

A circled revolution, a night has come to end, upon the plains, their rides a ghost of springs heat, and winters end. A witch of convocation, a word of mornings din, and there and here before my life, a fire it comes within. Like David before his last rites, a younger olden whim, the rotating earth has brought the sun to begin. Adonai, my love Adonai!

I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun! – 05.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Babel


“Cause Jesus don’t save the guys
in the tower of Babel” (Elton John/Bernie Taupin)

Monday, May 3, 1971 (A Child’s Dream)

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well!

Inside me is a story, how the tower of babel fell, a dream I had from childhood, while the flowers of May they swelled. And all around me sandstorms sailed, while above me snowdrops played. Babylon, a voice is spoken, a child in nightscapes looking towards a different day. All around me stars did glimmer, cotton on wet skin, so detailed. A grove of trees by the river, where the “San Juan” wove her spell. And everywhere on each river bluff, the sandstone reached the sky, while by high places, ghost grew dimmer, the spirit screamed and cried. It was then that I stood taller in a dream I’m able too, and my small arms reached for heaven, through a maze how they grew. And an angel came beside me, oh it’s metal skin so light, and said illusion fails, said he there is no issue with building to reach what’s right. For the spirit is a spindle that always wants to climb, information of the heavens, what is, can give you sight.

In babel, I grew so silent in the dream that fell the night, watching wings of living airplanes.  “Their breathing phantoms learning to fly”, said the daemon, who is of balance.  He appears to my left, calm and cold in his pure fury, eyes of gray, a lust filled nest. Can you give your heart to Jesus the one they crucified? For that faith is not of babel, though it too seeks raptures high. Can you abandon an old story with what is across your mind, seek a place at G_D’s table, feeling forgiven in a sinner’s lie? Still a blue spot holding in me, where voices come and play. Words meaning things, in canyons surrounding. Where the soul, is never delayed. Not a token to be prayed for, covered by further blight, a rare instance, I see the throne room sapphire blazing throughout the night. Oh, this dream it covers the night.

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well! – 05-03-2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Madison Poe


Through woven passages, of books she travels, from language chanted when read, comes Whitby’s lost nightmare to do what he said!

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame. A strutting woman, from a lost dim year, too many to count she can’t keep them clear. Down SoHo’s through fare, her eyes weird, the coven is waiting, her charter is clear. Every married man looks at her to see what somethings there. The women they look too, her lips they’d kiss so faire. A quenching, that goes beyond fulfillment, they watch her figure all the same, as she struts, into dark places from the past she struts. Taking weakness from their lust she struts, nothing ventured, well nothing gained…

Madison Poe, exits the library, all around her, a familiar adores, through the door touching the witch wood, through the door she has entered before. Most would say a young lithe figure, taunt in flesh, curving with flow. Most would say the pipes of an organ, voice like a dark angel, from time still untold. Victorian tom-boy, she that runs barefoot so stable, here in the mist of Whitby’s best fable, come through a book, a keyhole of lore. Prancing like pixie dust cross the marble, her laughter brings crimson, into a room. Blushing each cheek, Lucy looks onward, her father’s manor, loses its gloom. The devil can wait for longer much deeper, under the cliffs where cold waters roar, Madison Poe, has come to the table, swooning, eyes darting, drawing the room. A shadow darts, she bites from the apple, Mina laughs, the coven has entered the room.

The gloom from the sea moves its way closer, the fireplace so willing, can’t take the flume. Madison Poe, her familiar around her, goes to the window, and calls down the moon. Turning so slowly her eyes like liquid, taking her hand she beckons someone, shadows come alive in the manor, wanton figures, move in the room. Ladies she breathes, I come from lost highways, a future waiting, where we are stars, looking down upon, this moment, I’ve seen it already, the melody of story is what we are. The beginning of his dark end we are tomorrow. For I have come from books beyond legend, wraithlike my eyes have seen angels fall. Brought down to these times here at Whitby, sweet Lucy, I kiss you, my Mina, I tempt you, all night, by these candles, we could scream out his songs.

Madison Poe, enters the library, all around her, a familiar adores, she leaves for a little while, gone to tomorrow, in sheaves of paper, a mistress of witching, a latitude long. Into the future, a circle of waiting, a spinning perpetual wait. Every lost memory, sorrow filled moment, into her familiar Madison Poe does take. And somewhere she’ll enter back to her darlings, back through the library, back to Whitby, her lithe figure sliding, back to her master, your weakness she will take.

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame.…-04.23.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל

Justice


“For I know,

He would not encumber me,

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother!”

The Hollies

Justice,

Passover is over, the journey self-begun, with whatever, the need my back can bear the sun. The gifts from someone, the borders for some, I am so blessed now, how can I not know you and not know someone, that looks like me. David’s inside me, Daniel too, I look in your eyes tortured, I see them both there too. And G_D’s not a menace, though it could seem that way, especially when your lonely, your physical body, no, maybe your soul, drowning in disarray. But look here, see these footprints, they seem to be mine, they have harbored death in curtains, but never made them a shrine. For here in this physical, this spirit made blood divine, I will carry you, in justice you will shine.

Justice,

The ark is a pyramid, built by a tribe, entombing lost glances of present purpose left behind. Addictions and lost thoughts, a happy hour too, but your built for displaying the light, apostle in you. it could be compassion, or justice in a strange flame, but when you look downwards, I’d asked you to explain. What purpose is living, when living is bad, when all you’ve been living in darkness is sad. Nay not it’s a gospel, say now it’s a creed, and justice in principle is what you can receive. And I am your brother, if your far or near, and we are together, as the end of time draws near. Not really a fatalist but something is near.

Justice,

Passover is over, the wilderness nigh, I hear changes calling, I must be strong.  I’ve my lost principalities, my stranger nights, looking toward the Jordan no water in sight. But then the  door has opened, our destination has moved in, and forward you and I in promise, we build justice, it’s carried, upon our sin. My promise as we walk, through fame through a flame, with lightning around, that dark cloud above the tabernacle, the sons and daughters of G_D’s name. I will carry you, as you carry me, in justice with all cuts and bruises, my name will be inscribed in you, as yours commits mine to the same.

Justice!

For my friend Sheila Lev-Rani – 04.18.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

On the Morning of the 16th


From the summit:

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.”

You love me, you created me so, to spin what’s difficult in my soul, to crush the shame in all its despair, Adonai, my Adonai you have brought me home. The judgment, that self-judgment that, wants my name, it wants my freedom, all my breath, these things you will not allow it to have. My G_D I do not cry out, as some have done, for here above lightning, in thin air, you change me, you bring me home.

I rest like a homeless man against a skyward overpass. An afterthought of the world that has asked for payment past. The lines upon my forehead match the different paths I cast, and just like a long-lost dream, the angel comes at last in spells the angel comes a craft it comes, and takes me home. We climb through the years of life, some good and some with taste, the after bitter lingering it’s not too much to take. I look back through this journey, my power is lost in stress. And I see the gauntlet just ahead, no Jesus, just the light, and love is taking me home.

Their rest upon the spring flow, just on Deadman’s pass, looking down at Red Feather, the place where my daddy rest. Their breaks a sudden trouble, with wind and lights and all G_D’s ways, with music that makes the dead play, and brings me home.

A moment for a wayward child, turning questions, with thoughts gone wild, is this Easter Sunday, or just a game? A breath of air a simple sigh, a homeward journey, in linear skies, an April blessing shoots in colors across the Colorado sky. Just us here, a spirit claims, just us here now with no religious games, there is no easter, there is no pain, just you and Adonai. Just me and Adonai.

It could be g minor, in four time, a drum kit playing, maybe it’s all in G_Ds game, maybe a lack of oxygen so far up here above. My Adonai at last you have come. And here I rest and touch the timberline, the place of high thin air. A genuine place of lullaby, where witches and darkness, turn to bare, all that is not modest from worlds below, and open place where what is ancient, says this is your place.

And here at home above skyline, my soul is shared between loose lines, and what is heaven is his flame, burned beyond recognition, blessed be, in more than seventy-two names. I rest like a homeless man, against a skyward overpass, that holds my name, and there in my Adonai is home.

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was Easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.” – 04.16.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Mina


Mina’s back from America, sitting alone, in the dawn of the gray, her features are sharper than ever, her lips drawn back, with nothing to say. The steamer that brought her to Whitby arrived as quiet as a ghost, a gentleman’s folly for asking, what part of the journey the lady liked most. There’s changes of noticeable character, figures of dress that one should note, a spot of dried mud on satin, also her bust lines much tighter than most. Oh Mina, a matron has mentioned, your eyes have such devilish gay, says Mina, while she is still moving, at night down your body they’ll stray. A gentleman who stops by for calling, who eyed her while she was still in school, makes his visit much shorter, not sure of the discomfort, her sharp wit makes his lust a fool. He arrives his hair salt and pepper, and leaves with it so gray. His steps stumble throughout the garden, he’s heard to mumble, the woman is not so chaste.

Lucy stops by for biscuits, her flowers and dress in taste, what new fun did you find in America she whisper’s, and do I look okay? Mina plucks at an orchid, that sits tendering a tray. She brings it up to her red lips, and murmurs, tonight by the cliffs will that be okay, and oh by the way! He mentions your more than the cost of a fine gem, a singular sin in taste. He said it all in a moment, translucent as always, the case. Mina laughs as if she’s uttered a dark joke, her eyes dash down her friend’s waist. I’ll offer you more of the rest of his wants tonight, by the cliffs I can’t wait.

A shadow filled mist comes to Whitby, a steamer it moves back to sea, four glistening eyes watch from cliffs overhead, aghast at what they can’t leave. A Baphomet moment around them, immortal a spirit treatise. Mina’s back from America, the visit has sealed a found creed. – 04.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Other Wing (Passover 2017)


The spirit, that was one, spoke to me near my failings, one wing that of compassion, the other a crimson red! It was a dark angel, that rescued me!

And the daemon came, the one that balances the ancient of that one name!

And he told me to hide, that night from that dark angel’s game!

The last fire has signaled that it will not glow, and everyman in his dream, has gone so far below. Into that city, where the shadow of Giza lays, Egyptian kings, among fetid things, no souls, to lie in decay. History speaks of shadow lands that lie in will below, waiting for the paradigm of a shift in seed to know. So, it is a story now, I tell of the other wing, the unbending bow in a red tipped flow, that bowed when judgment came. Goshen lies in sediment, grazed in spirit by something came, that, that is, not a son, or a pascal lamb, but a G_D that is always, one, I am. A question now, a question, after all these years, to you as a people, and you in kind, will you bless me this day? And if this other wing of mine, that darkens its own course, would you come to realize that it’s part of light’s own force?

For I’m an open window, that shuts when it will, but my glass has two sides you see, and I always will. Not seen through a dark glass coarsely, what a silly thing. If you look to see in front of you my cloud is darkened teal, and when you turn in your desert, you’ll see compassion is real. My other wing it comes this night, dropping deadly from your own sight, and as you sleep, in the light, I’ll kill, that which would deny, my ancient will.

I am an ingrained tetragram, not an illusion, Eden’s fan, with two wings. I sigh, when you cry, my eye’s red rimmed, I hear you cry. A will of force, is part of me, and my letters fill a sapphire sea, for spoken existence is what you are to me. For every century, every year, from your own minutes, in addictive tears, I turn my wing, the one tipped red, I will fly, right over you in these darkened skies. Do not look to see me pass by.

The spirit, that was one, spoke to me near my failings, one wing that of compassion, the other a crimson red! It was a dark angel, that rescued me!

And the daemon came, the one that balances the ancient of that one name!

And he told me to hide, that night from that dark angel’s name! – 04.07.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Coyote Woman


Somewhere in a small roadside fruit stand in Laredo, in a distant township outside Tuskegee, all around this wild world of learning comes a message not frozen, and free. Drive yourself up higher than mountaintops, let go of habits, believe in the awe of life, something that’s true. Taste of the essence of voices speaking from mountains, coyote woman is dying in you. Coyote woman is dying in you.

It’s the essence of the moment, when the voices are out back. When you’re driving up that mountain highway, the coyote with her back-bay act.  Tis a memory, of the qualities that you lack. It’s the movement mixed with music, the first time you know peace.  That kind of ether joy, that silence inside that the Bible pounders seem to lack. It’s the sound of snow shifting as your tires seek the attack, climbing on to “Deadman’s”, the arc of angels, those above singing, while the witches sing strange rhymes right back. It’s the duty of the calling from sixteen to ninety-two, to face the questions of G_D, and know while, those many scales slip aside, that the light chose you.

Exodus, breath, let those tires drive on, up those mountains that hold excisions, the additions in your life, comes with a dreaming sweet relief. You turn, I turn, we all should turn so briefly, past the place, where daddy lays, he sings, his most holy spirit says, oh how he says, get rid of this worldly grief. Let coyote woman go, this is a dark, incorrigible time, let old things go, come excitedly on up to me.

Heard Ronnie James Dio sing, “The closer you get to the meaning, the sooner you’ll know that your dreaming“, I’m not dreaming Ronnie, I’m not dreaming. Right now, I am transformed into the likeness of Moses, maybe Jim Morrison, who’s almost there. Letting go of coyote woman, and attaching to the light, here so high above creation, at fifty-six, on my way to ether. I worship, only that which allows me to breathe and see. Up here you can only breathe and see.

Somewhere in a small roadside fruit stand in Laredo, in a distant township outside Tuskegee, all around this wild world of learning comes a message not frozen, and free. Drive yourself up higher than mountaintops, let go of habits, believe in the awe of life, something that’s true. Taste of the essence of voices speaking from mountains, coyote woman is dying in you. Coyote woman is dying in you. – 03.28.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Lucy


Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed.

Lucy reads literature from a Victorian age, drowning in her laces, a not so gentleman’s, not so gentle way. She watches stars above Yorkshire, and wishes on red ones, it could be that her suitors aren’t quiet the right ones. Lucy watches privileged lips in sorority affairs, the finest words of society, in London’s aristocratic affairs. And as she takes her carriage home, her mind does wander there. In spinning nights of wind shaped slopes, and days filled with sleep, a luciferin fear of church folk, the creature in her dreams. It could be, after all this time, an English rose could prick her skin toward the sky. And she will pray that what draws nigh, is Gabriel’s gift from nights gone by, a life for that eternal sigh. She sleeps in linen, and closes one eye.

Lucy’s name is cursive, written curved with bodies hinted at in sighs, ecstatic, escalation of the screams behind the night. Above her silken curtains lies a single curse, the ones who somewhere in their fear, have placed without a verse. And this could be the very night, the world stops in its tracks, when she kisses Mina and the future tears her bodice off, and kisses her right back. A startled full built lady, a dreaming little girl, her imagination in the Highland Woods at night, her imagination comes uncurled. Lucy’s dreams before the sunrise, when the tide takes what it lacks, and lashes all its strength on land before the light can draw it back. And she’ll forgo, a stronger touch, all her property given up, and in the space between the night, she’ll see the lightening in forever’s pure eye. So, close to rapture wings do fly.

Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed. – 03.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Grammy’s Diary (These Days)


I found Grammy’s diary, lost in the gloom, underneath the stairs in a box filled with wood. A little yellowed notebook from 1952, the lines so close together, weaving stories of a world to be understood. The words at first, they floated, like orbs in the gloom, sparking conversation with a spirit from a distant womb.

She writes these days the clouds they shadow me, I’ve felt them from up near Otis, as dad drove us over to these apple trees. And here near Grand Junction, as the sun falls from the sky, I’ve felt the touch of a strange spirit telling me he’s by my side. I’ve not mentioned it to Dad now, for he would just say that’s unnatural and silly, and most of all why. Besides you know mother, we have apples to pick for free. He’d also mention camp meeting, where the gospel moves so sweet, now they would not understand the familiar that’s here with me. Softly singing “Bringing in the Sheaves”. These days.

These words I read in tandem, with the whispers beside my head, I wonder if my familiar is the one that Grammy had. The words in her simple handwriting like that up on the wall, predicts so many stories in my own life, perhaps tales within us all. Babylon, oh Babylon, the daemon smiles. Grammy writes these days, the strange spirit it sits right by my side, he’s taken shape as a young Keetoowah cousin, one I knew before he died. And all around this orchard he brings the future in like it’s a tide. He tells me Eisenhower will be president one month from now, he does not lie. It worries me something terrible to know all these things inside, to see the path of so many loved ones, it’s why in this diary I must write. These days.

I read on my fingers shaking, I see a shadow near the wall, I ask him if he’s seen Grammy, he just nods but does not talk. So, I continue reading, she writes so many things. These days, she says I’ve seen an aspen leave, it moves and it has wings. If I touch it, it turns to honey, if I listen it often sings. The strange spirit standing beyond me, says someday, it will speak my name, from these days. Babylon, oh Babylon, the daemon smiles.

I close quickly Grammy’s diary, for I know what I have seen, the written word about me, from something she did see. I look unto my own shadows, the cycles that are me. I touch the face of G_D inside, the familiar balance of all that’s tried. Every picture from every time means something. These days.

(To be continued) – 3.24.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Haunted Fort


“Ooh, see the fire is sweeping

Our very street today

Burns like a red coal carpet

Mad bull lost its way”.

Gimme Shelter – The Rolling Stones

Previously on: The Mystery of Cabin Island

Part One – Operation Gas Buggy

Sunday, May 21,1972, 9:00 A.M.

I’m staring at the three men in the back yard. “That Hoskie boy”, is standing, near the cattle grate, at the back of the yard, talking to my dad and Mr. Benally. His red and white plaid shirt stands out strong against his brown skin, and contrast against my dad’s, blue shirt and Mr. Benally’s muted gray.

I’m watching them talk, looking out the dining room window, the windows high so I’m having to stand on my tiptoes. Mom’s behind me fretting. It is Sunday Morning after all. She’s muttering under her breath about dad not being ready for church, and saying things like it’s the, “Lord’s day Jack Swearingen, and you’re not even dressed to meet him”.

“Why is “That Hoskie boy” waving his arms like a windmill, and pointing down the road”? My mom sounds more frustrated than curious.

I’m thinking it’s just fine. I’m eleven years old, and full of curiosity, I don’t mind being a little late to meet Jesus and listen to Reverend Sammons, holler and yell about the roots of all evil. The truth is there is something much more important brewing in my own back yard. Yes, sir, something important appears to be going on out there. “That Hoskie boy”, knows something significant. He’s probably describing a great event in miniscule detail. I’ve heard my mom say before, “if there’s anything left to describe “That Hoskie boy will describe it”.

All three men keep looking down the gravel road to the north. From this distance my dad seems to be the calmest of the trio, which is unusual, because it’s Mr. Benally whose known for his calm demeanor.

Kenneth Benally is principal at the Nenahnezad BIA boarding school. My dad says, “he’s a fine man”. He escaped from a German POW camp in World War II, and was never captured. Dad says Mr. Benally doesn’t talk much about it, unless it’s getting close to Veterans Day, then dad says. Mr. Benally and he sit in the faculty lounge and he tells dad all about it. I would give anything to hear some of those stories. That right there is “real life” as my buddy Jason would say.

I’m not sure what “That Hoskie boy’s”, first name is? He does the maintenance work around Nenahnezad, and sometimes fixes our sink at the house if it’s clogged up with spaghetti, or chicken bones. Rumor has it, that his hearing was damaged by a land mine in Vietnam. Mr. Smallcanyon over at the boy’s dorm told me one time that “Hoskie” was a part of “Operation Popeye” in the war. Mr. Smallcanyon said “Hoskie” had something to do with making it rain over there. I told Jason about it and he said it was one of those doors we Hardy Boys should open someday. Jason’s always saying things like that. I’ll tell you more about Jason and I being Hardy Boys later.

