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

 

 

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Highway 491 (Were Still Here)


“No one is actually dead, until the ripples they cause in the world die away.” – Terry Pratchett

“We’re still here We’re shadows fallin’ the night is callin’ again We’re still here Where love is runnin’ the night is calling, again (Brother to brother)” – Steve Perry

Steve Perry is singing “Were Still Here” The words move through my thoughts, taking up association with the visuals from a troubling dream of the previous night. There have been many dreams lately. Too many. Visitations from unknown parts. Voices and faces from different times, different places, gathering it seems still here it seems on Highway 491, that highway in my head.

I watched them turn in a distant memory, a friend or two within my head; they stood upon the precipice of my thoughts shimmering and looked straight ahead. The night closed in with all its mystery, the stars moved circles around their heads. For I probed the devil’s triangle in my soul for they were no longer dead. “Still” I ask, “oh why the stillness?” “Is this the answer that you had?” “When you drove the sprite’s highway, with a holster packing lead.” A way fare that you both paid duly, not aware of interest due. A lost account when the sun rose ruefully, there you lay, life shed. There you lay, life shed.

Be gone, I sometimes ask the nighttime, when such scenes are played. Dreams they shouldn’t be of lesson, that of fright or dismay. I do not want to ask or wonder why such friends would leave such way. It seems a crime they stray on highways. Lost alone in May. Faces white with questionable worry, lost alone, where daemons roam. Hardly seen by modern travel, my friends, my friends you are still alone. “Still” I ask, “oh why the stillness?” Bone to dust your bodies gone, yet you distress me, for somethings wrong. In hours of morning, with springtime here, I see you driving your eyes bright and clear. On down a highway named 491, those numbers cover the shadow of the beast; those numbers cover the shadow of the beast.

Oh, mortal frames that break in two, unwitting minds of careless youth. That star you followed with its red face, led you forward on too fast a pace. It is some mystery, my dreams that see, you are waiting, waiting so patiently. Yet your mouths, cannot speak. “Oh G_D”, I ask, with weakened thought, brought on by darkness and turmoil wrought. “What is their place within my life, what is the meaning for which I now write”? “What is the meaning for which I now write”?

For there they stand by the highway, that eternal highway that runs at nighttime through my head. That eternal highway that runs at nighttime through my head.

For Jason & Tom and so many others, in my dreams on Highway 491, how I miss each one of you . – 05.07.2019 – 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

 

Songbird (OCD)


“My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened” – Michel de Montaigne

I tell him he’s a songbird when he’s terrified, not a simple canary, no not that. Rather he’s a Hawk, a screaming raptor, that hunts symphony, that looks through the patterns of confused stanzas, and bad timing, and finds perfection. For he, this son of mine is perfection. He has flown to great heights, and yes, he has skimmed the valley floors. Tasted clay, envisioned horror. It is there we begin.

First it comes when he’s dreaming, and it takes the dream away. In its moves insidious it turns water into clay. It wraps the things up he loves to do and binds them first with string. Layer upon layer it then becomes rope and finally barb wire that stings. It tests the singing of his angels, until their sound becomes such pain. Night after night they come until, he holds his head screaming as if he’s insane. It blocks off every open space to make a puzzle of dark disdain. “For everything there is an answer”, It whispers, “it’s a fire to a flame”. “Turn the lock just one more time to drive that itch away”. He has heard there are many troubles and diagnosis of mental ache, but nothing beats the worn-out torture of neon thoughts of personal pain.

Sometimes he mourns the private artist that person who rode his silent range. A wild boy inside chasing rainbows so playful in his games. Then it came and brought its people, the nightmares of made up shame. Twisted turned, and bound his anger made his pathway narrow and strained.

I tell him he’s a songbird, in a deep, dark mine, finding the right, tracing invisible paths of oxygen until he breaks into the light of day. Then he’s a raptor, a bird who seeks prey, and he rescues that which was long ago taken away.

I know for now he looks at trouble, at daemons night and day, those thoughts of dripping blood and agony, he wishes would just go away. I wish it too as his Dad, I wish I could take them away, but damn it G_D expects him to fly and challenge what’s in his way. For there is no amount of medicine or therapy that can heal what is a shade. That, is the road of what was chosen by another lord of judgement gray.

For now, I tell him he’s a songbird, that sings a note that’s unheard in the fray, a melody that will soon turn into lightning, and strike the fright to day. When all the world has stopped to listen, his mind storms arranged and stayed.  This thing that takes his pleasure will  bend to his vision, and he will be okay.  My songbird will be okay . – 04.02.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Arthurian (Owl Canyon)


“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.” –Albert Einstein

The ghost sum together in the thin early morning beam of light. Their spirits look like a sharpened sword streaking across the sky burying its point into the western red rock face of the canyon. Owls returning to their nest underneath the cliffs, circle the blade of light until it shows buried to its hilt, forming the brief illusion of a star of light.

On my knees,

In the canyon of the owls of purgatory, those that see what I cannot see. Comes the scepter reaching forward by the grace of what is she. Is your sun a path of mercy, cross those eastern skies it springs. Thus I pray, let me be silent, before your turning majesty.  By thy quietness, in thy beauty, what must I see that you bequeathed?  Is it something predatory wanting blood from me? Are you wisdom, are you creepy, do you celebrate disharmony? Are you like that old story from my childhood, thine is the glory, I a servant beneath thy feet? So here, I kneel feeling foolish in Owl Canyon, with a light that I see. Translucent inside of me.

On my knees,

In this canyon, there are lions, those that hunt incessantly. They are archetypes of the dragon when they run, their kill they see. Nevertheless, no lion do I see, no not nothing of a mission for me. What would you have me do, without a faith or knighthood? Should I pray thy angels down? With what would I speak, when I feel my soul has drowned? Underneath thy open skies, with what should I see? The best in this canyon I feel is an inner child of mediocrity. Adonai reverse this sight for me. It is so hard not to see. Impatience rules the man in me.

On my knees,

The rising sun gathers a thin cloud across its midriff, casting a long dark belt of a shadow across the western red rock face of the canyon. Above the dark division, the rocks glow red as if they are breathing fire. Below the shadow cast a prism of colors, as if a rainbow is cast upon the lower rim of the canyon wall. For all the lack of vision, for all the willingness to try, still I have been given a sign, a promise, and a knighthood.

On my feet,

In this still canyon, early spring light bathing me. “Adonai”, Thine the glory of my question, thine that is my destiny. “Adonai”, Thine the glory of my question, thine that is my destiny. In this still canyon, early spring light bathing me. – 03.28.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל