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

Winslow (1977)

“A true story from Friday June 10, 1977”

We drove to Winslow…. Winslow, Arizona, “Taking it Easy” as we motored along. It’s bluer then ether, how can that be? Better light up while we still can, not seventeen or eighteen, just sixteen and so full of Chee, so full of the land. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time. There’s Hopi girls slowing down to see a white and a red, slowing down, GD wee! Near Newcomb, we will get high there, before we even reach service road 19B. Old friend, young friend, someone who has always known me, it’s nineteen seventy free. And Jimmy Carter’s holed up in the white house, he with his peanuts, means nothing, on this the Navajo and me agree. Davey and I, can ride in the pickup high, listening to Bob Seger, smoking, our own brand of weed, right now it’s all we want to believe. It could be that we were something, back in third grade that old grade school known as Grace B. And right now we believe in jesus, but that’s just because we are afraid of this open highway, plain scared of what we know America will be. It’s true like prophecy falling, dangerous with the knowledge beyond where we should be.

Tohatchi, has lightning, a thunderstorm that rains, meeting our laughter, joining our carelessness, with something that we need. When you think back Davey, from boot camp, when that ass hat’s screaming at Pendleton, think of me.

I’ll be standing in a pickup, a white kid, scrawny, wearing a blue Hanes T. Sixteen, driving with that Navajo, talking shit, with our hearts on our sleeves. And when we reached Winslow, if we saw love, in nineteen seventy free, for the rest of our lives we would be all we could be. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time.

Near the Yellow Horse Trading post on 40 we forgot we were alive, from there on to Winslow we thought we could fly, and sometimes your daddy’s truck did 105, could be we were drunk, more likely we only believed, that Navajo and me. Supposed we in the great all we see, took a laugh at our destiny, and when we arrived in Winslow we were still sixteen. Damn right we were still sixteen! That was the Navajo and me.

We drove to Winslow…. Winslow, Arizona, “Taking it Easy” as we motored along. It’s bluer then ether, how can that be? Better light up while we still can, not seventeen or eighteen, just sixteen and so full of Chee, so full of the land. If we were in love, this would be the feeling, this would be the time. There’s Hopi girls slowing down to see a white and a red, slowing down, GD wee! – 06.09.2016 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

Songs in the Attic (I’ve loved These Days)

Billy was playing the other night on the patio, the grill going, and as I stole from Billy’s soul, I realized I was finally home, and how I’ve loved these days.

Would you reach me, teach me, here on my stoop, before summer comes, before the rain, falls and ruins this food I cook.  Billy, Billy, songs a time of hello and goodbye, while the world goes by, as the time reaches, and “Captain Jack” tokes me high  And I stare, woman I’m so high. Scales, and keys, octaves and pleas, for love, for lights on Broadway. The lights on the patio go, but hell no, not Billy’s show, the music, I hear it all the way from 42nd street. The Queens, the Bronx, and Manhattan goes right out to my grass to my weeds, and still he sings, on he sings.

I say this is a mighty time, the best of rhyme, a beer, and as Highland Falls plays, either sadness or euphoria, a wonder of all Gloria. She looks through a curtain a glass, the grill glows, a house still standing, a slab of concrete with a street life serenader, complete, this life so complete.

I light the torches, Los Angelenos, for concrete cooking, a song that sways. For all we know now, in all we listen, this song of city, and on he plays. My, my it’s past time, the darkness falling, Long Island Billy just makes my day. She’s got away now, beyond those curtains, she’s inside now, and soon I’ll reach like Billy to take her away, where grownups play.

A mighty time, where music forces light to still stay, over the foothills, “Songs in the Attic” continue to play. The house needs painting, but for tonight, it just looks okay, for just a little push, and yep, I’ll be smiling. It strikes me then, as I listen to the gypsy, to the devil in Billy’s soul, the kid he wants me to say…I have everything, for everything in this life has gone my way. It’s a mighty time, to end the day, for Susan, your right here, “I’ve loved these days”.

Billy was playing the other night on the patio, the grill going, and as I stole from Billy’s soul, I realized I was finally home and how I’ve loved these days. – 06.15.2015 דָּנִיֵּאל

All Rights to “Songs in the Attic” – Billy Joel

The Cabin

Come along with me , let me take you there, where the children play, writing mystery to air, it’s not so far away, that your never free, disturb your darker life, train your heart to see. In an older wood, that laughs at finery, while the sun grows hot, in transparency, where lost boys do play, with strange spark, this day, shroud my heart in the cabin, okay. Bring your pens along, bring some color too, we will write strange words, sing if what we could, oh there’s guns and dolls, and a mind or three, we will build this dream in this older tree.

And were spinning in the cabin, speaking spells upon free time, making magic out of fodder, books of shadows out of rhyme, well were walking reflective waters, to the charm that never dies.

We are crafting canon letters in the cabin of our life, oh my friend we found a secret, of a brilliance in disguise, look it talks just like an angel, tea doll words they always rhyme. Wendy will you take us higher through the upper window back, oh it’s just a little secret, to guard the pirate front attack. For you know we hide a treasure, that no witch has ever seen, it’s the cabin in Missouri, sometimes myths are built on dreams.

And were spinning in the cabin, speaking spells upon free time, making magic out of fodder, books of shadows out of rhyme, well were walking reflective waters, to the charm that never dies.

Gray eyed spy that looks for coding, in the codex that we spin, secret agents, in the nighttime, when you hide beneath roof tin. For I think I heard a story, that was transferred by these walls, we will spy upon the neighbors, when our cabin leader calls. For this cabin reaches unkempt gates, where children hide their fates, and they sell their souls to hidden thoughts, that life initiates. Oh this cabin celebrates a time, when play it ruled the earth, when the genius of that unseen brought forth a richer birth. Well it seems I found a wooden source, that sparkles like a dream, and who would have thought, we found the way, to live what was unseen.

And were spinning in the cabin, speaking spells upon free time, making magic out of fodder, books of shadows out of rhyme, well were walking reflective waters, to the charm that never dies.

The cabin has disappeared now, a victim of progress, and development, much in a sad way like the imagination and play of so many, both young and old. The cabin is dedicated to Diane, (whom I have always loved) the Wendy to many of us lost lads, tearing through the fields in summertime, and finding rejuvenation for our unconquered spirits and minds, in the cabin. – 01.20.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Matinee Mice


Some came to be frightened, a four wizened few, the creatures of darkness, that matinee crew. We stitched our own stories of plot, scripts anew, twelve movies of summer, the acts we boys knew. Red balcony cushions and arm chair delights, the clandestine features of lovers wrapped tight. On now with this scripture of tales of the brood. That Friday of summer, ghost entered the Allen as sharp as a Shrew. What four boys in mischief, mixed life for the giving, on bar stools they still sing, of that troubled day scheme, the beauty of mind games, the day we rose matinee mice.

One Friday in August, the thirteenth seven one, our plan in the making we watched the dawn come. The prince of all darkness his scar making teeth, was entering the Allen for a long August feast. As lads we were pupils of what ole Lee did, his movies were golden, we watched his teeth kiss. The maidens had rich blood that spilled from sized cups, caused trouble in waiting with an R rating, the issue determined, what we boys should do.

On Larry, and Jacob, myself and Trey too, the whole plot in waiting to do what lads do. The Allen has Showtime’s of two and of four, the Hammer of Dracula offers you more. There was still this matter of age to view sin, we were boys most craven to enter the den. It was then a bright youth, myself so indeed, mentioned the exit vent from theatre to street. I bet in conjecture no one would know why, the large door was open with four boys inside. It could be were mice like, Trey said with a grin, avoiding capture, we’ll say that we’ve been. And so it was whispered with giggles and glee four boys, would crawl inward to see a movie for free.

What dark clouds swarmed inward with full guts of rain, at ten before two, four shadows did play, upon alley walls toward trouble did they creep, four lads with a mission a movie to see. Like mice we did make stealth, removing a door, as lightning crackled and rain soon did pour. We crawled into darkness, a tunneled abyss, behind Jacobs’s movement we moved as a list. Up on a ladder we soon made our way, the tunnel grew wider, our excitement at play. Beyond some veiled wall the undead did speak, our goal of fulfillment would soon find its peak. The door stood between us and rapture of sin, no longer as mice we moved forward as men. Into the pale we strode one as in four, the thunder of Vlad Tepes upon us did roar. Four boys with ambition, adventure and game moved in front of watchers onto a theatre…..

Stage….. 07.01.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Walden (Woods of Zion)


I thought I was twenty, I was nine, when I set my sights on woods of Zion. I took Excalibur, a three inch blade and went to make myself a day. In the woods a wild wood trail, by a creek down near a vale, I found a fossil an ancient shell, that spoke of oceans within the dell, an ark of time hid for me, a code of Noah by my feet. In a secret, by the glen, down a path that never ends, by a pond that revealed my soul, reflected wonder I lost control, there in moss of mountains old, came an element that took control. Its wind of shelter bore a craft, of greater wisdom then I had, had.

Down the well, of dirt and stone, in red clay I went alone, thought of ghost, my danger wild, a fate delivered, a risen child. By the Elm I cut my arm, tasted sun in grace and charm, found a mill stone of ancient clans, touched its surface, it froze my hand. A strange occurrence in Ozark heat, what made it cold, and incomplete? When in doubt, I climbed a tree, saw a snapper beneath my seat, it moved so slow, within its shell, its place in nature made stories tell. I bet it lived there before the trees, when by the pond there was a sea, I bet it cried unto the deep, send a young boy to rescue me. Eventide it brought me back, a boy encountered by what he lacked. My countenance shining in mud and lore, brought on by secrets at natures core.

Henry David, did you see, G-D, in your woodland, a deity? Were there shells born on the leaves, were their turtles that made you believe? Did you see the eyes of one, buried deep beneath your pond? Were there mill stones that had no heat, when you touched them what did you seek? There in Walden you must have smiled, knowing someday, a child would find, in the Ozarks, a glen so deep, a precious Walden a heart would reap. I thought I was twenty, I was nine, when I set my sights on woods of Zion. – 06.24.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Summer wishes (The Boy That Stretched the Sunshine)

Would you place my head, against your liquid sunshine, run and taste the song that sounds just like the wind? Would you take me higher then pines below the boulders, sail in ages fashioned for me as a kid. Would you take the beat of my simple heart learning, cost before life’s pleasures, you lose before you win. Interwoven strings that weave a simple magic, lyrical spells in footsteps that sigh where you’ve been. This is brew worth drinking in signs and pints of sixes, this is Pi of kisses a mellow happy end. Reach into the mystic, follow all the markers, round and round the ashes now swallow and blend. Burn now ancient circle, invest now your senses, blow now yellow pollen and bless your find. Have you run the meadow, dreamed in darkened caverns, have you placed the sticks that mark a strange moon? Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

There are canyon graveyards, underneath a river, a bent tree on a mountain that tasted G_D’s moon. Invested in the starlight, a fallen kind of firefly, an ice cream worth a kingdom, the opposite of doom. Have you touched a young girl, felt her lips like candy, entered, asked her to dance at summer’s high noon? Did you build an engine that raced down lanes of harvest, drank a bitter whiskey, and whistled dangerous tunes? What is glory given, if not for boys of summer, when the time is over, it’s over too soon? Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

Circled on the highway, crystal in its stillness, strangeness of a summer, that swallowed our youth. There where candles bleeding, clubhouse of believing, an oath that saw us grow up, and conquer our youth. How I wished we’d savored blessed summer wishes, rain and golden fishes, that followed our hooks. Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

I wanted to replicate in a brief poem the total sensory of my boyhood summers – jeez it was a great time דָּנִיֵּאל – 05.29.2014