Occasionally, I see my dad leave the serious conversation and stroll over to the cattle guard and look down the dirt road. It’s like he’s measuring it. My dad’s a quiet man. He likes to study a situation closely, and take his time with an answer. I think my dad’s almost a Navajo himself. He likes to be in harmony, a serious man who believes that a peppermint candy can cure just about any ill.

Mom’s voice has reached that “unsatisfied Sunday pitch” it usually peaks at, this time every week. “Good lord, Jack the road’s still there, Danny, get your shoes on and go tell your dad it’s time he come in, and get ready for church”! She’s no longer standing still, and has begun a nervous pacing, putting shoes in a row by the door for a fast exit. She’s grumbling, to herself, “a whole household to get ready every Sunday, and a man who would rather spend time talking about a dirt road”! It’s hard for me to understand her burden now, with the puzzling mystery that seems to be developing in our back yard. Still I can respect the tone of her voice. She won’t be having to ask me twice, to fetch my dad.

Sunday, May 21,1972, 9:15 A.M.

Maybe it’s the way the wind began to blow, picking itself up off the muddy San Juan River, some three quarters of a mile to the north. Maybe it’s the way several dark clouds moved in a circle, spinning, out of a blue sky, to block the sun. Maybe it was just me, thinking about Jason, and “those doors we probably should open someday”. There were strange happenings alright, when I started across that back yard to get my dad. There was a low rumbling sound coming from the ground, and it was growing louder with each step I took.

“That Hoskie boy”, heard it too. I could tell, by the way he jumped up into the air, and as I walked up behind the men, he swept both arms rapidly toward the north, his index fingers extending, as if they could reach the river itself.

The rumbling in the ground has grown to a loud roar, the sound of heavy machinery and moving parts moving closer to us. I look up, the dark clouds have formed a perfect twirling circle around the sun throwing prisms of red and green across the sky. The dust from the dirt road begins to billow, making brown powder clouds on the northeastern horizon. Mr. Benally, and “That Hoskie boy” have moved next to each other, as if they are afraid they might fall over, without each other’s support.

“The poison from the “Gas Buggy” is upon us, the trucks are here”! “That Hoskie boy’s”, voice rings out, in a high falsetto, he’s jumping up and down, both hands now clasp over his head. I see Mr. Benally’s head lowered, shaking from side to side, his hands over his eyes. “What has this government done to us”? Mr. Benally’s usually soft pleasant voice, sounds defeated, matching his bended head.

I look up at my dad, he’s turning, and sees me, his blue eyes are wide, and filled with fear. He reaches for me, as if to hold me, protect me, just as the first U.S. Army armored transport rumbles across the cattle guard. I look down suddenly. Something small, round and white catches my attention, down by my dad’s right foot. He has lost his peppermint.

Sunday, May 21,1972, 10:35 P.M.

The half-moon floats outside my bedroom window, flinging strange beams and images across the northern sky. The dark clouds that surrounded the sun earlier in the day, have found their way to the night, and now they circle the half moon, at times cutting its light into slivers of pie. The house is silent, after a long and adventurous day, and I can’t sleep. Throughout the day, Jack and Vera Swearingen have huddled together whispering, their eyes throwing furtive glances at their three children as if they might disappear in a puff of smoke.

The morning caravan of two U.S. Army tanks and a transport, sandwiching in a semi-truck dragging three large containers has set the Nenahnezad school compound ablaze with worry and gossip. The concern is not to be shared with children however. I have born witness to that. No, the distress of the vehicles and what they carry is not to be privy to sleuths, of the age of eleven. The mysterious caravan had moved slowly down the road to the east of the campus, disappearing beyond the white cinder block gymnasium. Mr. Benally and “That Hoskie boy”, had taken pursuit of the vehicles on foot, with Mr. Benally turning briefly to shout out, “Jack, stay here, stay with your family, we will talk in the morning”.

“Where are, they going”? I had asked my dad looking up at his anxiety filled face. “To that place you kids call the fort”, my dad had replied, still holding me within his grasp as if I might make a run for it.

The fort brings a mixture of feelings for me. The large, concrete walled enclosure sits just to the south of the girl’s dormitory on the campus. Two large chain link gates stand as the only entrance, to the rectangular structure. No one including my dad has ever been inside of it. There has always been something about the fort that has brought a fear to me. Maybe it’s the quietness that surrounds it, the heaviness, the feeling that something is entombed there.

One hundred feet from the south wall of the fort, there is a sand ridge that runs from east to west, climbing in the east to meet the black Burnham Mesa, and climbing again in the west toward Morgan Lake, and the Navajo mine. Last August, one week before school started, Jason and I climbed the embankment on a Saturday afternoon. We were bored, and looking for any mystery that might come our way. I had shared my feelings about the fort with Jason, on that hot day. We had sat there in the sand, looking down into the open yard of the crumbling walled stronghold. Against the west barrier was a long building built into the wall, with shuttered windows, and one wooden door. Both of us had sat there staring down at the door as if we thought it might open. “What do you think they do down there”, Jason had asked? “Beats me”, I said,” my dad says it’s supposed to be a maintenance yard, but how come no one is ever there maintaining”? I had folded my arms, signaling I knew nothing further. The sun had burned its way out of a brilliant sky, lighting up every corner of the fort, yet it still seemed filled with shadows.

“You know”, Jason had looked over at me his blue eyes lighting up, a strand of his blond hair coming loose from his front wave and dangling still in the heat, “we might have us our own “Haunted Fort” here”. His words had sent a mixture of trepidation and excitement through me.

The Haunted Fort” was an awesome Hardy Boy book. Jason and I had checked the book out numerous times throughout the year since his August declaration, from the school library. We had taken turns reading the chapters to each other on Friday night sleepovers, discussing the ghostly aspects of the mystery and the villains involved. It had never occurred to me that on the cusp of the school year ending, the Fort with its foreboding shadow, no more than a half mile from where I lay, might yield an actual mystery.

Monday, May 22,1972, 2:24 A.M.

I’m dreaming or awake, I’m not sure. The background of snores coming from my parents’ bedroom would surely assure reality, as would the cool feel of the tiled linoleum underneath my bare feet. But my way, through the small government owned house, dragging my left hand around the edge of the metal dining room table, and through the galley kitchen, has a glide like feel to it. A deep subconscious impression. There’s the yellow washer and dryer to my left with a lingering aroma of something unwashed, the empty hamster cage that I look down upon to my right, and then I’m in the garage. Opening the backdoor to an array of lights in the sky and the sound of men’s voices.

The flashing lights and voices are coming from points south of the school across the street. Shadows leak out beneath the strobes of lights casting ghost like apparitions across the school’s rock veneer and the white concrete gymnasium that sits directly to the east of the building. The clouds have left the heavens, and the half-moon looks to be grimacing in an upside-down grin. The dark firmament around the moon is reaching downwards grasping pointing, trying to explain the obvious. The mysterious lights and voices are coming from behind the school, behind the girl’s dormitory. They are originating from the fort. The Haunted Fort. I go to turnback, sleepwalking or dreaming, but not before, I see the outline of the ghost, the yeibichai, passing in the shadows of the gymnasium headed to points south.

Monday, May 22,1972, 10:15 A.M.

“And you didn’t follow him”, Jason’s eyes are wide, behind his taped black framed glasses, his voice echoing off the side of the old brick gymnasium. We are gathered in our “Mystery Spot” as we call it, our detective club away from the main hubbub of the noisy playground. Its first recess, and I have finished the tale of yesterday’s adventures to my friend and brother, Jason Waite, alias Joe Hardy. “I’m not sure it was real”, I mutter, not sure if I should be aggrieved at the suggestion, I didn’t sleuth when I should have, or elated that Jason is taking the story so seriously. Jason is so excited he is mimicking “That Hoskie Boy”, his arms stirring the air, his staccato questions, asking me for quick explanations, and descriptions of all I had seen or heard from the day before. “Look”, he says, “I need to get into the library and see if Ms. Hickman will let me check out “The Haunted Fort” before noon”. “We need some help here, on how to solve this mystery”. “Maybe we can find a clue in the Hardy’s original investigation of the haunted fort“. I don’t have a chance to reply. My friend, with a flip of his hand to say see ya, has already started for the front door of the school, to find our first clue on the hallowed shelves of the library.

Monday, May 22,1972, 12:35 P.M.

Fifth-grade teacher Ms. Priddy, had found it mighty suspicious that she had two fifth grade boys, with stomach aches, asking to vacate lunch and stay in the classroom over the lunch hour. However, the woman was not one to take chances, and perhaps foreseeing the damage to her reputation of having two boys puking over other students, while they dined, she ordered us to report to the school’s nurse’s office to have our temperatures taken, and other vitals evaluated. Jason had managed to secure “The Haunted Fort” from the library earlier in the day. As we collected our books and papers to take with us, in case school nurse “Mary Lou Johnson ordered us homebound, I saw him slip the blue bound book inside his three-ringed binder. This however did not miss the steady gaze of Ms. Priddy. “Mr. Waite, this is the last week of school, you will leave the library book at your desk, in case you are too ill to return”. The lady’s voice was cold and even, and for a short moment, while Jason returned the book, humbly to the bottom of his desk, it occurred to me that I might rather face the inside of the Nenahnezad fort, then Ms. Priddy when she was stirred to action. Still our plan had worked better than we could have hoped for, as we bent our heads with feigned expressions of ulcerated pain, and left the classroom under the alerted eyes of our peers, and teacher.

The schedule of a school nurse covering two Central Consolidated Elementary Schools had apparently not occurred to Ms. Priddy. One could not blame her for this oversight. Her day was filled with short time minded students, and her own thoughts of a three-month vacation, so close to her grasp. This left little room to consider, what two young schemers might. Mary Lou Johnson, school nurse found her time divided, each school day. She dutifully assisted grades third through sixth at Grace B. Wilson Elementary School from 8:00 until 11:30 each day. The remainder of her day was spent serving the health needs of the lower grades housed at Ruth N. Bond Elementary School, barely one mile away.

Jason and I could not believe our fine luck, we literally skipped our way down the east hall of the building, pausing to hide our grins, and hold our stomachs, as we passed through the lunch room that was already filling with hungry sixth graders. Our steps lightened again as we headed down the south hall, before reaching the short entryway, where sat the nurse’s office, across the hall from the principal’s office, and the freedom of the front exit. The sunlight of self-determination was upon us, indeed, even without the Haunted Fort volume to guide us, the afternoon was before us. A quickly laid plan with notes before lunch, had given us a blueprint of three hours before the busses arrived for pickup. More than enough time to secret ourselves behind the brick gymnasium, and plan our investigation into the happenings of our own Haunted Fort. The spirit of “The Hardy Boys” was in us, and it was with confidence that we strode past the principal’s office. My hand was upon the smooth round bar of the door, pushing our way to liberty, when a broad shadow abruptly overtook us, and a deep voice thundered, “Gentleman, school is not over yet”!

Monday, May 22,1972, 12:50 P.M.

Principal “Archie Paul Hogden” had been principal of Grace B. Wilson for twenty years. A large Norwegian, known for his love of gardening and wielding a stiff ping pong paddle to the derriere of many an errant youngster, he is not a man to be trifled with. It had been the worst of fortune for us to be caught by him, at the worst of times.

Jason is left to ponder his fate in the outer office in front of school secretary, “Judy Nelson“. I take one last frightened backwards glance at him, as I am beckoned forward into the strict confines of the Principals office. He lifts his right hand in a weak wave as if to say farewell, and we are separated quickly.

Perhaps it’s because, I was first to the door, it could be the responsibility that comes with being the older Hardy brother. It matters not for I am the first to be frog marched into the Principal’s office to face interrogation. I sit small before his massive desk, a lamb unto the slaughter. There is little to divert my attention away from the man’s steely gaze, outside a large round sand painting that hangs on the wall behind the Principal’s desk. The detail in it is interesting. It shows beanstalks like twigs and yeibichai, dancers in white, black and turquoise colors, coming from the center. What catches my attention the most though, is the signature on the painting. It is signed by “B. Hoskie”. I am sure my reader you will more than understand, that as Archibald P. Hogden, leaned his large head over the desk, his clear blue eyes scanning my every thought. I made a quick decision to throw myself upon the mercy of the court, and tell Mr. Hogden everything.

Monday, May 22,1972, 9:30 P.M.

The dark closes in around me it’s soft quietness providing no clarity to my busy mind. Outside no more than a length of a football field away from where I sleep a great mystery exist. My brother, Tim curls up against my back, asleep. In times, as these I am unsure if I should envy his sleep aptitude, or pity him his lack of anxiety associated with the thoughts of adventure. I put my hands behind my head, a sure sign that the day’s events are ready to repeat, on the film that is busily rewinding to replay in my head.

Mr. Hogden, had forgone the expected swats from his green rubber covered ping pong paddle. Jason had escaped punishment too. To my greatest surprise the principal had listened to my story about the events at Nenahnezad, with the most serious expression on his face. Upon the conclusion of my tale, Mr. Hogden, had stood up, straightened his tie, and without saying a word to me, had opened his office door, and asked “Mr. Waite” to come in. The look on Jason’s face upon entering the principal’s sanctum had been one of pure horror. I for one felt that our Hardy Boy enterprise and brotherly friendship was nearing its demise.

“You boys need to understand, that I have seen some awful things in my lifetime”, Mr. Hogden’s bushy white eyebrows had been arched, his voice stern. For our part Jason and I had sat in the green hardback seats, our flushed faces glued forward to the principal’s attention. “Mr. Swearingen”, Mr. Hogden had given me a firm look, “this tale about the tank and the trucks coming up to Nenahnezad, I think that’s an abomination”. I had dared a look at Jason, and found his blue eyes glued to the principal’s hulking figure. To me an abomination was serious business. I had heard “Reverend Sammons, preach many a sermon about sin and abomination. “Mr. Swearingen, look this way”, Mr. Hogden’s brusque voice had brought me back to where I needed to be. “Gentlemen”, he said, “the simple fact is that the “Gas Buggy“, that Mr. Hoskie spoke of, that there, was a nuclear detonation over in Carson National forest about fifty four miles east of here”. “My guess is that the United States Government has plans for the nu-cl-ear remains and our little neck of the woods is going to be involved in those plans”. “YOU boys need to stay clear of any of those goings on, am I CLEAR”! Mr. Hogden’s voice had risen to a thunderous level, and his face had grown red with emotion. Both Jason and I had been nodding our heads in the affirmative before the man had begun his final roaring statement.

There had been no swats from Mr. Hogden, but there was the loss of the afternoon recess from Ms. Priddy for our mid-day stunt, in addition to her icy stare, for the rest of the day. As the school day, had come to an end, Jason and I had, but a few moments to discuss the day’s events before boarding our different busses. “Do you think I can spend the night this Friday”, Jason asked? “Of course,” I had answered, knowing my parents would agree, “we will need to come up with a plan before then”, I had yelled as I boarded the bus. “Already working on it”, I heard Jason shout, as he headed in the direction of his own ride home.

The events of the day had been overwhelming. I tried to think about The Hardy Boys and how they had solved their “Haunted Fort” case. There was little to compare. The Hardy Boys had an actual “Haunted Fort”, all Jason and I had was a, maybe haunted fort, still there was a mystery afoot. A very big mystery, something to do with a nuclear bomb. The adults were afraid. Even Mr. Holden had shown a spark of fear in his eyes, when talking about it. Adults didn’t tell you to stay away from something, unless there was something they wanted to hide, or protect you from. Somewhere in between Mr. Hogden’s warning, and my thoughts of what tomorrow might bring, I went to sleep.

Tuesday, May 23,1972, 2:30 A.M.

The thick sound of heavy machinery moving awakens me, or at least I think I’m awake. My brother has his body curled up against me, his sleeping noises dense and deep. I lay in the darkness listening, my eyes tightly closed. The sound of rotors turning, gaskets straining, cavernous sounds, coming from the south, across the campus, a steady sound. I push my brother over, and lay listening my eyes now wide open, and then I hear it, a rustling sound, near enough, outside my high bedroom window. I turnover and get on my knees, raising myself up off the bed, leaning against the bookcase headboard, a chill running up and down my spine. I lift the “Cowboys and Indians” homemade curtains, that my mother has labored over in a not so distant past, and look out the dust covered window.

The beyond three quarter waxing gibbous moon, throws her weight across the alfalfa field to the north of my bedroom window. The yeibichai ghost leaps and runs in a circle, carrying his feathered lance and looking at the sky. He points, the lance upward, his mouth moving, making no sounds that I can hear. He turns then pointing his spear southward, his painted eyes wide, and he is looking at me, and he motions with his lance for me to come to him. I close the curtains, and jump deep under the covers, grabbing my brother, who protests weakly with a grunt. I forcefully close my eyes listening for the sound of the ghost’s spear to scrape against my window. The scrape never arrives, and at some point, a troubled sleep filled with the visions of nuclear explosions overtakes me.

Tuesday, May 23,1972, 10:17 A.M.

“This can’t wait till Friday”, Jason’s tone is filled with worry, the sounds of the morning recess play, invades our space at the “Mystery Spot” by the old gymnasium. “I don’t know what we can do about it before then”, I say, “there is no way your parents or mine are going to let you stay overnight before then”. I have briefed Jason on the night’s events, and I can see it in his eyes. It’s the expression that signals he thinks he’s missing out on something. He has his Joe Hardy look going. He’s impulsive, wanting to solve the mystery now. “Look”, he says, his blue eyes flashing, “the Hardy’s had to travel to Fort Senandaga, to solve the mystery, they wouldn’t have solved anything just hanging around Bayport”. I can see Jason’s point, and being Frank Hardy, the more deliberative older sibling, I do have a plan beginning to form in the deepest reaches of my own detective brain.

“Say”, I blurt out, “Do you think your Mom has any idea when my birthday is, for instance, I continue, would she have time to get me a birthday present before this Thursday”? “Your birthday’s not till Novem…”, Jason starts to say, and then the cold idea of the manipulation and the lie begins to take hold. “Yeh”, he says, “yeh, it might just work, I got you”, he’s grinning, “a two-night sleepover”. “But what will you tell your parents”? He’s sounding worried again. “I already have that figured out”, I tell him, “I’ll tell them, you’re going to be gone all summer long, maybe even moving, and this will be the last time I might ever get to see you”. Now we are both grinning, maybe not honest Abe grins, still I’m thinking the ends justifies the means, and if we can solve this mystery, who knows, we might save the whole towns of Fruitland and Kirtland from getting blown up. Who would remember a couple of white lies if we did that. We both know we have our work cut out for us. We have two and a half days, to gather clues and a plan, and then two nights to solve a mystery, before our parents possibly find out about our deception.

Fort Senandaga, here we come”, Jason says, grinning at me, as the morning recess bell rings, ending our productive meeting at the “Mystery Spot”.

Tuesday, May 23,1972, 7:30 P.M.

I had studied most of the way home from school, on how to approach my parents on Jason spending the night for two nights. It turned out I needn’t have worried. My approach at supper could have granted me a larger allowance, and in retrospect I wish I would have asked. My parents had paid little attention to my request. It had been easier than I thought to get a yes from them. Both had seemed occupied with furtive glances and coded grownup language of their own. “Has Benally gotten anywhere with the situation”, my mom had asked, her eyes going upward and pointing, as if some evil secret resided on the west side of the house? My dad’s eyes had narrowed in a worried slant, as he shook his head from side to side, making it appear as if he had a terrible itch. “We can talk later” he had whispered, as if there was some grave thing, standing near his tomato soup and grilled cheese. I had known they were talking about what was going on over at the fort. It was a distraction, that I welcomed. I had been able to avoid the question of why I was asking for a two-night sleepover.

