In the darkness of

the field

where the blood

meets the mud

the half-life of

screams

rings the quiet

 

The states fell then and

the state fails now and

the marchers are itching

for fighting

 

The sickness below

shakes the heavens above

enraging the meek and the giant

 

They were falling from the sky

falling from the sky

the tears of the angels defiant

falling from the sky

falling from the sky

but the deluge was

hidden and silent

 

The wrinkled old man

hat in his hand

surveys the remnants of battle

The pampered old man

pen in his hand

sees nothing he cannot dismantle

 

The sickness below

compels the heavens above

send a signal to

raise the compliant

 

There were ghosts of the

fallen and

suicide stars

and marchers

just itching for fighting

 

They were falling from the sky

falling from the sky

bodies discharged from their courses

falling from the sky

falling from the sky

a mission

to shame the remorseless.

 

–Danny Grosso

 

It’s hard to tell

for all the telling

of tales and sonnets

revelries gone by

all the laughing and

singing and dancing

pomp

and happenstance

what was really happening

while we were working

and schooling

living

they were

spying

and lying

dying

behind the facade

a cut up backdrop

a curtain of iron

places people

summon the sovereigns’

smiles and later denials

it’s hard to tell

what was really happening.

Except that it was

really happening

in front of our eyes or

the cameras that subbed for

our eyes

making it easy

enough to see

for those that cared to

really look at

the show that played on

its final act that ended the Cold War

and gave us a peace dividend

of dubious value.

Everything that ends

all right isn’t

all right.

An actor skilled in his craft

can still deceive

even if only

for benevolent motives.

A people starving for ease

can still believe

even as the truces slip again

into danger.

There remain dark corners

unexplored.

The world may be a better place.

It’s hard to tell.

 

-Danny Grosso

 

Turn the light on so

you can’t see outside

let’s sit here in the night

where we belong.

It’s so like us to be

on display

lets give them a show

under firefly glow.

 

Turn the light on so

they can see inside

one last lie

nothing left to hide.

What left us behind

was more than pride

hold onto my hand

and the tide we’ll abide.

 

Hard lines on the highway

to get us here

blurred by the speed

of the ride.

Charlatan chorus

immodest veneers

clowns selling nothing but fear.

 

And it’s quiet here

in the evening’s meadow

and the moon’s afterglow.

 

Turn the light off so

we can see outside

turn back the trifling and

tricks they’ve tried.

Hold onto each other

like husband and bride

a brave face to the world

with a little hope beside.

 

-Danny Grosso

The zealous counsel

who prosecuted

his father’s associates

acted as if he knew

no better

as he ruthlessly pursued

ruthlessness as an end

from hearing tables

then campaign offices

from convention halls

then hotel rooms

from the Department of Justice

then a carpet bag.

But somewhere

in there

before the carpet bag

something happened

that terrible Friday

that scrambled the process

scattered the will

scored the heart

changed everything inside

red division to

blue harmony

Machiavelli to

Shakespeare.

On a trip to Mt. Kennedy he saw

his own insignificance

on a trip to Appalachia he saw

his own ineffectualness

on a trip to Arlington he cried

again.

Two brothers lost now

the last a real blow

a part of himself

gone

for what – if not what’s

next

the future

what Jack always spoke about

so hopefully

so gracefully

so heartbreaking

now.

In the blue of the mornings and evenings

ruthlessness ebbs with the tide

washing away with each passing wave.

You can hear it in his voice

in each oration until the very end

a search for beneficent consensus

in which the predator

seeks the pardon

of his former prey.

A ship lost at sea has

a longer way home

than the ship working

the ferry line.

How much a man changes has

a lot to do

with where he’s placed himself

when the changing begins.

–Danny Grosso

And then there it was

just a box

then an image

a flickering dandy

a king

grainy black and white

in a purple satin time.

 

Where we come from isn’t

where we are

except when

it is

the beginning

of framing the product

of veiling the apostate

of muting the dissonant

of spinning the narrative

of lying.

 

He was brutishly handsome

enough alone to

provoke

the sanitizers of the populace

and then he moved.

How

he

moved.

 

They filmed him from the waist up

a video emasculation

a pacification of unruly musical roots

a subjugation

a black and white washing

and the first

socio-political

television

lie.

 

-Danny Grosso

Something of more

value

than riches

priceless gems, silver and

gold

is missing

or is at least

harder to find

in certain places and

uncertain times.

 

The ancients spoke of it

as a beautiful person

or a fountain

of eternal reason

an ever accessible

helpmate

and a form of love.

 

So sure in their sentiments –

it must remain

still among us

within us

if lost only within the

distractions, distortions,

the distresses of

everyday life.

 

The stoplight casts its red glare.

A street person furtively eyes a stopped car.

He has something in his hand.

Children meander in the crosswalk.

An old woman reminisces on the corner.

The car radio is announcing another tragedy.

The street person approaches the vehicle.

The driver reaches for his weapon.

 

–Danny Grosso 

So much change

all at once

not always a bad thing

the shot that erases the pain

the heart

that starts beating again.

A new school

a new routine

a new sound

a new regime.

 

There are ships on the horizon.

 

A cultural exfoliation

reveals a searing sensitivity.

A cloak of black leather

repels a saccharine society.

 

There are ships on the horizon

they are coming for the coasts

and everything is changing.

 

The small difference between

brown and black

is the turn of epochs.

A face in the mirror

matured overnight.

Streets deepened by

a cleansing rain in spring.

I stand at the source of

an endless avenue

turned to stream

then river

then endless bay

and there are ships on the horizon.

 

-Danny Grosso

 

Frank D. Roosevelt

chirps Tatum O’Neal

says we’re all family now and

crafty pink Winston

says he’s a bottle of champagne and

while swells of his own station

dismiss him as

that man

he keeps getting elected

by those not affronted enough

to banish his name from the tongue

and even to them

he seems jovial.

 

It makes sense somehow

the mystery of his popularity when

seeing him with the little black shadow

following him around or

on his lap as he drives

that car with the pedals on the wheel and

he trills the name

that jumps from the tongue

part of a Christmas song.

No shadows without a sun.

 

The Navy guys make accommodations

on great trips of massive import

an officer to escort

while the old man is summiting

below decks they would speak of it

long after the darkening days

how little shadow arrived in 1940

along with one much bigger

and more ominous.

 

-Danny Grosso

New haircuts and

registering for the draft

a night sky brighter than the

neon signs below it

a sibling rivalry in a family of blue.

A fill up is sky high and

back seat’s full of friends

we’ll park and walk the fest

see the neighborhood girls

until the recession ends

then we’ll venture further out

that is

unless the Russians drop the bomb

now that they are an evil empire and

we are losing the arms race

to a country with empty shelves.

Meet me on the corner

we’ll walk beneath the Italian lights

like it’s Christmas in July

and nothing can fall from the sky

but snow.

The squeezebox man will sing

the old songs for us and

we’ll dance real close

under the lighted canopy

hidden away

from satellites’ sight.

–Danny Grosso

Instagram @artispolitics

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Rhetorical optimism

a breeze and

shade

a sense of doom

under canopy of horror and

hope.

 

Everything seemed blue

the unclouded sky and

the storm

the wide ocean and

the narrow beach at sunrise

the bare of skin in

the moonlight

the white linen dress in

the black light.

 

Were we surrounded by it all along –

without noticing ?

Or, was it new,

and if so,

did it come with the talk of morning in America –

or with the chorus about us dying any day?

 

Maybe the gas gave the neon its blue glow, or

perhaps it was blue because we wanted it so –

to match

to belong

to compliment the mood of the age

because we longed to be in it

immersed

submerged and saturated

on Saturday nights

dancing the time away

unnerved and unknowing

kinetic

yet fixed

targets on a map

on a wall in

another blue room

far

far

away.

 

-Danny Grosso