Drive


“It’s like driving a car at night: you never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” – E.L. Doctorow

“Beautiful calm driving, deep-sea pearl diving”. – Sia

I suppose these are the questions and the gifts of what was youth. Bear with me a little longer, while I drive on toward the truth.

I drive around a hillside that I drove so long ago, looking to the starboard future to the left of stardust glow. It seemed just for a second I was born upon a bed, a mortal existential of what some G_D had said. In the twinkling of a lifetime, I was old and old again. It is time to drive myself homeward once again. I suppose I should speak silently, just a nod or two in sleep, or continue to just sit here on this hill, that is not so steep. Still, may I ask a question or a second if I could? For I do not wish to go on driving misunderstood.

Was it I that floated past you in the summer time, with the moon smiling wickedly at a three percent of shine? Did I seduce you, did I know you, and was I a little boy at all? Would you answer softly speaking while I drive on through to fall?

Did I not sit upon a hill of stars, falling from the spirit-filled sky, and did I not kiss them each one silently, like the apple of my eyes? And did I not change from one heart to another, of that from clay to air, and under your simple direction did I not become a man in that same air?

Did you not transmit breathe to me while you held the planets in your hand? The sound of moonlight falling over a mighty world of sand. And forever did you not caution me, without provocation to stand, boy you had better drive so carefully, so carefully when you can?

I drive around a hillside that I drove so long ago, maybe it is in the Ozarks or the desert of New Mexico, or maybe that same hillside has grown a length or two. Maybe it is now in Colorado where the mountains give a further view. For it is in the sum of all my questions, and the space I place them on, I begin to wonder oh moon of sliver lighting if you are the origin or the sum? I suppose these are the questions and the gifts of what was youth. Bear with me a little longer, while I drive on toward the truth. – 07.02.19 – דָנִיֵּאל

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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

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 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

 

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

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

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