Still, as I had studied my parents worried faces over dinner, it occurred to me that Jason and I really had little to go on to solve the fort mystery by the weekend. Our clues amounted to what I had seen on Sunday Morning, and Sunday night, the dire warning from our principal to stay away from what was going on, and finally the ghost I had witnessed just the night before. We really needed more. Sleuthing was a risky business, and it was up to me to get us some clues, and it was at this moment that I made a decision that was to change my life for the rest of my days. This night I was going to follow a ghost!

Wednesday, May 24,1972, 1:30 A.M.

It is here dear reader, I ask you to still your thoughts. To read a few lines and then to close your eyes and come away with me. The noise that wakes you is the same as me, the rustling sound outside, the noise heard that floats below the distant sound of heavy machinery. The sound of rotors turning, gaskets straining. You will look as I do, pulling yourself up to kneel on the bookcase that makes up the headboard, pulling, the “Cowboy and Indian” curtains aside to see. There is no spirit this night, not one that you can see.

Come with me then. Feel your feet hit the braided rug, that rug that has held so many hours of childhood play. Pause as I pause to slip on the one month old blue Adidas, no need for any other clothing, the red striped pajama’s will do. Your mind is my mind, your thoughts my thoughts, no time for lingering. The quiet steps we take together now, down the hallway, past my parent’s room to the left, my younger sisters room to the right. Through the darkened dining room, then the kitchen, the laundry, and into the garage. Finally, the soft squeak of the unlocked backdoor, and into the shadow filled New Mexico night. We are going to find a haunt you and me. Tonight, we will see a ghost.

The clouds have rolled in from the northwest adding acreage to them as they cross the Four Corners Monument, and make their way to darken the skies under which I hide. The three-quarter moon has hidden itself away, gone to sleep in a fluffy band of clouds, a lesson sent to me to follow, which I will not. I stand under the right portico of the white concrete gymnasium, surveying the surrounding darkness, listening. The shadowy wall of the east wing of the Nenahnezad School stands like a sinister barrier not more than sixty feet from where I huddle. It will not be the only foreboding wall I see this night.

The fear resides two inches from my heart. It makes its way down my spine, sending out goosebumps, and making me want to pee. My head tells me I should not be here, my heart will refuse to beat if I am not. I wish Jason were here, the younger Hardy is needed on this sleuthing mission into the unknown. The darkness closes in around me, the concrete blocks of the Nenahnezad gym, feel cold against my side, almost as if it were February instead of late May. I listen carefully, awaiting a sinister sound, a light footstep. I push myself deeper into the shadow of the concrete gym entrance, and look out into the night. Someone or something is coming from the darkness of the school, running right towards me.

Wednesday, May 24,1972, 2:16 A.M.

The ghost comes out of the shadows, running, the eyes hidden behind paint, the shield made of skin held low, the lance with its feathers raised high. My heart has gone from beating to silence, an apparition beneath my young “Hardy” skin. I try not to breath, backing my way into the northeast corner of the concrete bricked entryway. The phantom stops some fifteen feet from where I huddle. It holds its lance above its head, and sniffs the air. I can feel it, smelling me, seeing me. It rotates its head, ninety degrees looking to the south, towards the girl’s dormitory, and points beyond. The sound of machinery moving, comes from beyond the dorm, where the fort stands. The sudden noise appears to startle the ghost. Suddenly it no longer seems interested in me. I hear it let out a chilling yell, and it is off and running again moving south toward the fort.

Perhaps it’s the loss of oxygen to my eleven-year-old brain, some might say it is the spirit of the “Hardy Boy” in me, or the lack of common sense. Still, it matters not, for I am off and running, through the darkness, chasing the phantom. My striped pajama’s that will smell faintly of leaked urine and boyhood nervous perspiration on the morrow, cling to me. A faint breeze has turned the corner from the northwest and headed back again. It gathers the vapors off nearby Morgan Lake lifting my matted hair, sending a chill down my spine. I have lost sight of the ghost, but the bright lights from inside the looming walls of the fort are what gather my present attention. I take a moment to catch my breath, leaning against the southeast corner of the girls dormitory. I try to blend in with the shadows thrown my way by a large Cottonwood tree that stands but ten feet away from my position.

The fort is ablaze with light, a crane stands twenty feet in height inside the wall, its massive arm moving slowing from right to left and then back again. I move closer to the alley that divides the campus from the fort, taking care to make sure I don’t fall into the perimeter of light that is being cast around the wall. Near the only entrance to the fort, a large dump truck larger than I have ever seen before sits. To either side of it sits an armored tank, no doubt the same ones that arrived the previous Sunday. Two men with white helmets on, are leaning against the front of the dump truck talking. I can see that both are smoking. The thought occurs to me briefly, that this might be what brings about our own nuclear demise, if Mr. Hogden is right, about what’s inside the fort. I’m sure even you my reader would agree that these weren’t the brightest men on the planet.

I start to head closer to get a better gander of the monster sized dump trunk and tanks, when I catch movement out of my left eye. I see the ghost down by the northeast corner of the fort. It’s bent over, doing something with its hand on the ground, the feathers on its head blowing up in the breeze, leaving shadows on the fort wall. I slink back into the shadow cast by the girl’s dormitory to watch it, keeping a wary eye out for the white helmets to my near right. The specter keeps digging into something around its waist, and sprinkling it on the ground. The ghost seems oblivious to the men standing not more than two hundred feet away from where it stoops. I’m turning to see what’s up with the white helmets, when there is an explosion from inside the fort plunging the entire area into darkness.

Wednesday, May 24,1972, 2:38 A.M.

It’s not easy for a common eleven-year-old boy to deduce that a high wattage series of lights have blown a fuse, but then again by this point, I’m sure most in their wisdom, have gathered there was nothing common about me. Deduction takes place almost instantly. Out of one eye I watch the white helmets run into each other in the darkness, their cigarette ash still burning, falling like kamikaze fire flies to the ground. My left eye turns slightly to the southeast. I watch as the ghost leaps into the air, and disappears around the corner of the fort. I can feel my heart trying to release itself from my young chest. Overhead the clouds have parted releasing the three-quarter moon, which cast a pale path across the gravel alley way, to the corner where the ghost had knelt. A soft plume of mist rises there from the ground.

The decision to investigate is done with Jason’s voice echoing in my head. “The “Hardy Boy Detective Handbook” says to gather clues, the Jason voice says. My Adidas make soft crunching noises stirring the gravel and sand of the road as I run under the moonlight. In the background men are shouting about lights, heat and waste barrels. Nothing to do with me.

I reach the corner of the fort, and at first I don’t see it, but then it’s there, in front of me, the sand painting, the phantoms art work, the coolness of the New Mexico morning air misting up from the colored sand. I stare hard at it for a moment, a dawning mixture of confusion and knowledge mixing in my mind. It is the same painting as hangs in Mr. Hogden’s office. I turn and run as fast as my Adidas will carry me home.

Part Two – To the Ends of the World

Wednesday, May 24, 1972

Time and tide waits for no man” wrote somebody someplace, maybe before time even began. It certainly held true for the events taking place around Kirtland, New Mexico in the late spring of 1972. Jason and I had two days to don the mantels of Frank and Joe Hardy to form a plan on how to solve our own Haunted Fort mystery.

My bleary eyed breathless report to Jason, of the Wednesday morning ghost events at Nenahnezad had sent him into a frothy excited spell, like I had never witnessed before. “I should have been there, I should have been there”, he kept repeating, his blond hair shaking loose from the tight wave at the front of his head. Taking his dark framed glasses off, he had messed with the tape on the right arm unwinding it, and then tightening it back up again. “This is big, really big”, he said. I could do nothing more than nod my head up and down in agreement. Jason and I had talked many times about being the Hardy Boys and solving a mystery, but that was pretend, this was real. “Big”, Jason repeated, as I kept nodding my head. “We need a good plan”, Jason had said, and I had agreed. “you need to stay inside tonight”, Jason had gone on to say. I knew he was concerned about me being out alone with the ghost. I also had detected a wee bit of jealousy in his tenor. I couldn’t say I blamed him though. This was real sleuthing, and it needed team effort. “Are you sure it was “Hogdens” sand painting,”, Jason asked? “Umhmm”, I nodded my head, “just like it””. “Jeeze and Beelzebub”, Jason ‘s head was bobbin up and down like it might come off, “this is so big”.

“I reread “The Haunted Fort”, last night while you were galivanting around chasing the ghost”, Jason said. It was the afternoon recess, a sunny spring day, and we both had our backs up against the brick gym wall. His voice carried a hint of sarcasm, but I also knew he had discovered something in his read. His blue eyes had lit up, and had a sparkle of knowledge to them. “And”, I said, in my exasperated voice, motioning with my right hand for him to spill the beans. Jason had sat there for a few seconds almost as if waiting on the recess bell to spoil it for me, and finally he let loose, with one word! “Tunnels“, he said. “How so”, I asked? “It’s simple”, he said, “there were infiltration tunnels into Fort Senandaga , that’s how Frank and Joe figured the crooks were getting into the fort”. “I bet there is a tunnel somewhere into this one too”. Jason had snorted at the end of his theory, almost as if his guess were fact.

I wasn’t so sure. Even though I hadn’t spent a whole lot of my days at the fort, I didn’t recall seeing any sign of a tunnel anywhere. Jason seemed sure though, and I figured that even if there wasn’t a tunnel, we might be able to find a way to dig one. It would have to be somewhere on the back side of the barrier, away from all the lights I had seen the night before.

We were going to have two nights to try and solve the mystery of the fort, that was, if we weren’t caught by my parent’s, or the ghost, or the guys in white helmets. We were confident in our sleuthing abilities however, and it was a big case. We didn’t want the world blowing up before we had a chance to solve it.

Jason’s mom had agreed to the Thursday birthday party, and sleepover for two nights, but it had taken a heap amount of lying from my young friend. “She was going to call your mom, to ask her what kind of present I should bring”, Jason’s eyes had a mischievous look to them. “How did you stop her”, I’d asked him? “I told her you wanted “The Secret Panel” Jason said. “I already have the secret….” I had stopped, Jason was grinning real big. “I know”, he said, “I don’t”!

Thursday Evening, May 25, 1972

So here we are! There’s bound to be some grumbling, from a reader somewhere, about how I skipped all of Wednesday night, and most of Thursday in this tale. The truth is I thought about it, maybe adding something in here that didn’t really occur. But as it is, there is so much that has happened, and so much about to transpire, it doesn’t make sense to waste time making up filler. Wednesday night I slept, without hearing a peep. Of course, I had been up pretty much, the previous three nights, so I was due some rest. Thursday had been a day of recess planning in the “Mystery Spot”, with winks and secret nods, the drawing of the fort on paper, with plans on what parts to add, what parts to take away.

And then it had arrived, the final bell, and the boarding of the bus. Jason carrying his white pillow case, stuffed with his pajamas, and underwear for the next day, and a wrapped “Hardy Boy” book, that would soon become his own, only if we were not discovered.

The two-point two-mile trip down the Old Kirtland Highway, toward Nenahnezad, was made in somber silence. I looked over at Jason. His face was pressed against the window of the bus, looking out toward the southeast, across a spring green field. I poked him in the ribs, expecting him to jump, but he didn’t. “Hey”, I asked, “what you thinking about”. He had turned around, slowly, it almost looked like he had been crying, but I reckon it was just his springtime allergies. “What if this all gets blown up”, he had asked? “What”? I was incredulous. “You know, blown up, like with all that nuclear waste stuff”. “What if some idiot, like those white helmet nut cases, is smoking, and a match gets tossed when it shouldn’t”? I could see he was serious. The noise in the bus all around us suddenly didn’t seem annoying. The life in the yells, and the laughs seemed valuable. “It’s not going to happen”, I said. Jason had looked at me his blue eyes seeming stronger, hopeful, asking for direction, asking why not? “We are going to stop them”, I said. I was being the older brother. Frank Hardy was making an appearance. “We’re the Hardy Boys”, I said, “the Hardy Boys“!

Dinner at the Swearingen household, had certainly not been fitting of an imaginary birthday. Mom had served up a generous helping of pinto beans, and cornbread, to each of us. Still Jason seemed happy just to be at our table, and upon reflection many years later, I realized that even with pinto beans served these were some of the happiest moments in my family. “When is, your family moving”, my mom had asked Jason? Jason had been prepared, with a more is better reply. He waxed elegant about the bureaucracy of El Paso Gas keeping his family on a roller coaster ride of maybe’s or maybe nots. With a “tsk, tsk”, and “what a shame”, my mother had considered the subject matter closed.

Following dinner, Jason and I had retreated to the backyard to survey, our operating grounds, and to make our final plans. A stiff breeze that threatened to turn into a cold wind, had risen out of the north, blowing what few clouds that had been scattered in a lazy union above our heads away. Across the street, the school’s playgrounds appeared desolate with most of the reservation kids, released from the dormitories the previous weekend, to head home to summer sheep camps, and family duties.

“I don’t hear anything”, Jason said, pointing over the top of the cottonwood across the street and in the direction of the fort. “They always seem to start making noise at night”, I told him. “I heard my parent’s talking about it, and my dad said, Mr. Benally told him, their doing wicked work at night so nobody knows, what their up too”. I finished my statement looking across the street toward the corner of the school. The School jutted out in two wings, toward the street, with teachers parking their vehicles up between the east and west annexes. Somebody was standing in the shadows by the end of the west building watching us.

I nudge Jason, pointing with my lips, Navajo style toward the dark figure observing us. As Jason turns to look, the shadows fall off the top of the building and the figure moves into the last droplets of day, making a sharp turn around the north end of the building, disappearing into the dusk. “Who was that”, Jason ask? “That Mr. Joe Hardy was “that Hoskie boy”, I reply, doing my best to not sound unnerved. Yes sir, something had looked different about Mr. Hoskie. One might say he had the appearance of being up to something. It remained to be seen whether that something was good or bad.

Thursday, May 25,1972, 11:20 P.M.

Across the school grounds erupts the thick sounds of heavy machines moving. The rustling sound is in my dream, before I realize I am awake. Jason lays next to me, his left arm up over the top of my head, his hand in a position checking me for a nonexistent fever. His breathing is heavy with unwanted sleep. My brother Tim has dutifully gone to the top bunk in my sister’s bedroom in honor of my visiting guest. The rustling sound is close, almost too close. “Wake up Jason”, I’m ssshing my voice pushing Jason’s arm off my head. He stirs for a moment looking like he might not respond, and then, “WHAAA” his eyelids pop open, and he’s sitting up in the bed, causing the well-used springs to complain. “SHOOSH, ya dummy”, I whisper, feeling instantly appalled that I have said dummy to my best friend. “What is that noise”? Jason’s voice is low now, stealthy, where it should be tone wise. “It’s the ghost”, I whisper, “he’s in the field”. Jason’s eyes are the size of silver dollars, I can see them gleaming in the darkness.

I motion him to tread easy on the squeaky springs of the bed, as we climb together up on the bookcase headboard, and pull the “Cowboy and Indian” curtains aside.

The waxing gibbous, at 94% shines across the expanse of the northern sky, dropping and dancing, picking up the purple clover of the alfalfa field, in its springtime majesty. The strong breeze from earlier in the evening has retreated once again, to a mild draft, shifting the plants of the field ever so slightly to the west. The yeibichai ghost rises from the earth, no more than twenty feet away from my bedroom window, its white face grimaced, its eyes closed as if in prayer, a spear with feathers dangling from it raised towards the heavens. “Holy moly batman and robin”. Jason squeezes out the phrase under his breath, in a tone that competes with silence. Looking down, I see Jason’s hand cradling my left elbow in a vice lock grip. “Yup”, I whisper out, afraid to say more. “Let’s go talk to him”, Jason whispers. He’s in his Joe Hardy mode, ready to go. “Are you nu…”, I start to say when the phantom opens his eyes and looks right at us.

The moment is frozen in my mind, no doubt until the day that I leave this world. The path between my bedroom window panes, across twenty feet of space into the eyes of the mystic. That instant was to be one of the few moments that Jason, and I were never to discuss, and I have often wondered if he saw what I did.

The moon, was a sand painting in those eyes, rotating, beckoning, pleading. Jason’s face reflected in the right eye, my own in the left, and as the chills, shot up and down my eleven-year-old back, as the ghost beckoned with its spear and ran toward the east, disappearing out of our sight.

Thursday, May 25,1972, 11:40 P.M.

The journey through our darkened house had not been without some mishaps, after all Jason had not had the practice of navigating the darkened path throughout as I had. His right foot contacting with the metal leg of the dining room table had brought forth a sudden yell, that had stilled both of us in the darkness for several minutes. Good fortune was smiling however, there had been nothing but snores emitting from my parent’s open bedroom door.

Our exit through the backdoor of the house without being caught, had brought forth much relief from both of us. We stumbled across the backyard heading for the cattleguard, our eyes full of fear, and excitement looking for anyplace along the backyard fence that the ghost might be laying in wait. The light breeze, from the east surrounds my lightweight red stripped pajamas, lifting the bottoms sending a cool chill up my young legs. The moon sinks to the earth shifting shadows that perhaps should not be seen, never the less they are seen.

I look over at Jason, his lightweight blonde hair shifting in the breeze. “He’s probably headed towards the fort already”, my voice sounds loud in the empty air, as if in competition to be heard with the sounds of machinery coming from the fort. “Then that’s where we should go”, Jason’s voice rings out across the road, echoing, making me wince. The younger Hardy is ready though, and with a wave of his hand to follow, he is off, with his older brother Frank in hot pursuit.

Thursday, May 25, 1972, 11:46 P.M.

We take the longer route to the fort, heading south past the Blount’s house to the east, with the looming darkened, concrete gymnasium on our right. To the southeast of us looms the black mesa Burnham, a subject matter for another story in another time. Our steps leave the pavement and take to the dirt road the noise from our feet now hidden by the sounds of machinery in action coming from the nearby fort. We huddle to the right side of the road where the shadows from the now distant gym, hide our small frames from the light of the moon. The lights from the interior of the fort dance around picking up spots near us, as we near the northeast corner of the perimeter.

I grab Jason’s arm and point. “That’s where I saw the ghost making the sand painting”, my whisper seems louder than it should be. He doesn’t seem to notice nodding his head in a brusque business like way. This night the ghost is not present. In the distance, somewhere inside the perimeter of the fort a man is talking loud, giving directions, measurements it sounds like. I pull Jason over against an old rock utility building that corners the road we are on, and the alley leading down past the fort. “We should go see the sand painting, I whisper. His eyes light up, reflecting the moon that has changed its alignment in the sky. “Sure”, he whispers back, “and then we need to see how we can tunnel inside that thing”. He points at the wall so close to where we are. I feel a chill go up my spine. The picture of the stage set up inside the Grace B. Wilson Elementary Gymnasium, and Mr. Hogden pinning medals on our sleeves, runs through my mind for a moment. I look over at Jason. His eyes look a little distant too.

We run across the road, small shadows dancing between moon beams and spotlights, zig zagging for all intents, replicas of “Hogan Heroes“, escaping a POW camp in long ago Germany. I hold my breath the entire way. Out of the corner of my eye I see the tanks and large dump truck stationary at the entrance to the fort. The white helmets are slouched against the front of the truck, appearing to not have moved since I saw them last.

