Roadside Souls

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

Somewhere in Colorado on U.S. 50

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


At 25 (Seraphim)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lost Prayer of Billy Jack

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

Jean: Dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunrise with Georgia (de Chaco)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tree Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

The Bluecoats (Evermore)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Veni in fletu

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

January (Silence)

Grant Wood – January

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


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


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


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


01.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Adeste Melancholia

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Invictus 1896

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snowman (Cameron Pass)

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Neighbor the Shaman

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

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

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

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

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

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

My neighbor is a Shaman! – 12.02.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Los Angeles Redux

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daniel and the Old Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Covenant (Safe and Sound)

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

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

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

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

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

For My beautiful son who fulfills the covenant!


3 days past-

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

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

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

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

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

The Harrowing of Hattie Killabrew

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Winnie met Jack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Pictures Go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Los Angeles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post Script

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

Our Image

All rights to art Dawid Planeta

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

Who are you?

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

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

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

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

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

Who are you? – 09.25.2017

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

2:10 A.M.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Heaven’s Gate (Surround Me)

The Acts of one!

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

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

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

Secret Things (The Embrace)

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

Secret things,

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

Secret things,

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

Secret things,

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

Secret things!

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


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

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

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

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

The Child you used to Know (Dragons)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the Hours

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

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

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

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

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

The Fisher King (Gratitude)

Be still, so still, the spirit says to me, the Fisher King need not speak, but oh how you will weep, in lessons learned you will weep.

The Fisher King, the last in line, set upon the pale. A gloom it comes, a devils wound, this way it fly’s as well. the angels how they failed. Fish on, fish on, your heart may it break, let nothing conceal your pain. Instead be thankful for this tender day. For one who test you, your mettle known, has given you the field to play. Then play it well. Play it well.

The Fisher King, he’s covered in ashes, buried in places, that no dream can ever come to be believed. This distance it’s covered not in words, a broken place. Spirit and ghost, it be. Here beneath a crooked tree. And all this brings us to the place, a weeping shadowed well. Where a broken pride, turns to the torn sepia sky, that my friend which holds your key in spite. And it screams till the daemons cannot keep their peace, yells to the yellow sun. Falling like Gabriel fell, crying to the holy mystery. My G_D, my G_D, how dust thou find me. In a place where no one sees. The flames licking my destiny, destroying this lame effigy. My Adonai, the malice once planned, in my secret places, dusted clean, burning with the things I need. Burning with the things I need.

The Fisher King is lost in adventure, a bend in a river, the moving waters, the waters so deep. One moment a question, the next a frustration, all this for a journey, that isn’t complete. This cup for the dying, not for the living, could be its better, the life we don’t reap. And not in a forest glen, or a hallowed Arthurian chapel then, with crosses and swords or bows of kind. But deep in the bedroom of my mind, I see what’s hard to believe, the Fisher King is me, such a simplicity. And then in gratitude I turn, to climb the lost steps back through the wound, to fly into the sky, moving in magic all boundaries removed. Motionless, beautiful, the sun in my eyes, my lips held together, I kiss the face of my sweet Adonai. In gratitude.

In gratitude! – 07.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


“I always had the repulsive need to be something more than human”. – David Bowie

Isn’t it time, you stopped looking through the eyes, where you can’t see, tore that mask, that hides your beauty, let your love be glam and free!

Upon a night, such as this one, when the dragon came to me. Opened its own mysteries, and it said its time to see. That the way you identify a problem is the issue you can’t see, for the answers in the glitter of what you want to be. All my life I’ve heard voices, from both inside and outside of me. Each with their own hypnotic trances, order and in tranquility, order, based on my consumption of what they would have me be. But tonight, while there is something, that flies backwards across the moon, I will take a small discretion, and my mask will slip into its eternity.

This old world has maps and orders, closet trans genders in board rooms, good people who die for a little money, that prostitutes them to their doom, behind each mask there is a glory, a rhyme that has a truth or two, and now the devils in the details, but my real face is coming through. I say hello Mr. Bolan, Alice Cooper, eyeliner darker than most, Ziggy Stardust up in heaven, whose moves G_D loves the most. Those who say you’re just hiding are the ones who just are never free. Isn’t it time you loved your beauty, fly the dragon, unmask with me.

Ever since I was a little boy there’s been something wanting to escape me. What a joy it was to discover, it was the death mask that I could not see. For the artist that rest upon you is not a candle, a small flame that most can’t see, it’s a wild fire surging, most times uncontrollably. In glam I write a wild fervor, that comes and takes your soul, isn’t it time you came to truth and let yourself go!

Isn’t it time, you stopped looking through the eyes, where you can’t see, tore that mask, that hides your beauty, let your love be glam and free!

For keeping a promise to Mr. Waite, whom I admire his glam the most! – 07.07.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Sing (The Eternal)

Psalms 101: 1 – A Psalm of David. I will sing of mercy and justice unto thee, O Adonai, will I sing praises.  

And under Jacob’s ladder, and upon the eternal I will sing!

From the emptiness of a voided desert place, you bring those notes that most would think insane, and in my death of these old spirits, that which would bring me pain, I sing!  In Deuteronomy’s darkness, in requiting insanity, I sing, better when I lie naked with these things, still you say, unto me let your eternal soul sing!

You have summoned me from the Colorado, from Burlington to Cortez on shades of gray. I am born upon the plains, and everything around me sings, and so I sing. From the depths of my drunkenness I will sing, everything surrounding me can proclaim, yes it can proclaim! Everywhere around me in the prairie to the mountains fill it with your grace, Hashem, you are eternity, you are my madness, you are my light and in your universal confusion, oh ancient of days I sing. A plus and an equal has always been misplaced, for algebra, would teach us, that a proper equation would bring us the answer to all things. For you have subtracted me into the end of days, but still I will sing. For G_D of everything, you have raised me Damien high, to rise above the angels, the son of the morning star, above all darkness I am crossed in lightning, and by your will, oh Adonai I will sing. Death cannot stop me, I will sing. Bones all around me, still Elisha who sets my feast, says in languages so old, oh Daniel sing.  In El your countenance sings!

You have given me a highway that always follows north, to the snow, to the judgment of the long-forgotten kings. And when you gave me leave by your wavering northern lights lace, you instilled within me a rebellion, that says still sing. For you are my creator, not a ghost on a cross, or a savior filled with blood filled things. You are the wind of Pan upon my Hebrew wings, you are not textbook, you are the G_D of my everything. My everything!

So, you raise me like the phoenix, bless my troubles anyway, and I praise you for the trouble, I bring my magic down to sing. And when you raise me from the brokenness, my teeth gritted in pain, I will sing, for you are my everything. My commandment, you are the is, you are blessed beyond my jagged scars, I am your voice, you are my song my Hashem, I will sing. I will sing!

For G_D of everything, you have raised me Damien high, to rise above the angels, the son of the morning star, above all darkness I am crossed in lightning, and by your will, oh Adonai I will sing.

From the emptiness of a voided desert place, you bring those notes that most would think insane, and in my death of these old spirits, that which would bring me pain, I sing! Deuteronomy’s darkness, in requiting insanity, I sing, better when I lie naked with these things, still you say, unto me let your eternal soul sing!

And under Jacob’s ladder, and upon the eternal I will sing! – 07.02.2017 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

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


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


“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


“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


“For I know,

He would not encumber me,

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother!”

The Hollies


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.


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.


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.


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’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