Editor’s note: Lou Morelli is a Chicago musician, tech savior, and honorable friend of this site. He asked me to collaborate with him for the above post.

-D

Lift twist bend release

I sing

Sweet dreams are made of this

silently, maybe

the machines are so loud

I could be screaming

without drawing a crowd.

 

Up by the bootstraps

pound of the heel

Mr. Laffer’s curve

runs away from here

past the ones in the middle

the country held so dear

to recessionomics and atomic fear.

 

All that’s left of those billboards

they put up in the 50’s

of the dream and the car and the 2.5

is the photo I saw in the library

and the dreams our fathers keep alive.

 

Lift twist bend release

the guy next to me sent

by football coaches

some college in the south

of some renown

to slim him down

bulk him up

So we move like twin arms

of the same common brain

one after another

or dancers

with a 3 second delay

He drinks gallons of water each day

I sing

 

Sweet dreams are made of this

screaming and not drawing a crowd

The Soviets said they had a plan

yet now they’re meeting with the actor man.

 

Lift twist bend release

Ten hours in a tin can

in a hot summer when it was not yet morning

in America

not in the Midwest

not in this factory.

 

–Danny Grosso 

One of those wet mornings

more than dew

less than rain

when the first of the sun

moves like slow glistening arms

and the front yard looks ready to leave for a party

wrapped in cellophane.

Summer’s coming.

 

At the water’s edge

the gap between worlds is tiny

or not there at all

the sea mixes with sand and sand with sea

blue and yellow

become green

and sometimes

red.

 

Bathers lay or frolic

stand in footprints made once

by soldiers

landing or repelling.

This place between worlds

where memory ebbs and flows

tides of pain and bliss

history and ignorance to it

or just willful forgetting.

There’s the sun, after all

and the breeze in the sea air

filled with voices

between the worlds

ebbs and flows

remember, forget

remember, forget.

Summer’s coming.

 

–Danny Grosso

 

 

 

 

The suits now look like they did back then

a little shinier

a little slimmer

on the men rushing around him, past him

through him.

He is reminded that a legacy sometimes

has no physical component

brick and mortar

or fire

or sons.

He likes to go, in times like these

walking past the building they named after his brother

and further out

across the river of history and away from the white stone curtains

that hide what he knew before, and more

what he’s learned since

out to the old General’s land

to the flame still alight

two stones there now.

Light changes so fast now.

No accounting for time,

one instant a nighttime blizzard

the next a sunny cherry blossom flurry.

 

–Danny Grosso

 

 

 

 

While seemingly new

and inspired just today

or yesterday

when the pink flesh

turned acid red

or maroon

like a Midway lineman

just into the scrum

This feeling that’s become

a movement, a fire, a vocation

desire

has instead been among  us

about and within

longer than memory

past both elation and chagrin

suviving even the pall.

Ask the Haymarket marchers

before the bomber came to call.

Ask Teddy’s Progressives

Henry Wallace’s too

all those marchers

on the Washington mall

Paul Robeson singing

Woody Guthrie and all

strumming together

on ox carts and boxcars

This Land is Your Land

an old classic now

but it was sung among those

with the Populist vow

long before twenty-somethings

attached to their phones

were dreams of their fathers

were frightened or sour

or just wishing for something

that’s just not allowed.

The massing together

of those who’d disobey

is a natural result

of the American way.

 

–Danny Grosso