El Cathedral (For the Forests Now Gone)

Light leaking through the trees
in a voice of sun music
as a Jesuit-taught cowboy
poking gruff holes through
the forest, a well-worn
horse-made trail ...

In the morning's blaze
Sunshine Peak smiles
through touristas
in hangover cobwebs
after a night's
culture shock therapy ...

She is kind, but wise and cautious
as the deer but fearing nothing
except for the coming bulldozers
and coyotes of commerce
preying on the young, the weak ...

(Ah, the weak,
now there's some
cheap meat ...)

And it wouldn't be here
in the future, which is today,
and yesterday is just
this poet's old ghosts ...
roamin' ...

The next day and for years
after that, Set would go on nibbling
on greens, for no one,
said Horus, the hawk,
could crunch on greens
better than Set ...

Among he are those times
is monies folks, old blokes,
who pushed women around
for centuries, like cattle,
due to God's half-written call

And they were good
intentioned men,
just like me ...
who went home,
all unsatisfied,
to beat on their wives,
to then sleep for another day
with their brokers, pork belly
stokers, livin' among chain
smokers, all bragging about
how they had this girl and that girl,
when, in fact, they had not ...

She is kind, and wise
and no longer
free to be
alone ..


Sexual Distortion (For Harvey Weinstein)

Got my helmet on
My emotions in check
Haven't had sex
for what seems like ten years
and I'm wondering what the ... (heck)
Got a memory of Obama's day
and the way the old wounds
of racism, thought withered away,
bled like a seven-year plague
through the streets of Bethlehem, P.A.
Now we fight all civil wars
with angry words and unsheathed swords
Now the new fan is blowing on hot coals
for the war between the soul man and sister soul
And I'm thinking twice about the alibis
for the war between the sexes
and this new father of lies
and the mother of his nature
Don't touch this. Don't touch that.
Touchy as a funeral in the sex and death vat
Leading to the unsatisfied dynamic
of not touching this, not touching that
Send me a kiss and I'll hit it with a baseball bat,
Then I'll flame you with a conversation that goes like this:
"You wouldn't understand. Cunt is the ultimate compliment
men only use it against women when they know they've lost."
It's well deserved due to your interview couch moves,
met with flash dragon ways and discouraging verbs
as the drop in population, tightly held to the regulation
leads to a sex-starved people pleading for strangulation
as the mighty engine of love can't get no satisfaction
No wonder, woman. No super, man.
All hooked up on porno and strung out
across the land; and the only one winning
is Tony Soprano living in the Caymans
and Russian mobster secret agents
sucking in the dough
in the sexual distortion show
But love is for the real
and these fake news blues
can't last forever
since a caress
and all the rest
is imperative
and primal,
as natural
as survival
Even next to food and fighting,
there really is no other rival
So buck up Ken and Barbie
Your missing parts
were stolen
by their private
little party
Even a true gentleman
doesn't have a chance
If you don't believe me
try to get a dance
with a wolf


The Captured Girl (For Joan of Arc)

As I lay on this couch
smelling of the wolf,
covered in a dead dog's hair,
telling you "It's going to be awe right"
as you walk out
the cabin door toward the cold
to renew a long lost love
that never gets old, ages or bores,
let me deny you the satisfaction
for one final time, without a wave or goodbye:
I will not submit, I will be a martyr to your hallucination,
your demand for my body, my mind, my third blind eye.
I will walk this world a homeless waif, my shoes gone soft
and the paved Earth you point to as civilization's mistake.
I would rather be the Whore of Babylon, cursing you to hell,
eating fried dirty rice from trash bins, rolling in the dirt.
than let you be with me again in my tattered witchy chic skirt.


Open Mac Night (For the Victims of the Lost Vegas Massacre)

Refrigerator Rick,
kind enough to let the guitar lead the way,
and me, with only pee-tee-ass-a-dee for a band,
lending new words, updating "Turn the Page"
for this week with me rage at the riptide, at Sip

On a full moon, the nation in gloom,
the rehearsal version on the porch
is now lost to the sky, and only the orb
will ever know why o why o why
And after I said, "Well, that will 
never sound the same." But it did.

