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

 

Bill & Me (1992)

That’s Cinnamon Girl, the curtains part, well her best body was some lyrical art, and in her curves her bones and parts, we sang, wouldn’t Neil be proud today, of Bill and me.

The song we put together, on a Sunday afternoon, while, the beer was flowing smoothly, a new friendship was in bloom. Laughter born on arches of something that’s not new, like two spinning daft propellers finding oxygen on the moon. And brother, brother you might not know this, that’s okay it’s still cool, but when we sang together, the kings rose from tatters, their tombs indescribably, not ready for what our voices could do. And me and Bill were different, but what can difference do? A stutterer like Moses, can talk to G_D too, and when we stand together, matched those times, and letters, better. Breathed emotion to the spirit, and the circle closed without glue, and we played a psalm for two.

Bill said oh gee, did we just sing in that key, well I feel my hearts made of Dixie cups, filled with water and then it erupts, and moon pies and bottled RC, could not complete. This song that we sing. Blended views, that mix free. Well you sing soft, and I’ll rhyme too, and you just watch that nun we sing for, tilt her head, the tears she brings forth, what we’ve done we will never know the reason for. Will we. Bill and me.

Some duo’s start with a rage and a spark, well it seems that we were different, just some laughter, while some ghost do wale, say sing seriously, dirge octaves out of key, Gregorian chants, oh my oh me. It’s not us two, we are like Jimmy Page and a synchronization cook book, such a pair it comes down to part the sea, in song, it’s Bill and me.

That’s Cinnamon Girl, the curtains part, well her best body was some lyrical art, and in her curves her bones and parts, we sang, wouldn’t Neil be proud today, of Bill and me. Of Bill and me.

In the fall of 1991 and the spring of 1992, William Smith and I formed a musical Duo that did little to rock the music, world. We practiced every Sunday afternoon at my modest beach side Condo, laughing, drinking, and forming a spiritual brotherly friendship, that exist to this very day. We blended perfectly, our voices summoning spirits, of both laughter and song, plenty of alcohol too. This ones for Bill!  We were good weren’t we? – 06.30.2016 – 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

I Never Wrote That Song

Some day’s the wheel goes round, and I look at the paper and sigh with relief, for part of me is tattered in G-Ds harmony. A bereaved melody that fell inside me became me, while the universe played a different song. Part of me, looks to see, what syllable will make me feel my home, a rare key, six to three, when every element, emotional, makes me bleed. Beside me, a world is free, but not in me, the only place these lyrics seem to belong. What do you see, when all those sounds come out so wrong, is it me that played inside me so long. Converge on me majesty, something misunderstood in melody, counting the breaths around me, I never wrote that song.

Descant in methodical math, a place to hide when I discern the worlds black wrath. This place in rhyme alone, when the sound of words alone leave my spirit ticking. A place on one knee beneath the branch of a crooked tree, where questions call to know what’s inside. A cold, a destiny beneath an alcoholic freeze, words, that fall like lightning, without a need. My paper’s ready, crying, daemons rising, it’s part of me, accommodation of something wrong. When I’m sad, a shell that displays my terrible wrong, a chant hopelessly internally, intuits to me, and there I freeze, I never wrote that song.

Line in air of pitch that speaks liquid harmony, a part of me that tears me, sometimes off key, a place of charmed gone wrong. Voices living, inside me pointlessly, still determinedly, I deliver lyrics that sing my song. Could it be, antiphonally, unnaturally in destiny, some old music stayed inside me too long. No matter, I’ll gather paper, and out of range I’ll become something that no one believes, and when in character they come to see, I’ll deliver, but in all that carnage that stayed inside me so long, please believe, I never wrote that song.

 

“I Never Wrote That Song” inspired by that rascal Alice Cooper, “I Never Wrote Those Songs” from Lace & Whiskey. – 05.19.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל