Iiná Joe

In my time of dying, want nobody to mourn. All I want for you to do is take my body home. Well, well, well, so I can die easy.” – Led Zeppelin

“Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall).” – Gerard McMahon

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe comes around, just as the August, sun has lost its crown, and it sets itself in message, in an altered degree, sending signs of mourning for all to see. And it spills out red across the sky, sending farewell tears to a million sighs. “That’s what makes me cry”, Iiná says to me, standing just my height, dressed in the color of her grief. It is a visit of timing it is a look without a word. As if in the world of symbols, we are the witness to the earth. Iiná Joe says, “I heard it, the song you said you’d play”. I say, “You mean “In My Time of Dying“, is that the meaning you wanted relayed”. She nods her head in the affirmative, and then we both look away, just a disc jockey and newly minted widow at the end of a funeral day. Standing in the foyer at KWYK, all the world is moving with us as actors on its stage.

Iiná Joe says, “The darkness falls upon us as it fell upon my man, as he drank his way from Gallup, into the desert and the sand.” “When they found him out near Sanostee with the cuts upon his face, he’d been sitting in his pickup truck for forty nights and forty days.” It grew very quiet between us as we thought about her words, the quiet that conveys meaning from our words to other worlds. Like the transmitters nearby us, cooling from their five thousand-wattage heat. We wandered through Iiná’s pain filled loss, looking for comfort to keep. And as a boy of seventeen with all my wishes draught unpaid. I was humbled by my friend’s sharing of the greatness of her loss, and the grieve it built and made.

Iiná Joe walks around, the darkened radio studio looking at me, with her eyes filled with amber tears, a reflection of a man she no longer see’s. “Will you play the song again”, she asks. “I think I’ll wait outside, the night is coming quickly, and the chindi is nearby.” “I would not have my man’s blackness upon you, as you do for me what’s kind.”

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo big little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe went her way a few days ago. She passed into the darkness after the August sun had gone down, forty-one years to the day; she visited a seventeen-year-old disc jockey to make a special request. That seventeen-year-old disc jockey pictured above thanks her for the honor, those many years ago and wishes her G_D speed ahead. There is no more to cry for little sister. – 09.03.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Advertisements

For the Lack of a Map (Roads)


Artist Samy Charmine – Almost Time

“New roads, new ruts.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline.

So many roads into Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. So many dreams left along the front range, gasping. They are a memorial, a delusion, inside, that’s not fact. Treasures at altitude, a once upon a time, a “Rock of Westies“, a vision above Nederland, a realization that 1975 is never, ever coming back. And maybe that’s a good thing, a very good, good thing. I think I can dig it now, “Portishead” driving me on this road, Beth Gibbons taking the wheel, right out of my hand away. Strange when I stare into my rearview mirror, I still see the mountains, shimmering above Boulder, some angel somewhere, whispers, “find”. Just another road, here, made up inside me. And I feel it takes me where I need to go. I know it takes me where I need to go.

So many roads into ageing, so many stories that still are to unwind. So many numbers numbing my mind, the physics of heaven, still these many, many ghosts aren’t changing any time. Driving, diamonds dancing on this road, in the summertime. High table, that’s still glowing now “Rocky Flats“, in nuclear time. That which is buried, still stays on my mind. And whispers, low tones, syllables that barely rhyme, still they encourage on this road, “seek and you will find”. “Seek and you will find”. On the road now, that which is with me, never that which is left behind. Going further then I need be, watching mountains left behind. And I wonder, as I wander, what it is that I will “find’, what it means to really unbind.

So few roads out of Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. The sun never sets above the “Mummy” Range, the snow never melts and that’s just a part of my mystical Colorado, that’s a part of these roads. A paradoxical fact. I suppose this might seem like nonsense, an ageing man rambling who has lost his tact. But there is something here, something shimmering on these worn roads, something well beyond 1975. For the lack of a map I free wheel, for the lack of knowledge I try. There might be a road that is headed for what I have to “Find”.

For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline. – 08.11.2019- דָנִיֵּאל

Innocence (Hedges & Fireflies)

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows. Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows. Quite canopied over with luscious woodbine. With sweet muskroses and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania sometime of the night. Lulled in these flowers with dances and delights.” – Shakespeare

“But I know a place where we can go and wash away these sins.”- Henley & Hornsby

Titania watches him with interest before the dawn breaks, a round of leaves within her mussed hair. She thinks to let him go might be a good thing, but she cannot. He has come to her on a mid-summers night, at the end of his innocence and he is alone.

Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, stolen by the name of ruin. Hips withdrawing, pants still falling, injustice by these fates not bloomed. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, finite too soon. Find the hedges for your hiding for the nighttime is coming soon.

He hid among the hedges, in a tunnel of which rabbits made, a long leaf filled burrow between the house and the gravel roadway. In his mind, he pictured safety, a sanctuary of play, and though he hid his body, his soul was on display. The world of summer was risen, with the night falling in, and somewhere there were angels. Watching in interest over his boyhood den. He looked through tiny windows at the darkness. A world so warm in gloom. He interlaced his fingers, and felt himself traveling further outside his self-induced cocoon. So, it was there in the twilight, far from his desert moon. He thought of all that had happened, an indiscretion born so soon.

For he hid among the hedges, in a tunnel made of thought, watching fireflies dance outside, for in truth they are more than spark. Near the point of total nighttime, when monsters bare their teeth. Silent shadows, silent wisdom, all is hidden beyond display. Not a sound in all creation, like the very first day. He lays himself still burdened lost in thoughts of the afternoon. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, stolen by the name of ruin. Hips withdrawing, pants still falling, injustice by these fates not bloomed. Oh his childhood, cries his childhood, finite too soon. Find the hedges for your hiding for the nighttime is coming soon.

He hid among the hedges in a place of hideaway, watching fireflies go to heaven for a purpose in which they stayed. In the glooming, in the hedges, came the silence of the break. Just a moment there is reason, nothing happens by fair mistake. He wraps his arms in loneliness and watches his soul begin to fade. For the want of its own amusement, it hides away. Softly crying to the nighttime such a movement of a score. Led by mercy, thoughts emotions and the life we are purposed for. In the hedges, in the hedges, a place of no mistakes. In the hedges under fireflies, asleep as the dawn breaks. – 08.01.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Dragon by the Dump


“No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith.” – R.A. Salvatore

The night sky ripples in my dreams, a mixture of sun, moon and stars. Something stirs in my bloodstream, and awakens me to whom I am to become.

The spine went from west of the dump in a half circle, unapologetic in its bending latitude, king like, under sun, moon and stars. The jagged edges whispered to us as we climbed them by day and moved tilting inwardly as our feet touched them by night. Although the rains almost never touched our hidden sacred find, the winds often came ripping away the night clouds that formed a curtain on the summer sky. We ran, we walked and we sat upon the back of a dragon, and its form entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever be.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

“The fires never go out”, my friend say’s from the shadows of the dragon’s tail. He signals towards the dump with his nose, but I know he is talking about the warmth beneath his feet. “They never shall”, I whisper not sure, if I am back then, or here now speaking in my sleep. The sky seems to ripple, perhaps the fathoms of the days heat being released, more likely it is gravity protesting the movement of great silent wings. “Is it a ghost”, I whisper, thinking it might be. “No” my friend whispers back, his voice beyond my reach. For a brief moment, a bit of time that is deep in me, I see us moving upwards upon the spine of a great sand filled sea. A dragon has entered our bloodstream, creating all life that we would forever need.

It is summer; it is winter, always springtime or fall. Just a boy then, just a boy now, when I hear the dragon call. Draco rising in a north star, that constellation, oh stars of all. A voice a whisper, a sound that comforts, “I lift you up boy, forever tall”.

The head of the dragon, resting so still, one eye glazed over, under moonlight, may be it is granite but still. Sometimes it was more than just a rock on that hill. Guarding that dump, that manmade swill. “Sometimes it was us”, I hear my friend whisper, and it gives me chills. For now as back then, I can still feel. The rush of the dragon, the knowing so real, there in my bloodstream, from then on until. From then on until. – 07.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

War and Times for a Gentle Man


“We are all ready to be savage in some cause. The difference between a good man and a bad one is the choice of the cause.” – William James

The ending of a Sabbath for a gentle man. The signs and the lessons for a gentle man. The sun rises and sets on the gentle man. When the day arrives and I seem to die, play Led Zeppelin over me. For not in a grave I will ever be. From the beginning to what is to be…

A gentle man’s immortality.

A gentle man dances in the dark, behind a curtain, oh his mind is stark, thinking not on that which brings forth love, nor does he even consider if the sun will rise above. For that gentle man thinks of worlds to be. Has he done what is right to blend a destiny? For to care outside of self is instinctual not, to hold hearts close, where they are not tied in knots. Yes, that gentle man moves with not much ease, for a train calls a sound from his inward prairie. Indeed, a gentle man is not sweet or good, baring strong sentiments of what most think he should. Not a great cut figure drawn is he, still a gentle man will he be.

There’s a mirror chained in deep waters on a ghostly sea, it reflects certain attributes a gentle mind can free. Without strength or power, or ghastly deeds, moving strong cogs of iron through ocean reeds. A gentle man can breathe, can breathe with belief, part the water of doubt with ease. Indeed, there are moments of immobility, when movement unexpected changes everything, and a gentle man looks to find someone holding a key, someone that is a she. That someone is a she.

The world becomes full of whispers for the gentle man, caressing private moments in places that he thought he would never understand. Movement in a symphony a chart of notes, a minor key in sixteen rhythms on his weakening knees. A monotone turned to a stereo vision. Six pointed seals of such mysteries. An entrance given for the mind that was not living, a thought becomes a decision. Suddenly there is something slight, a spark or two in one for the gentle man. And yes, he sees, for the rest of his life with clarity. Only the beginnings, the very depth of gentleness is G_D’s vision for he. A gentle man he will be. A gentle man he will be.

But then, and then….

The rains come down, and the war does start, and the sky turns ghastly with unimagined art. From the day well given for the night has come, and the rebel man yells, give us your father’s and your sons. Comes the battle for many, is there a man not even one? There are terrible instincts in lives of men, when their nature is built on the greed of sin, turning each woman till she can’t be turned again. For the culture rages, and it sums its end, saying there is no redemption needed for we will always win.

But give me no prophet, or new age spin. Just a sword blessed by G_D and a gentle man.

The ending of a Sabbath for a gentle man. The signs and the lessons for a gentle man. The sun rises and sets on the gentle man. When the day arrives and I seem to die, play Led Zeppelin over me. For not in a grave I will ever be. From the beginning to what is to be…

A gentle man’s immortality. – 06.23.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

4th Night Studies


And G_d made the two great lights: the greater light to rule the day, and the less light to rule the night; and the stars. And G_d set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth, and to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness; and G_d saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning, a fourth day. – Genesis 1:16-19

Once upon a time in the west, on the 4th night, before the 5th:

I left you at your doorstep, with your taste still in my mouth, and I stopped in Flora Vista with the moonlight all about. In the ruins I walked transparent with all my single lonely doubts, and the daemons reached unto me, to divert me from life’s route. And I wonder as I wander what this night is all about.

Oh, moon my moon on this dry ground, in hallowed whispers, come on down. In the night still, flies caped burdens, bringing night songs to the ground. In cloth I stand a human, watching stars they do abound. Is this night to be divided, or am I forever drowned? Oh Lord of syllable and Lord of sound, beyond my eardrum I spin around. For deeper still you come to reach me, like some lonely spirit found. Be gentle here by this ruin known, how many times have I come here alone? Still I wonder as I wander which light, I carry to my bones, still I wonder as I wander which light will shine if left alone.

This fourth day, is upon me, as the night before the fifth. Something borrowed deep in memory about the light and how it splits. My mother said, my mother told me, oh I had so far to go, oh Thursday child, was really Wednesday how that night was filled with woe.

In the ruins there was a lessor light, an angel on display, said she how it is you left me just a moment or two today. For that girl you left past star ward with her taste still in your mouth, cannot contain what G_D has for you in all your secrets and your doubts. It was a question that I wondered from that night there in the ruins, for what it was on that fourth day in the creation of my youth. Even now I walk division from the night unto the day looking forward to the greater light, not found deficient in anyway.

Once upon a time in the west, on the 4th night, before the 5th. – 06.19.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

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