And just Rick had a another sip
of his strange pyrotechnical brew
in his typical melancholy,
man-I-used-to-be-a-rock-star way,
but he's always ready to play

Indoors we were Okay, killed it, actually
But there has already been enough
killing done, out there on HIghway Ninety One


All Religions Are One (A Prayer for Co-Existence)

Each day is a birth,
an adventure,
followed by 
the personal apocalypse,
leading to 
revelation ... 
Then we sleep,
and in dream experience
a kind of pyrotechnical death ...
Then we awake
and are reborn ...
hopefully learning from yesterday ...
doing it all over again ...
each day ... each day,
yearning to to fly higher,
than our own minds,
like silly blind birds
soaring up the stairs
and gliding into
an attic of dusty emptiness,
 like the ninety ninth monkey
hiding in a tree,
shaking a blue banana,
calling it a phone,
seeking the one-hundredth human
who also needs love,
to those 
no longer lonely,
to those 
no longer

M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim
M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim
M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim
M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim
M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim



First of all, the whole idea about what happens

when the tree falls in the forest and whether or not

it makes a sound: You sent me out for this scientific

question and quite frankly you must be some robot

who only thinks anything happens when a dollar

gets digitized in a bank in the Cayman Islands.


Second, there is very little internet access along

the Forest Road on the Mogollon Rim, dude. Stop.

How are we supposed to relay any kind of message

at all if you don't even know that? Stop. You promised

coverage for all, and we were naked to the winds,

thus requiring daily runs to Walmart in Payson,

and I ate red vines that made me sick as a dog.


Third, no savages were found in the area other than ourselves,

since there's little water up there, short of what

falls on your head, and rumors of bear

were just wild stories made up to keep

us in our tents. Wood was picked clean

throughout, as the Imperial Cruisers roaming

up and down had run up the dust, down the rest.


Fourth, and I mean this sincerely, sir.

No one mentioned your name once

up there, probably due to the lack

of a decent Twitter feed,

as well as a common desire

among those present to get away from any idea of you,

since we are all running from that daily disgrace in the first place.

Stop. End Message.


Nibiru (Without Rulers)

Moving in the void
with no one visible,
colors bleeding
into one, the shift,
neither red nor blue,
no moon, no planet,
errant, static, invisible,
a mistake
by the Creator,
on the edge
of another
pings that disappear
into pure silence,
down under,
the fury
of the unified field
just a theory
and a fear
of emptiness,
of seeing
what's on
the other
draining saturnine
shadows, Egyptian mystics,
pregnant with passions,
beer-gauged Agog men,
gone saintly and sad,
past Sirius and back,
like an ringed orange
winged with fire


American Kristallnacht

"Mob law ruled in Berlin throughout the afternoon and evening and hordes of hooligans indulged in an orgy of destruction. I have seen several anti-Jewish outbreaks in Germany during the last five years, but never anything as nauseating as this. Racial hatred and hysteria seemed to have taken complete hold of otherwise decent people. I saw fashionably dressed women clapping their hands and screaming with glee, while respectable middle-class mothers held up their babies to see the 'fun'."

~ Hugh Green, The Daily Telegraph, 1938

They came in
with pepper spray pellets blazing,

They came in through the window
with the full blessing and authority
of unhinged might

The numbing fear
that God is right,
right, right ... feel his fright

Let America shake
Hit 'em in the back,
and that girl, too, whack!

Shove her in the car, bang her head against the door,
she might bleed a little, might even leave a scar,
but don't worry, her court-appointed attorney won't get her far

They can't afford legal defense
and no parents will come to their aid,
so shoot up their room with toxic wounds

And then just leave it there
'cause nobody cares as Mr. Nobody stares ...
Let the pepper spray hang in the cavernous air

The gawd general self-appointed Horus
has granted the license to deal with the weak,
the sick, the drug abused, the American "scum"

So then after that bright light white will come
So the purity of the might will reign in the sun
So the filthy trash will all be on the run

This is American Kristallnacht
a renewed tomb's curse worse than Hitler's little minuet
America's Kristallnacht, feel the fact,
Syria's Assad was just the opening act

Of all the things I wish to forget
the burn in the nostrils is beyond neglect
frenzied my brain, not enough rain, the lump in the neck

In addition to your loss of faith in the system,
the chemical weapon pepper spray will swell
 the mucous membranes of your eyes,
 which will cease believing

Your nose and throat, your fleshy moat,
will burn like some 14th century lost castle,
coughing at the charge of the Catholic brigades

Your eyes will dry like the planetary deserts,
Your eyes will close involuntary against the peace-keeping army,
and you will hyperventilate, burning in their sin

Psychological effects include paranoia, anxiety, panic,
which is just what a peaceful street gathering needs,
See the revolution, see the seeds, you don't bleed:
The imposition of order creates chaos
and that's all you need to read

The Nazi call is here, it's clear
hidden now behind the double-hurricane wind shear
but no one should ever forget, the fear is here

Time and money people
who move just one stone
and call it a day
won't do much to resist
or stop the sway
More than likely
they will be the first to line up
on the day of the big state-sanctioned violence parade

When is the U.S. Supreme Court going to rule that a brick is free speech, too?

American Kristallnacht came this year
watch them drop behind the veil of hell,
no better than any dictator in any era
American Kristallnacht came this year

(With apologies to anyone still living or dead 
who experienced pre-World War II Germany,
 because things aren't that bad here, yet - DLM)


David Bromberg resurfaces after two decades to sound better than ever

If a star quarterback returns after retiring over twenty years ago, there aren't many who would bet on his success. If a world champion prize fighter took to the ring again after two decades, better have the ambulance ready. If Jesus came back from the dead, he might have a lot of catching up to do before he was ready for prime time. But if you found a Stradivarius violin in the attic, chances are it would sound pretty good.

David Bromberg is like one of those fine instruments. As his friend Jerry Jeff Walker stated about him, "The reason man created stringed instruments. David touched them with a lover’s fingers and they moaned that true love right back at him. Wood and wire and flesh spoke.”

So how does one explain the re-emergence of Bromberg? After a dozen albums and constant touring during the 1970s and 1980s with a lot of humor and instrumental verve, this noted master of guitar, fiddle, dobro, mandolin, pedal steel guitar decided he was burned out on the whole business, broke up his band, and retreated into a life of relative obscurity. But alas, that's a media-generated idea: that someone disappears when they aren't in the public life. He was simply off the public radar. But now, at age 70, he's back on the road.

"I was really doing well," he says of that time during the late 1980s when he broke up the band. "I was working too much without a break. I toured for two years straight and never went home. I realized that when I got off the road I was burnt out, but I didn't realize that until later. I came to the conclusion that I wasn't a musician anymore. When I wasn't performing, I wasn't writing, I wasn't playing on my own. I realized I was I-don't-know-what."

There were some studio credits along the way, as he appeared on other people's records here and there. But he says he wasn't really pursuing life as a musician for some time.

"I didn't play much guitar," he says. "The performing I did was very sporadic. I took 22 years off and I didn't realize I could step back in."

What he did instead was learn how to make violins. First, he enrolled in the Kenneth Warren School of Violin Making in Chicago. But he wasn't as interested in knowing how to make violins as he was in trying to identify them. Especially violins made in the United States. Something just clicked in his archival mind about these instruments. He became an avid collector and known expert on violins. He now has a collection of 263 violins made in America, which he has offered to the Library of Congress. And when someone had a violin they needed to identify, Bromberg became the go-to guy.

"How do you tell what they are is what fascinated me," he says. "I started looking at violins, learning how to identify the makers, gaining the knowledge of the different makers. Now, in one small area of the violin world, American-made violins, I'm considered something of an expert."

After moving to Wilmington, Delaware, he opened a retail store and repair shop for violins and other instruments, David Bromberg Fine Violins. The business was part of a revitalization of that part of Wilmington, but it also became a place where Bromberg himself became revitalized.

By the next year, after the mayor of Wilmington had mentioned live music had once been a common offering in that part of town, Bromberg was leading what he called a regular "jam session." As it turned out, he didn't have to travel to play. He just stayed home, and people came to him.
"Some very good musicians started to show up, some of them from a long way away," he says.
Thus began the musical re-education of David Bromberg.

"I learned a whole bunch about singing," he says. "Phoebe Snow gave me some very good advice about singing. During the period I wasn't performing, I took some voice lessons. Now I sing a lot better than I did in the 1970s. I don't have the speed on the guitar that I used to have. That part is gone."

Within five years of moving to Wilmington, and after getting encouragement from the likes of bluegrass players Chris Hillman and Herb Pederson, he was ready to start recording again. He formed the David Bromberg Quintet and returned to the recording world with the 2007 release called, naturally, "Try Me One More Time."

It was nominated for a Grammy.

That was followed by a recording project that started with some playing for fun with John Hiatt, but became a concept Bromberg called "Use Me." He invited a wide variety of artists -- Hiatt, Levon Helm, Los Lobos, Tim O'Brien, Vince Gil, Keb' Mo, Linda Ronstadt -- to suggest songs they wrote for him to cover, and then Bromberg would perform and record them. Then came an opportunity to record with producer Larry Campbell, a longtime friend and former producer and player for Levon Helm and Bob Dylan. The David Bromberg Band emerged with "Only Slightly Mad," which Bromberg says "is an old-time David Bromberg record" since it jumps around from Chicago-style blues to bluegrass, gospel and English drinking songs.

That ability to create shows and records with "too many different styles," as he put it, is why in the past decade Bromberg has earned the nickname "The Godfather of Americana."

"I did not make it (the nickname) up," he laughs. "When I was originally performing, there was no such thing as Americana. Commercial record stores couldn't figure out where to put me. Was I in the rock section, the blues section, the folk section, all the stuff I do. Now all of that is just called Americana, and that's what I was doing for all of those years."

Bromberg is from the generation born at the end of World War II (in 1945 in Philadelphia, later raised in Tarrytown, New York) that was just waiting to discover rock'n'roll by the time he was a teen in the late 1950s. However, he was more attracted to roots music than the mainstream Elvi of his day. He discovered Peter Seeger and the Weavers, and was especially drawn to the blues. A fan of Big Bill Broonzy and Muddy Waters, he discovered a now lesser known blind blues player by the name of Reverend Gary Davis, who he asked to teach him to play guitar while living in Greenwhich Village in New York,

He says he enrolled in Columbia University with the intention of becoming a musicology major, but he never got far enough along in his studies to actually study "musicology."

"I never got to the point where that actually happened," he says.

Nevertheless, he says the exposure to the lively Village music scene in the mid-1960s was essentially a study in numerous kinds of music that he was interested in. Now, in later years, his exposure to all forms of folk, blues, country, jazz and so on has led him to being just as undefinable. How does he remember that fabled time scrambling to make a living as a musician in the Village?

"Even when I got to the Village, people were saying it was not the same as it used to be, and they are still saying it now," he says. "What I remember is the joy that we all got when playing that music. We loved that music and we loved each other."

After a time playing for tips, he became a sought-after studio musician and backing musician for Tom Paxton, Jerry Jeff Walker and Rosalie Sorrels. Then he began to flourish as a hired hand for recording sessions, including for Bob Dylan's "New Morning" and "Self Portrait" LPs.

For the next decade or more, Bromberg played with a who's who of musicians. He got his first record deal in 1970 after getting a chance to play as a stand-in at the Isle of Wight Festival. The performance was so well received that Columbia Records offered him a recording contract. In 1971 his debut album included the song "The Holdup," the product of a collaboration with former Beatle George Harrison. Then he met members of the Grateful Dead, and they played on his next two albums.

At that point, his music was deep into the blues and folk, and his nasally voice (somewhat in the timbre of a jazzy Neil Young) wasn't great but it was laced with a lot of irony and sarcasm. That style, featuring horns and all kinds of other instruments with an increasingly large ensemble, developed a hit with a seven-minute version of "Mr. Bojangles," which interwove stories about traveling with the song's writer, Jerry Jeff Walker.

His humor is a trademark. For example, on "Only Slightly Mad," there's a song about how he'll take a lover back when, among other impossibilities, "they find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq." Even his liner notes on the CD are self-deprecating. He describes the song "Strongest Man Alive," about surviving all kinds of challenges where others have not, as "an old English drinking song that I wrote. Well, I wrote it and it sounds like an old English drinking song."

His shows are now like eclectic journeys into his encyclopedic mind, and the songs he chooses are as eccentric as he is.

"What I like in humorists," he says, "are people who take their subjects very seriously, but don't take themselves very seriously."


In the Beginning There Was a Word from Our Sponsors

Welcome, O welcome 
the many winged archetypes, 
supple and black, 
enfolded in milky white, 
milky way white, 
hanging in midair, 
peering through 
the portal, the slinky tube 
of the time traveling 
Dream Catcher wheel. 

Help is on the way ... 
Hooray. Hooray. 
Help is on the way … 
Hooray. Hooray. 
For whom? 
I cannot say. 

They exist in the imperfect 
Shapeless spaces unifying 
Our oppositional own imperfect 
Spaces. They resonate in 
The ripples of the swimming 
Pool light at moonlight, 
And intimate choices 
Made by man and volcano 
Long ago. 

Help is on the way … 
Hooray. Hooray. 
Help is on the way .. 

As they wave, pleading, 
Begging for business deals, 
Moving closer to our dreams, 
Tumbling through timeless 
Synchronistic switches 
That speak our name. 
They twitch in the fierce 
Firestorm of the Eve-bitten 
Apple, and dance, 
frightened and purple 

Help is on the way, 
They hope and pray: 
Hooray. Hooray. 
Their master, like ours, 
Has up and gone away.


The Free Emergency Exorcism (Phoenix Uprising)

with the Phoenix police

in the tear gas times

sittin' in with the news models,

are chillin' in the sussustudio,

but at Second and Van Buren

the naughty are brewing for a fight

covering their eyes with their hands,

flying under the radar, naked in the desert lands,

charring up their fairy bones

and she gotta work in the morning

but now she's gotta go underground,

seven years of peace got no peace,

seven years of yeast infections and got no lease

and nothing to do but now, with two options,

fight or retreat, the sulfur fire burning in the face,

facing the master race, the canininites out in front,

the Trump channel turning on,

with Willie and Bernie and Babe and Rat Bear,

fired up in the fat fog, crazy as the Fourth Estate Guy,

who gets it next, they grab him by the neck,

with the K9 unit comin' down to bring the Jesus ...

If only because there is hope for all of us.

If only. If. Only. Hope for all. One nation,

under great odds. One nation going quite O my gawd.

One nation under the heat. One nation under many storms, 

within, and without, increasingly so more without, than in.

We the people who formed a better thing than the One. 

We the people thinking outside the box of lost frogs,

running in amok, in the muck, like dead peasants, dead ducks:

One nation running out of luck, dying in the yuck, what the fucks

while money is speech, and speech is drowned in the diffusion

of the quickening, the quicker, the more dead. Ain't it so, Fred?

One nation, screwed to the floor by the Fed. 

Many who are now dead, 

One nature under the unnatural

with enemies from within,

enemies from without,

with no time to twist or shout

E kay Gee. Spy king of the KGB. 

Tree sap sucked out of the trees,

quite untested and without a teevee,

can't even afford a teepee, nor TP;

Oh thine eye that always sees,

we are all more nerve-wracked

than sea-sickened honey bees

Could it be the sun?

One nation under the gun?

The dogs set loose to run?

The mysteries of the sea?

The networks selling beer,

fear, the diva of the year?

Is it all above as so below?

Do you have an inkling, Drumpf,

do you even know?

This is more than just your reality show.

It's all about the gas, man.

It. Is. All. About. The gas.

To keep us running fast,

to win the future that never exists,

running past the master plan,

the Season of the Man,

the runover Santas,

long gone since Viet Nam,

on the long gone corner,

holding out a can

for loose change,

answered with a "Thank you, mam."

And then there's nurse named Mary, 

who died at the crisp of the Great Recession

The daughter who lost her mind, 

only to become wild

in the whoosh of the North,

now a witch, living in the woods,

living in the ditch, hounded by the cyclops,

who beat her back down, black and blue, bruises to prove ...

the soul-eating Egregore is born in red, white but who?

But they hesitate to arrest her again,

since she knows her God-given Black Madonna Gothic civil rights,

and the peace officers don't need that now, not tonight

Oh Lord! O gawd no oh no. Oh Lord. 

On the day the telephone call came, 

hearing of her mother's suicide,

after losing her job, her home,

her pride, all in one week,

She was never the same and neither was I.

One nation of fevered 

beauty queens to the south,

cast in a world of doubt

Fighting their way up the ladder

in service industry jobs.

Feeding the piggy slobs,

reptilians with their morning eggs.

Swabbing the decks.

Driven to exhaustion by the heat,

carbon dioxide

Working double-time

to make a dent even close

to the way their father had it,

their grandfather, even harder,

since the farm is gone.

The trouble all starts when the land is sold. 

This world is too old. 

It's gone into retro,

and softly luminescent

in the swimming pool

moonish day-glow.

Enemies from within, 

tangle like the angels and devils

of our best and worst energies

with the enemies from without ...

No one's got no clout. 

It's money that talks. Money that shouts. 

Generation boomers,

checking on their Bloombergs

in their Sunday morning bloomers,

saying fuck them man it's me firsts,

me precious, me firsts. Me. Precious.

One nation under the fog

in breach-birth and stinking of bongs,

trying to just somehow get along,

singing one long damn "American Idol" song.

but the video goes up and it's show time on CNN

with the feedback meme running just a little too long.

but she made the clip, she tragically hip.

You can see her in the light

O gawd no. No. Can't be. Mary sweet God No!

Not My MOM! No!

Hidden in the fright. Full of worries,

nothing ever new, nothing ever right,

just her truth and her second sight,

asking the Baphomet what to do tonight.

Feedback loop. Fruit loop truths,

in the ultra violet byte,

killing the metaphysical germs,

living with the worms,

just past the portal

the truth of our most ancient

ancestors wrestle with their immortal,

just closing their eyes to feel normal.

We are one stand.

Like the Aspen, man.

Listen. Just listen. If you can.

Look into the free emergency exorcism light,

then you'll feel a little sick,

did I mention Tricky Dick,

what is the password again?

You been hypnotized, again and again,

I know you don't remember and it ain't no sin.

Now you can be just a human being

A human being. A human. Being.

O say can you see by the dawn's early light,

Jack the Jester and the Bard are here with you,

holding your tiny little hands

It's no shame, man

You can still be a hero

to the everyman

~ Douglas McDaniel,
Phoenix, Arizona,
August 23, 2017

Douglas McDaniel does way too many things at once. 
but if you Google "Mythville," that will be him, for you,
 one damn googlewack in the morning hue.


Wellington Station

Wellington Station

I saw you across
the commuter aisle
twitching and huffing
at Wellington Station.

I, too, am a loser
in the war. I lay
down my sword.

Set my auto alight.
Left it a funereal husk,
just a memory
to the challenges
of sunny October days.

Be still, my brother,
my angel of anxiety.
I see you gasping,
reading the news,
oh so careful
about what you touch,
what we all touch.

We meet in common
places of terror, our
shared communiques...

Oh veteran.
Oh war lord;
I lay down my arms,
I comply, I let go,
I ride smoothly
into the inner-city
bowels of tension
and glittering dreams.

Then I will take on the attire
of Napoleon's three-pointed hat.
I will curtsy, bend, that is,
into the sweet reflection
of what a peaceful city
wants to be.

The war news is hard,
ubiquitous as pearls and steel
and mobile phones.
My train runs silently,
beneath the stars and stripes
of all conquering heroes.

The Bunker Hill spire
is muted through glass
running by in the opposite,
direction. I descend
down the catwalk
of morbid hell. Silence
encloses me in a weightless
pipe of dread.

I am a monster.
I confess it all.
Just this, please,
after this night,
on the battlefield
of Boston,
will you let me
safely caress
my love, my sweet
daughter's face, or,
anything else I can keep
perfect or sane
for a whole rail yard
of days.

Let me retreat
with my bag of games,
my pen, my spear,
my telefrantic machines.
Let me walk, just one more time
into the target valley
of technology.

And though I will breathe
the very microbes of hell,
through pile drives, tunnels,
lost wheels and poisoned wells,
the endless botched catacomb
of the world you made:
Oh Wellington, allow my return
to Corsica, even Elbe, I will allow.
Where I can be at peace.

With who? Myself, at least,
as I wait for the night
to fall upon your victory.
If Napoleon could stoop
this far into the refrigerator,
he would have become
a suburban monk like me.

~ Boston, Massachusetts,
written October, 2001,
for the commemorative book of poetry,
and includes the following two related poems ...