Like all of life the

flame is fleeting even

if it cannot be called

alive or if it is

smoldering or

emberous or

willowy or

enraged in

its fulminous brevity

it coaxes and

canoodles

it draws us near

and

it is

a con.

 

When it burns it burns and

it will leave a mark.

 

-Danny Grosso

 

A heartbreak beat

an epoch of nighttimes

dancing in

blue lights

another world spinning

around us.

 

Wanna be a cowboy

the white coat versus

the black hat

statecrafting in the sleepless

gloaming up there

where the cold earth is

primeval and unchanged and

steam roars up from the

venerable landscape among the

shards of the ice age

they seek a thaw but

cannot coax the flame.

 

In the club a chorus but

not a bridge

it’s never enough.

 

We dance on through the

lack of weapons regressions to

a new order

Shellshock

and the irony of the

age provides a propulsive and

incessant back beat.

Keep moving –

it may all end soon but

don’t give up the game

until your heart stops beating.

 

–Danny Grosso

I made this world

as I moved around it

above and below

and of late

within

and also that one over

there the same

but different, has

deeper colored

storms

that sweep away the

remnants of my hand

only to

as in all these worlds in

time regenerate my legacy

each spin

a new brood of

my spiral

 

All these worlds

are stamped like this with

my and your

imprint and

no matter how we doll

them up

they will be insufferable

places

if we forget that

abandoning what one

makes is simply

indecent

 

The trumpet sounds

recede into the

distant rumbling of

souls stirring

and the colors

change in

all these worlds and

it is all so beautiful

 

The mother loves the child

and the planter her crop and

so love and all that it is

the hope and the desperation and

the work and the joy

beckons the power of

the winds in all these worlds

that push the storms

that must come the

quake and the tsunami and

the flood and then

the regeneration on

soils so ravaged that

they are suddenly desperate

to grow things

that are wild and free

like sunflowers

tall grasses and

trees, like children

summering by

the sea, like unrelenting

compassion

liberality and

peace

 

-Danny Grosso

 

 

 

White fog, flurry

winged messengers

confetti

tickertape chyron

magnified static

from video screens

once modest diversion

once a day

‘round the clock now

raining down

like Deckard’s L.A.

saturating

all we see

until we can’t

see

losing perspective

within the camera

lucida

we call the

Information Age.

 

Turn your face to

the torrent

in defiant acceptance

if you must close

your eyes

open

your mind.

 

Comes the storm that feeds

the ground.

Comes the seasons’

turnaround.

 

 

– Danny Grosso

 

 

In the dark of

the cold room

a fire burns

as the rapture begins

a body turns

 

Would it be so bad to

join the show –

is it not right for

a girl to take flight?

 

And I feel you singing

to me

 

Delusions that delight

or at least do no harm

are done out of sight

somehow losing their charm.

Would it be nice

if for all to see

you set out your tricks

by which you

bewitch me?

 

Outside all is crumbling

innocents falling to harm

and we have no insight

to call to arm

because we’re floating about

insides all alight

of a tale we’re told

that comes alive every night.

 

Spinning in space

ensconced in delight

too rapt to notice

something’s not right.

 

Yet I feel you singing

to me

 

The colors unfolding

bleeding over the blight

affliction may come

I don’t care if it might.

Set me here on a plinth

’neath some holy light

let me pretend

that the day is the night.

 

-Danny Grosso

 

 

Let the thunder

roll

baby

let the thunder

roll

over field and town

paddy and home

let it roll

back the pillars of

reason and the

legacy for which

we bled

long ago

before the silver birds flew

before the thunder

before the roll.

 

If the nepalm burns

let it roll

if the hueys abort

let it roll

time alone

in the fields or

Hilton cages

are steam from

the rice cooking

on our stove.

Nothing’s important

not you not

me

but the repute of those

that built this machine

that thunders

that rolls

over thrice-covered ground

that designs

then destroys

so a mistake can be

unseen.

 

-Danny Grosso

 

 

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