Cellar Door


Cellar door, are you open to find me, Iron ore shields remorse.
When I look, I look to your beautiful name. – Skylar Grey

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you curious without expectation, be you thrilled to be alive, explore the thin veil of the spirit, not the dry bones where they have died. Take your many steps through a tunnel, to see the other side. Know that every dark dream has an ending that ends in the sweet by and by.”

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you not afraid of cellar doors, or what the traits they hide. Many a good man has found that door protection from the tornadoes outside. Be you not of single mindedness of any issue in your life; remember every problem known to us has always had two sides. Be you not for revolutionaries, the one who rebels against the tide. Know that every rebel of the soul is a tyrant who rules his heart with pride.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he led me through a dreamscape world, my fever roaring inside. His large hands moving as he walked down the concrete steps to a cellar door with words inscribed. How I wished I could move closer, how I wished for better light, but alas this dream led mystery, without a clue or special rite. I knew right then that every virus; every blight I knew inside could stand to show me something, even in my darkest night.

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you quicker than your adversary, that devil that comes in light; know that he is part of a commandment to judge you when the day is night. Be you an ever witness to the shadows, the tricks of light, know that Mephistopheles is your left fists action while the good Lord form’s your right. In truth, there are many questions that go beyond this door. Do your best to obtain no answers until you know what the questions are for.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he turned and bent a little bit, his overalls so blue and wide, I thought him but dead just a while ago, but here he seems so much alive. In a dream that held too much fever, at least I could see inside, but still I could not read the inscription on the cellar door, standing before my pappy’s side.

I was nineteen, when I first dreamed of Pappy and the cellar door. Through the years, I have had the same dream many times. The symbols, philosophy and spiritual mysticism and eschatological character of the dream, have never been meaningful to me. To know what is beyond the iron ore door is not necessary to me. However, there is an ever-burning desire to know what is inscribed upon that cellar door. – 06.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

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When Men Read


“Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself, to become what he potentially is.” – Erich Fromm

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said

When men read, they think of miracles in what’s concrete in each word. Not a thought about the whys or what fors between the lines they see no blur. When men read, they see an angel, not a one that has the curves, just a heart that has a calling, that joins her noun to all his verbs. When men read, something dark calls out to them, like a carrion sitting so adorned, they find themselves like Caesar taking Vercingetorix down in a storm. For the words float unto many a man, atop an altar made in mind, a beginning and a continued end until the angels say its time. Take you now from what is your calling, in the reading that sought your eyes, take it now and dwell on thoughts of Emerson, on the metaphysics that you know will rhyme. When men read the devil’s in the details, and that’s where the answer shines, like an oracle that calls up concrete answers, a man charts his course on time.

When men read, they remove the shadows and they use them as a blind. For when a man is hunting, he ingests what he might find. As Plotinus, said upon his return from Persia, “The world is knowable, harmonious and good“. Each man reads this as a calling in any word that breaks his mind. What of the calling you might find. When men read there are no answers, may be a sound, is all that’s near. But somewhere deep inside a man’s consciousness, they look to find a plan in fear. For if they trample most emotion, they leave just one small tear, then from that they raise a mighty reason to understand the life that appears. For a man is all incarnate in the words he reads today. He knows in all the sounds there is a calling, and that calling cannot be delayed. That calling cannot be delayed.

There are so many books of knowledge, placed around and around my head, I lay myself bold and naked as a man who is self-read. For when I think of the calling, the words first read, a shot from a cannon, on Tom Swift’s flying sled. My soul sailing on foreign oceans, awake in the spirit in King Solomon’s best bed. I know I’m reading in numbers, forever alive, a part immortal, a part eternally fed. Internally an investment, a part finally said. Internally an investment, a part finally said. – 5.28.2019-דָנִיֵּאל

Uninspired (A Tragedy)

Photography (all rights) by Mike Dempsey

“The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook”.-William James

We are but dust for what I see, born into life at times a tragedy. With sounds and signals from energy. As above so below in me. When this life has been set free, I will know not this vanity. I will know not this vanity. As I came, so will I leave. Uninspired.

I could write about inside dark hedges, and perhaps someday I shall, I could eek out a verse or two on sly daemons and how my future they foretell. I could take you down hidden staircases to the bottom of my wishing well. Take your hand down naked backsides to the secrets that no ghost will tell. Still in the efforts of all my verbiage from the secrets that I would spell. Craft I find brings me no lifeline, I am undersigned, uninspired and my thoughts, they have expired. Not the sight of a war-torn glory, not the sky split now in two. Not the chance of a personal story. Happy or tearful, I am not even blue. Just a shame no words come new. Though my lips are not breathing at the most tender part of you, I find I cannot write a canon or express my point of view. I am, uninspired.

I but for my breath am uninspired.

I start the story graveside up, of an old friend in my dream view. Saying words, he says to me, tell them now of you. Still with visuals spinning, inside the seal that witches use, I cannot even make a rhyme to tell you all I knew. All I knew. Even though I faced a dry spell once in past or may be two, I am tired inside and there’s so much left to do. I can write about rays of sunlight, tempting time travelers, and perhaps someday I shall. I could stir words by the feet of angels, in the lower pool where the lame were made well. Incite the verses by incantations of passion, taught by the sons of G_D in hell. Know that I think of the lyrics of all fashion, but then again I think, “Oh well”. Then again, I think, “Oh well”.

I but for my breath am uninspired.

We are but dust for what I see, born into life at times a tragedy. With sounds and signals from energy. As above so below in me. When this life has been set free, I will know not this vanity. I will know not this vanity. As I came, so will I leave. Uninspired. – 05.21.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Second World


“It’s when I die in this life, that I take refuge in a parallel world.”-Anthony T. Hincks

It came floating by just the other night, as the clock chimed three, and I thought isn’t this nice, that there’s hardly a wink before the morning light. Might as well enter in and see my other life. So, it is I pushed forth at least I thought I did, climbed a little bit and then I took a skid. Fell a step or two into a this and that, heard a note take flight, and an audience clap. For a second or two, I was in real life, then my second world gave me flight. My second world gave me flight.

In my second world, there are witches there, and they seduce me, as they comb my hair, say they unto me, we see all your dreams. Say I unto them, I choose all you please. There are twist and turns in my second world, and the once upon a time becomes a present mural, and all through the seconds as the time goes by, I think it’s kind of cool how my life has revived. For over here, is over there, and what’s majesty, is what I deem is fair. Like a spoiled child, I spell my wants in the air, in the second world no one cares. In my second world no one cares.

I heard a band that played in my second world, a song was played just for me. In the glen of trees, in my second world, where the mist comes down, and pirate flags unfurl. Heard a fender play pomp and circumstance, as a trail was blazed to a crystal sea. A special occasion on my graduation, from a pawn to a king as I spread my wings, and saw what I could see. Yes, I said to myself as the lights displayed, shining bright as day, found myself dancing naked on a mountain stage. Who would ever think that I am made this way? One-part man, and one foot in a magic grave, all that G_D made for me. In a second world. Let the music play on and on, let me leap and twirl in my second world. In my second world.

As I typed just now, I saw my second world, spinning by taking me for a whirl. For a second or two, or a life reprieved, I found myself just a boy so free. A Hardy Boy in a mystery, finding answers all around me, of what it meant to be me. I found through it all I was free to choose to be me, in my second world. In my second world.

And, I….

Loved and I loved

and I loved some more,

and I christened my life,

and I loved much more,

and I found my second worlds, back door. It became my first world’s core. In my first world’s world. -05.10.2019-דָנִיֵּאל

 

 

Lonnie & Truman

Sometimes when you have no better sense, and you are seeking a lonely place, you can drive out past Akron, where Highway U crosses the strait. A place that has not changed much since 1948. A murmuring of spirits, a train that digs for bones. What you hear when you listen closely is a couple driving home, and a voice that is heard from darkness. A voice that carries no gray. “Come for love has earned you, a leaning to my arms, for here you’ll be together, no worlds can do you harm”.

“Lonnie” say’s Truman, “there’s a full moon tonight, hanging upside down against this steel bound track.” “The world is shimmering yellow and it brings a truth to the facts, of where we are tonight.” “The devil’s in the details but the moon paints your eyes.” “Oh Lonnie it is such a lovely light. Well Lonnie just smiles and points her tongue at the sky, and with the light wind blowing, it makes her dress blow tight. In truth, she looks just like the fair girl that he kissed one April night, long ago, when the full moon bathed the night. In the distance leaves a thudding sound of a workhorse pounding might, over Eastern Colorado, moving grain throughout the night.  Its lone light sweeps the scrub-land, painting a long row of cross ties, twenty miles on to Brush and then turn right.

“Truman” says Lonnie, “it seems so cold out here, and I know we are feeling April, but it’s January in here”. Truman watches Lonnie draw with fingers around her heart, and he says, “Now there, now there, my Lonnie don’t you fear”. The scene it plays beneath the heavens on a lonely stage, of dark, where Lords and Daemons come to judge and swirl under stars as they spark. Destiny and choice, they barely talk from the start, as they watch the couple where they lay. Decorum holds its head above all that is displayed, and watches a single second hand upon a universal clock in play. For nothing holds to purpose until the day breaks, and this single hour is weighed.

“Lonnie” say’s Truman, “I thought I heard a train, it seems even now the whistle carries through my brain.” I know it probably not the time to tell this or explain.” “I love you with all my heart”. “Truman, oh my Truman”, says Lonnie with her soft smile, “I feel my cold leaving with your words, oh so worthwhile”. “I think that angels might carry me right up from off this track.” “Forget all explanations till our Lord brings us on back.” For it is with these last words and smiles, that rise from a human dismay, that a voice is heard from darkness, with words that carry no gray. “Come for love has earned you, a leaning to my arms, for here you’ll be together, no worlds can do you harm”. – 04.26.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Ghost in the Cathedral


“Hear, O Israel: the LORD is our God, the LORD is One.”

A dream on April 15th………

“It is well” my dad whispers as he sketches the Cathedral, the details designed from the nape to the great stone that shelters the moving shadows in the Roman portico. “Are there ghost here”, I whisper, thinking the answer I might receive might not be kind. “They are here” he whispers back, continuing to manipulate the pencil on his long white draught tablet, his face the color of angels, that of peace, that moves rough rivers to find a better course. My dad, the dad I know no more, a spirit, a moving light in darkness, moves his right hand with flourish finishing the left arch that covers the holy of holies.

“I will put daemons on the outside of this sanctuary,” he says, his now inhuman glowing blue eyes giving the appearance of a shelter, he was unable to offer while yet he was breathing. “Why”, I ask, the question knowing the answer to come. Still, the inquiry helps me hear my own voice. It sounds passive, and echoing, as if in a great hall. “They help us to know possibilities”, my dad mutters, turning drawing rapidly something that stands still, noticeable only to his eyes. His immortal eyes.

“It is well”, my dad whispers, baring the image of something alien upon his arms. They are moving images of creatures, alien beast that move to guard a sanctuary. Perhaps it is they guard a throne, a host, or a plan sketched of what is to come. “What of the ghost” I ask the spirit that speaks as my father. “They are here”, my dad laughs suddenly, as his eyes turn a cobalt cold, color of ethereal energy that moves between worlds.

He draws them then, with quickness, a suddenness that interrupts the troubled thoughts I have. They sit in silence, in quiet death, their bodies in sanctuary, their souls’ deep wells, not troubled by belief or ideology. “They rest”, my dad says, his voice moving to other places. Perhaps mysterious places where bleeding stops. Perchance that place “John Lennon” imagined, with no religion too.

“I would go there, also” I whisper to my dad, this dad who roughs great divine basilicas. “I would climb past these ghosts, I would Passover“, I say, as the night moves in and out of that consciousness that is my soul. “I cannot make it so”, my dad smiles, the same unavailability suddenly present within him, as it was in life. He moves then his pencil moving furiously over the pad he carries with him, and I understand. I know without worry, and I am concerned no more. My life passes beyond cathedrals, celestial and even divinity. It spins so often out of control. Nevertheless, they are there, ghost sketched in great cathedrals, daemons of awe sculpted by my dad’s awl, that help me know deep possibilities. Thoughts that are not bound to past or future. Still it is well, oh Hashem it is well with my soul.

“It is well”, my dad whispers.

For Notre Dame That still smolders this night.
– 04.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

White Sands


“The wind it paints your face, as it stirs the shifting sand. Nightmare creatures closing in, they leave at your command. Fading lady light, always here with me, singing your song in the wind at night.” – Jeannette Sears

She is a faded lady in the arid early morning, a patch of dream torn from its unconscious birth, a soft passionate cry in the gypsum sand, where ghost lay their hands upon me and breathe light.

It was in April, that much I remember, well a quarter moon too, there is a memory of that. Perhaps the more I think about it, the more that appears. Those cascading fragments of thought, that drift at first unpieced. Those parts like a jigsaw puzzle, that flow afraid to touch, until the hippocampus is stretching at its very seams, and much like some messiah on a cross you cry out, “Take this cup”. And then it happens from various places in the cortex, a wholeness begins, a picture, a sound, smells and then a story. A beautiful story filled with “white Sands“.

The sands hold a picture that is still hard to find, of something that found me on once upon a time. To see it all now comes to me fleetingly. Perhaps a soft breath that touches my teeth. A buried illusion that comes as a tease. A finger down my spine, when there is no one but me. A vision of eyes turned to stars in a sea, a coven of seven dipping to sweep. The dunes of infinity revealing the keys. Oh, Megrez and Mizar they sing a chorus at first louder, than so silently. The place of death angels, atomic degrees. Whispers by slumber the puzzle recedes. A swath of her garment, as she passes by me, her home in this desert a white sand filled sea. What account can be printed until I finally believe. Memory my memory, come to serve me. Memory my memory, come to serve me.

The questions I have asked, that still haunt my belief. When I took a journey of solace in spring. Slept upon White Sands, under a breeze. Saw shadows and graces that circled beneath, the light of the heavens, the chill of the night. The cosmos of magic, that changed me somehow, made me different under odd lights. For if I could take a minute, relive a single breath. I would be in April my body laying helpless on White Sands. Under heavens probing stare.

Perhaps in this nighttime, as I lie on my bed, hearing my thoughts of distant memories unsaid. The puzzle will gather, and pour through a glass. The memoirs of mystery, a swirling soft quest. That led me to sit up that night on the sand, and welcome the spirits of light to come in. To welcome the spirits of light to come in.

She is a faded lady in the arid early morning, a patch of dream torn from its unconscious birth, a soft passionate cry in the gypsum sand, where ghost lay their hands upon me and breathe light. – 04.11.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל