Rain


“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

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Vapours


“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