Whereby Shining

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

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

Whereby shining!

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

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

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

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

Whereby shining! – 12.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל



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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weight

Martina Mcateer – The Dear Weight of Love

“See your star how it shines.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Twisted Trail below Harmony Hill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Hunting Angels

Picture Courtesy Heavy Metal Gallery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoreau’s Shoulder (The Grove)

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

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

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

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

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

Rivers (A Haunting)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vicksburg (Seconds Inside my Head)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Interpretive Badlands

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cornfield (100 Degrees)

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Drop gracefully then or drop not at all.

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

The Great American Gospel

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

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

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

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

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

The Chums of 1924

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Sleeping (1971)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Canyon by Night

Photo courtesy National Park Service Bryce Canyon

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

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

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

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

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

Mahogany Rush

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

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

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

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

When Jimmy Plays

Sometimes a love song is dazed and confused!

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

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

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

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

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

The Angels of the Bottom Land

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

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

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


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

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

“The Moment”

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

“The Moment”

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

The Moment”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

For me and the deals I have struck!

Haunting Hepburn

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

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

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

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

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

The Seventy-Second

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

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

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

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

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

The Ruins by the River

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Witch Master Key

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

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

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

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

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

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

Small Steps in LA

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

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

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

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

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

Round Mountain (Passover 2018)

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Wounded Woman and Crooked Tree

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

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

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

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

The Angels of Gath and Bloody Jack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roadside Souls

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

Somewhere in Colorado on U.S. 50

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At 25 (Seraphim)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lost Prayer of Billy Jack

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

Jean: Dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunrise with Georgia (de Chaco)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tree Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

The Bluecoats (Evermore)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“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