That time of year

or campaign season

when the candidates

stir the old stew

though it has surely gone bad

from exposure to light

so we get it on discount

from second and third string operatives

waiting for the next relaunch

makes one envious of insomniacs

words overwhelm

or numb the mind

letters floating in the air

forming signs

pop art

and platitudes.

Not much of it worth reading

or hearing

sad to say.

Going south for the duration

see you after Labor Day.

 

–Danny Grosso

 

While we were all in Berlin

the wall

fell.

 

For us

dancing, reveling

in a club called Berlin

under an elevated train track

in Chicago,

the imagining

of destruction

of the human pen,

of walking across no man’s land

at the border

and into the other side

to see lost relatives

and memories,

was all just a fleeting rush

of cool air

with just the right music

on a hot dance floor

abounding in silliness

or maybe not;

no more hiding under desks

for air raid drills

or living like that Prince song.

But imagine what it felt like

over there.

The real sight

of an opening

forty years in the making.

The tactile satisfaction

of taking the sledge to concrete.

The immemorial poignancy

of taking one’s lost other

into one’s arms

in unity.

And in Washington

a moment of hope –

there was to be no more war,

for it was time to spend on butter

now that the big guns were not needed.

Overnight, so much more

seemed possible.

Over time, so much more

seemed a little too ambitious.

 

While we were all in Berlin

the wall

fell.

 

-Danny Grosso

 

 

 

Familiar whispers

on darkened streets

or even under street lamps

casting long shadows

as if trying to trick us

into thinking it daylight.

Sometimes the whispers commune

and grow

many voices sound louder

than one

but not always wiser.

 

Campaigns muster

candidates bluster.

 

When they get to the point where

they ridicule the erudite

the noise begins to pierce

and when they begin to deny the scientific

record

they lose me

to the sound of my own voice

within

a small steady current

low and true

summoned from thousands of

yellowing pages

of ideas

of dreams

of fitful nights with pen in hand

of books to save

from burning.

 

–Danny Grosso