The light from the moon picks up the edges of the sand painting, which has known some wear since I visited it early Wednesday morning. The wind has reorganized and distorted much of it, but Jason can still pick up that it is the same as what hangs behind Mr. Hogden’s desk. “Whoa”, I hear him breath in. “Yeh, whoa”, I agree. We stand there ducking the lights shooting over the side of the fortress wall staring at something we can’t quiet comprehend, and I suppose no one would blame us for not noticing the two white helmets walking down the road our way.

Friday, May 26, 1972, 12:04 A.M.

The heavy hand descends upon my shoulder, I’m sure these many years later, my reader you can see it, anticipate it, moving downward quickly, not gently, causing me to scream. Jason yells too. The voices are deep, that hold us, the acrid aroma, of heavy cigarette usage invades my nostrils, and somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, I pummel myself that the “Hardy Boys” have allowed themselves to be captured.

There is a common bond between boys, that resides deep, at least it did in 1972. The moral code of silence, of righteous indignation when trapped. The lassoing of the hearts together, in the eternal flame of brotherhood, that does not emit a sound when captured. And so, it is, Jason and I are dragged, resisting without a sound, toward the gate of the fort. I look up and above, the unshaven face of my white helmeted capturer. The moon appears to be laughing, no friend to boys in trouble and need. Our captors, do not use tender hands with us, and I regret to say to you my reader, their language and descriptors they used of our boyhood personhood, cannot be repeated here.

As we are hauled through the open chain link gate of the fort, I see Jason pushing his lips out signaling, gathering my attention to look west, beyond the tailgate of the large dump truck, beyond the armored tank.

It stands there silent in the dark line of trees, just to back west wing of the girl’s dorm, its eyes now wide open, with no expression upon its face. The ghost is watching us.

Friday, May 26, 1972, 12:20 A.M.

The white helmets march us inside the gates and into a little building that adjoins the concrete wall immediately to the west of the entrance to the fort. Jason and I in our sketch of the fort in previous days had labeled the small building the “Captains Quarters“. It was turning out that we were not too far off in our schematic interpretation. Inside the small concrete room is sparsely furnished, with a steel dented desk, a wooden chair behind it, and three more wooden chairs sitting in one darkened corner of the little room. The desk holds one coffee mug, two U.S. Government black pens atop a scattered mess of papers. I am familiar with the pens having seen my dad abscond many a one from the school, to our home. From a single open window to the east of the room runs an orange chord, up over a hook in the ceiling. From it, is attached a single high wattage light bulb, that seems to dim every few seconds.

Our white helmeted captors which we had learned from our stout journey into the fort are named Gerald and Skeeter. The names seemed appropriate, as our captors exhibit the type of swarthy behavior a “Hardy Boy” might expect from a common criminal known by such “Christian names”. Skeeter who smells like the inside of a used cigarette, pushes me into one of the chairs, in the corner. Gerald grabs another chair scooting it across the room near the desk with his foot, and then proceeds to roughly push Jason into it. Jason’s eyes are wide, the sclera almost swallowing his deep blue irises. His cheeks are crimson. He holds his top lip in with his bottom and I am sure that he is close to tears. It never occurs to me that he is just angry for getting caught.

“Look boys”, Skeeter says, the lower right part of his mouth dragging out in a low Texas sound. “You boys were passing on government soil, and you need to tell us where you live so we can get you home, and get your parents involved”. Skeeter finishes his sentence with a look of self-satisfaction on his face. Gerald’s standing there, looking stern, but it’s almost as if there’s a grin going on somewhere behind his face. It’s almost as if he knows Skeeter is spinning in his own grease.

Jason is looking at me, he’s has both of his hands folded up to his face, almost as if he’s getting ready to pray. His cheeks have lightened some. I watch as he intertwines his fingers leaving his index digits meeting his lips. It is our secret “Hardy Boy” signal not to say a word.

Skeeter apparently, sees the signal too. He clears his throat, his face a little on the red side as well. Gerald has retreated over by the door, apparently enjoying watching Skeeter step up his game. “Look boy’s, this time the man’s voice is a little louder and up an octave. “I’m more than happy to wake up our supervisor to call the sheriff, if that’s what you wa….”.

The high-pitched scream, comes through the open window, from somewhere in the interior of the fort, it is followed by an explosion, and then darkness.

Friday, May 26, 1972, 12:38 A.M.

Bureaucracy reacts to any surprise in an irrational way. This is because bureaucracy is rooted in paranoia, and that paranoia is based on the fear of the loss of control. Skeeter and Gerald had reacted to the scream, explosion and ensuing darkness, like Barney Fife and Gomer Pyle when they visited a haunted mansion. Gerald had let out a scream of his own, followed by Skeeter stumbling over the empty chair next to me, and letting out a strong line of verbiage not suitable for this tale. The two men managed to make it to the door in the darkness. The moonlight poured through the open door, and for one moment I saw Skeeter’s grizzled face looking back into the darkness of the room. “You boys stay here, we have to go check the barrels”. Skeeter’s voice sounded worried, maybe a little scared, and then the door was closed, and Jason and I were in darkness.

Two young boys ages ten and eleven, knew that once again, the amperes supplying power to the lights inside the fort had far surpassed their voltage limitations, and at least one fuse if not many had been blown. This however did not account for the scream, unless someone somewhere had been electrocuted. This truth be known, is what interested us both the most. We both rushed to the open window, at the same time looking out across the moonlit yard to grasp what horror we might see.

It is here dear reader, I interrupt once again to describe the scene, if only as a cathartic way of stilling my own heavily beating heart, after all these years. Across the fort interior the darkness swam, interrupted only by beams from the dancing moon so far above. The strong aroma of something electrical and hot filtered through the air. On the eastern side of the perimeter near another small concrete structure four men were gathered in a semi-circle, the light from the moon dancing off their white helmets. Their voices carried through the air, unintelligible chatter mixed with an occasional understandable curse word. I was sure I heard Skeeter. Suddenly I felt Jason grabbing my arm, “Look over there”, he whispered, his voice sounding horse and low. I followed Jason’s pajama clad arm, out the open window, his pointer leading a direct line across the moonlit yard to the south where another larger concrete building stood, and there my friends I saw the ghost.

The yeibichai phantom is bent over busily waving its arms above the ground, even from where we stand we can see the sand falling from both of its hands. “It’s painting again”, I hiss in Jason’s ear. Jason backs away a little annoyed by the loudness of my voice. “Yeh”, he says trying a lower tone than me, “I don’t think those buffoons see it”. “Do you think it was the ghost that screamed”, I ask? I’m trying to get my voice even lower. “Yeh”, Jason says, “it’s given us a chance to escape, we better get out of here, but first I want to see what’s in that building over there”.

To tell the truth, I had forgotten about being on that stage at Grace B. Wilson Elementary School, and having Mr. Hogden give the hero speech and pin the medals on us. Escape to my nice bed, had been more on my mind, but after all we had been through, the Hardy Boy in me was going to win out. I knew it, and my younger brother Joe Hardy standing right next to me in his pajamas knew it too. I knew Jason was right, it was time for us to go, but before we did we had to see what was going on in the building by the ghost. We just had to figure out how to get there, and then out of the fort without being seen.

“Look, it’s on the move”, Jason’s voice is much louder with excitement, he’s grabbing my arm again, making me shake it away from him. The phantom’s feathers are blowing in the breeze, as it glides around the edge of the building and behind the crane. Finally, we can see its shadow, over toward the southeast corner of the fort, where several large trucks are parked. The white helmets are still embroiled in conversation, when another scream rents through the air, causing all four men to fall to the ground, as if they have been mowed down. I’m already, opening the door, this time grabbing Jason by the arm, and we are on our way. It is time to solve a mystery.

Friday, May 26, 1972, 12:57 A.M.

I look up one time as we run across open ground toward the darkened gray building. The moon seems to have swallowed the sky, it’s beam leading Jason and I on a well-lit path. We run together bent over, expecting any moment to feel rough hands grabbing our shoulders, or worse yet to hear a gunshot, followed by immeasurable pain. Somewhere to the back of us near the gate, I hear Skeeter’s voice ordering men to search outside the wall for the intruder. That’s good, nobody is thinking about us. Jason reaches the west side of the building ahead of me disappearing into its shadow near a darkened window, and a long tractor blade that leans against the concrete wall. He’s pointing at the sign attached to the wall just above his head, as I arrive. Jason’s eyes are wide, looking as if they might rupture at any moment, giving us some different direction to go with our concerns this night. I look at the sign. It reads, “Danger Radioactive Materials“!

Friday, May 26, 1972, 1:05 A.M.

“Let’s go” is all Jason says, pulling my arm, and we are around the corner of the building, with the moon casting our shadows upon the north face of the concrete wall. The large wooden door has a metal latch that I fully expect not to open when Jason handles it, but it does. We enter without thought or looking back, oblivious to the sounds from behind us, that signal, our escape has been noticed. We enter a dim lit room, light filtering through, a rectangular hole on the east side of a cavernous cold chamber. An acrid odor hits us both at the same time, backing us up against the wooden door behind us. “What in the Jeeze and Beelzebub is that smell”, Jason spits the words out of his mouth, the words echoing in the cavernous space. “Over there”, I’m holding my nose and mouth, my words sounding muffled. Cold chills are running up and down my spine, my pajama’s feel cold and damp. Before us, stacked to the ceiling, row after row of barrels covered in black and yellow fluorescent paint sit. A rope divides them from the rest of the room. Midway across the rope stands a sign, even with the small print the words burn through the air, and sting our eyes, we recognize the words radioactive materials.

It occurs to me that Jason and I might have overstepped our boundaries. The shadowy smelly room is like a tomb, perhaps only interrupted by the closing sounds of adult voices seeping from the outside down through the hole in the ceiling, where a crane has been used to lower many a barrel of poison into this room. I look over at Jason, expecting to see fear, a good shiver at the very least, but he is looking onward. Toward the west side of the room. His blue eyes are bright. They hold the candle of investigative curiosity, that has always drawn me to him. “Over there”, he whispers, grabbing my arm for the umpteenth time this night. “Over there”, he repeats, although I already see it, oh yes indeed I see it. The yawning chasm by the west wall, toward the floor, broken concrete scattered all around, and what looks like stairs leading downward into the abyss of the earth.

Close, so near us, footsteps fall, voices, dangerous voices, Skeeter and Gerald’s voices, right outside the door. I can smell them, the stagnant aroma of cigarette smell, drifting under the heavy wooden door. I am sure you can understand my readers. It is instinct, not fear, that drives two young boys now. For once, I am dragging Jason, holding his damp pajama clad left arm into the hole, down the smooth steps into the cold earth, into the dimness. Somewhere as the steps go deeper, I hear the soft whisper, whether it be Jason or a ghost I know not. “To the ends of the world, we go, to the ends of the world”.

Friday, May 26, 1972, 1:22 A.M.

The sand on the floor kicks upwards with each step, in a never-ending series of steps in semi darkness. At first I lead the way holding Jason’s hand, and then he returns the favor holding mine. It is a concrete tunnel of behemoth proportions. Tubular blurred lights appear to our left embedded in the sand, and to our right barrel after barrel of nuclear waste. Somewhere in a faraway distance, no doubt in the room, we have descended from, frantic voices echo of men searching, no doubt for us. “Do you think Hogden was right”? Jason’s voice is a soft whisper, almost a broken sound, but still, yes still a reverberation of curiosity. I think about it as we step on. I know what he means. Was the principal correct in telling us to leave well enough alone. To mind our own P’s & Q’s. What have we accomplished? What mystery have we solved? The questions of course is too deep for an eleven-year-old to contemplate. Jason’s question deserves an answer though, as the ground begins to elevate upwards, as the walls narrow, and the sound of something very large and moving, begins to grow in the upcoming opening where it is suddenly very light. “I think he was not”, I say, as we near our next threshold of mystery. Jason looks back at me as we step into the ends of the world. “Yup” he says his dirt and sweat streaked face grinning, “yup”!

Friday, May 26, 1972, 1:38 A.M.

The tunnel ends suddenly, and without fanfare. Jason and I find ourselves standing in a large rectangular dirt filled room. The ground looks disheveled, uneven, as if large worms have been burrowing throughout the length of the building. I am to guess that we are in the west building that lines the barrier of the west wall of the fort. The sound of a large motor running reverberates off the concrete walls, threatening to shake the very foundations of the structure to the ground, the lights from the large yellow dump truck light up the interior of the building, revealing us. From behind us in the tunnel too close for comfort, we hear men’s voices. I look over at Jason and realize he is looking at me for guidance. It should be this way I suppose, after all I am the older brother. Frank Hardy is the deliberative one, the one who needs to have a plan to escape danger.

I wipe my face on my red striped pajama sleeve. The cloth carries the aroma of sweat and the earth, and a distant pungent smell of something unpleasant, like death, or what an eleven-year-old adventurer perceives the smell of death to be. Something catches my eye as I raise my face. The yeibichai ghost is no more than ten yards to the south of where we stand. Its face a mask in the shadows, almost transparent. The lights from the dump truck seem to pass it by, not able to pick up the spirit from another world. It is at this instant my dear reader, the most surprising thing happens, a moment that will perhaps always be with me.


Friday, May 26, 1972, 1:46 A.M.

“Danny, this way” the ghost yells, it’s voice bouncing off the concrete walls, softer than the dump truck’s engine, familiar in tone, yet different from the personality I would link it with. Jason jumps, as if he has been given a hot foot, twisting to look at what I see. “What the…”? Jason’s voice sounds as if a frog has entered his larynx. “Boy’s this way”, the ghost interrupts, beckoning us, toward the shadows, it’s feathers shaking. And then it disappears, into a dark opening in the concrete wall as if it was never there at all.

“Come on Joe”, Jason’s alias name is out of my mouth without thinking. We run without pause, hearing our would-be captors exiting the tunnel behind, where we had been but seconds before. Their attention toward the truck and its lights, and then turning toward us, their shouts of recognition trailing us, as we enter the dark opening to another small room, and a concrete wall before us. In the gloom, it would appear we are trapped.

“Oh man, oh man”, I hear Jason, sobbing, stumbling across the small space to the opposite wall. I am there with him, perhaps my sobs louder, my eyes more frantic. The voices, outside are closer. Skeeter’s voice, Geralds voice!

Jason is the first to fall into the hole, the indention in the earth on the south side of the room, that holds a shovel in it. His sudden cry of surprise, is followed by my own, as he pulls me in to follow him. The earth swallowing us.

Such a small hole though. One that has been dug perhaps only earlier this day under the south wall of the fort. Perhaps for the aluminum utility lines that run through it. Another tunnel, a smaller tunnel. One narrow enough to hold a young boy or two, to risk crawling through. Perhaps my reader even a lithe phantom could maneuver such a small opening. It is well that we do not see hands reaching for our feet out of reach, or hear the cries of rage of the hunters losing their prey.

The stars were in their place, the moon having retreated to a more distant place in the sky over Nenahnezad, as Jason and I exited the small tunnel to the south side of the fort wall to freedom. The ghost was there too, beckoning, talking, describing as “That Hoskie Boy” was known to do. Leading us on a wide berth of escape around the school compound, home.

Epilogue

Some years back I found a map of the fort, that Jason and I had drawn. The drawing was done some weeks after our perilous night of adventure spent there. The world has changed so much since those days. Mankind has grown more self-consumed, haughty and seemly ignorant of the hidden fire, that resides among us. Water and food supplies are often at risk from radioactive waste, that this government would not tell you of. The earth can heal itself, but sometimes it needs a little assistance. That help can come in the form of a spiritual duty, a signal, a sand painting and prayer. It can come in citizens doing their due diligence to protest, to investigate and to litigate, and in civil disobedience. It can come in letters from our children, taking a social stance on what is right for their future. All great things have a cause and effect, and nuclear energy is a great thing.

The trucks with their hazardous cargo left Nenahnezad in late August of 1972. Their departure was based upon the resistance of a small community, a yeibichai ghost, and two young witnesses, that BLM security never did find. No doubt a vestige of their young faces is scribbled upon an old and faded wanted poster to this day. Like all great adventures this one is not entirely imagined. The characters are for the most part real, as are the places. Some drama is real, some entirely imagined. I leave it up to you to decide which you would rather believe. Jason and I will be back soon. – 03.11.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Hardy Boy Characters, and Title “The Haunted Fort” All Rights – Grosset & Dunlap


Tatters


“Overhead the clouds cloaked the sky; a ragged cloak it was, and, here and there, a star shone through a hole, to be obscured almost instantly as more cloud tatters were hurled across the rent”. – Joseph C Lincoln

The tatters take me below the bow, the dip where there’s no time, a place where weights fall, in what could be a loss of mind. The genus it hides inside of me, and ask for six quarter time, something different, then this melodic rhyme. And pictures they paint a lesson, that’s already learned inside, so I cry, again waste this time, why waste this time. The tatters are made of fragile folds, inside this house, with pulled curtains, that stay always closed. And though teachers told me about ABC’s, they never taught me about me, inside, let the rage fall where light can’t see, the scars I will wear in wasted time, such wasted time.

A voice said the mountains fall into the sea’s, and somewhere, the great “I Am” lays down, and no longer beckons to that great celestial reef. Could I be different, maybe tomorrow, but right here and now, I am tatters, and that my reader shames me, in loss it shames me. I never wish a doubter to walk beyond these trees, to take to these dungeons, the ones with chains of inversed belief. All the same they still come, it seems invisible they chant, and how they tease. Can’t you mend those tatters on your own, bring the truth, to your belief, stop all this wasted time, this terrible wasted time.

I went to the garden, beyond the hedgerow, I ran to find the life filled tree. Lost so much weight, drank myself to the toast of life’s jubilee. Patched my clothes when they got old, hid the tatters with what I was told. Still at times their still here, useless without skill, they drag me deep. And here in the crevice, where dark angels no longer have wings. I look up, without a tear left in my eye, tatters inside of me, and it’s a waste of time, a terrible waste of time.

Here in my tatters, I place it all within reach, and if I could tell you, if it were known, by the lack of organization inside of me. There would come a time, maybe tomorrow, where I will be clothed, and there would not be wasted time.

350 million people worldwide suffer from depression. Per the World Health Organization (WHO) It is a leading cause of disability. – 02.28.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Cave


When your hiding underground, the rain can’t get you wet.

But do you think your righteousness could pay the interest on your debt?

I have my doubts about it. – Arcade Fire

I was young and I also aged, and spent my time surveying in a modern cave, while money was flowing all around, I spent my time underground. For seven by seven and seven years on I been searching these caverns of mystery till dawn. I’m no David with stars all around, except maybe those six points I think that I’ve found, the talking spirits of G_Ds underground, the ones that come out when your down. Immune from the dungeons that would frighten most so, not this explorer who followed his goals, led by fluorite, iridescent my soul, discoveries made without reading a scroll, the rumble of change is so near. Underground!

Such corridors of darkness, and rancor and gloom, hiding from somewhere to get somewhere soon, a circle still walking, hiding and damp, still all the mystery’s, the unpaid debt, a covers a cover when your enemy’s not around. Oh Adonai, can’t I stay underground. I stride to go deeper in mind here I go, still above me there’s chatter where life it still grows, the walls of these caverns shows mysteries of man, a sign of a doctrine, I need to understand. Underground!

It could be my faith wasn’t developed at all, or maybe the interest was what I saw on those cavern walls. It could be a stranger that passed in the night, when I was a boy sleeping oh so light, by destiny’s doorstep where magic lies, the Lord of compassion took me by different rites. He whispered such secrets, the cave knew such light, everything happened without much a fight. I was born to the tribe by the moon, Shekinah she showed me the way from the womb, Ma’arat HaMachpelah the immortals tomb, there I cried, in judgments eyes. And then I found my way out to the sun, to the sun. From underground! – 02.21.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

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