Saturday, February 24, 2024

 WOUNDED

 

I’ll walk among 
the wounded
not for the pain
but the crazy
what’s left on remainder
a membership
in altered states
where I slip behind
purity gates
I’ll walk among the wounded
in a private country
no need to undo me
left behind from birth
for what that is worth
again and again
I will favor imbalance
life is so messy
like a ruffled valance
in an empty room

what do I choose
I’m a fake happily
in a real situation
and then painfully
when confronted 
with creation
how do I manage
a lie over and over
I find the ones who know
when to discover
that  water flows
that water will save us 
the small in the earth
the deep in the well
I won’t beg for salvation
in a roomful of friends
or strip the lead 
from the lip
pull the cork from revenge
life is imbalance
what I wish for is instant
what i get is 
fame naturally
it comes from a distance
like a comforting film
arrives like a blister
a gift from the sun
I’ll walk among wounded
mystery’s sister
make me laugh now
make me sinister
be my friend through all winters
bind our feet together
trample enemies forever
walk among the wounded
discern the trust
walk among us
light footed
and make no fuss

9.27.13



ALARM


you have escaped 

sound the alarm 

pass through the door

touch my arm

so I know beyond death

there is still a kind roar

nod from the afterlife

across celestial moors

wink from abroad

drag a chair over the floor

let me know that the gang

who have since crossed-over

reads books, drinks wine

contemplates lovers

touch my arm

catch my eye with

a fleet moving shadow

make me nervous at midnight

shriek a silent falsetto

argue mortality

make me sound dumb

give me the room

on my swollen tongue

to find words that match

your gracious passing

to stop and reflect

that death does the asking

we decide on ruckus

or simply respond

like a slow-moving duck

over a still life pond

sound the alarm

get me ready

for whatever it takes

while I’m here

while I’m living

the heart will break

into pieces that grow

like new limbs on a starfish 

and just when I’ve been

bereft of courtship

opaque after bloodletting 

drawn from my heart

the chair scrapes

and sits on a heavenly floor

I have a seat

when I’m done with my purpose

a slow-moving passport

with the ones who are there.

 

2.23.12

nyc

Monday, January 29, 2024


 She’s at the i-don’t-care stage

Again
It’s the middle of the night
Again
It’s a good sign
She thinks
As it always is to those
who don’t fear her
or try to revere her
It’s a good sign she thinks
To those who defy her
To those who remind her
It’s a good sign when she’s angry
A good sign when she’s cursed
When the story hits a manhole
Like a digger
It’s better for the worst
Whatever that means in
Her female desert of freeze-dried tears
She’s at the i-don’t care stage
Possibly for years of a rage
For what she has left on the shelf
It’s the middle of the night
Again
It’s a good sign
She thinks
To go for a run
In her dreams

Tuesday, January 23, 2024

 




Smokin’ Willy’s Weed

Goes down easily
Teasily
Unforgiveably reasonably
Grateful for the friend who delivers
De letter de sooner
De better
Message well-earned from
Lightning circumstance
Opening the poetical nerve of those that hate us
Who tolerate our presence
I am honored again
I am hungry and fateless
I am older and maceless
Because if you want to undermine
Do it like lemon rinds
begging a bluebird
Until the surprise rings explosive
Then you know you have told this story before.
And nobody died.
Nobody came before.
Nobody died in this nobody war.
Smokin’ Willy’s weed just like before.
Painted on cave walls
Destroyed by wars
Grateful for the friend who delivers
What goes down easily
Reviles beastiality and the
Slow thrust of rivers
Destroyed by war
Grateful for the no end of endings
Begging a squirrel to monitor sendings
Of good will and happily ever afters
Grateful for the fuckers who discovered the boardwalk
The underneath
The choking remark
On the failure of boy and girl
Grateful for the no end of endings
Begging a squirrel to monitor sendings
Of good will and happily ever afters
Grateful as fuck with no nod to pretension
No unreliable mention of war
She seeks a slower less angrier pace
Squirrels on call to keep the peace
I am fucking lonely she wails
To no one in place
I am sack cloth and ashes
I am no ones disgrace
I am older and thinner and historically sound
I am you with your arms wrapped around
My complacency
For now until I run the race of me.
Smokin’ Willy’s Weed
Goes down easily
Teasily
Unforgiveably reasonably

nyc 1.22.24

Wednesday, January 3, 2024

 


It’s time to write a poem she said

 

Opened front doors forecast dread

Still lighter than a darksome home

 

Pecking naive transformation

Wounded like a crossing guard

She bangs her chest in absolution

 

What about this fucking poem

She screams in flightless fury

Searching for the nowhere compass

Redirecting dreams unknown

 

Her small arms reach familiar height

Leaves bloodied reason in the lane

The child becomes the ageless poet

Picks off attackers in lyric refrain

Never to set false hearts alight

 

Mustering truth among the shards

Re-made from broken arrows shot

She bangs her chest again with conviction

Renounces steps from false Camelot

Humored forever she follows intention

Escaping from the thumbless bard

 

Kneels and pries her uncorked anger

From a fully loaded glass of wine

The bag of lies they offered her

Full of listless danger tricks

Transparent as their unsound friendship

Returned forever their shipment of lies

A poem arrives a welcome sign

 

Dropping words in her once barren lap

A prayer to the end of everything

Depends on the sender

And the poet who believes 

Fully christened urges to rend 

Clarified fury on liars and thieves

She pens in silence her atheist prayers 

In a rarefied notebook to pain

 

They will force her inner child exposed

In their foul-smelling bunker of lies

Slowly invading the song of the poet

Wallowing then in spineless endurance

Like lice in the hair or cancerous starlings 

She paws the earth a misread boar 

Transitioned out of unbending fury

Front door knocker heralds dread

Winged doves arrive instead

 

It’s time to write a poem she said

 

nyc

1.3.23


Monday, December 11, 2023

 



she was once his father’s lover 

rendered in a portrait unseen
nights like these
late and inky and full of spleen
she remembers frothy beginnings
she remembers the barbed wire ends
how distance will grow like mold on a tree
when she is expected to
remember free
when she has ejected false memory 
it arrives like a low-lying hawk in flight
how she took the boy to Coney on
the pirate ship ride
when he was smaller than she
childlike, eternal, funneled and frightened 
the fearful mother
what each woman is certain
she will always know
no matter the clutter of sons and daughters
or nothing to show
he was her son, her pirate in tow
until trapped like rats on a towering stage
she bellowed her anger
the two of them caged
take us down
take us down
she shouted from heights
a long silent ride from the island of mirth
that night in her rooms when they fell down to earth
together forever for what is worth
still determined he said
that grown up child of dissent
back to the past’s reality berth
but I am still determined he said to see you at your convenience 
let me know when, she said
let me know when it will work

 

8.20.22

nyc 



 

Tuesday, October 24, 2023



reservoir dreaming
answers lie deeper than time
waving not drowning
nyc 10.24.23

Tuesday, October 3, 2023


 

unbelonging

 

are you writing?

yes, and you?

I am, she said. How slowly is another story. 

 

it’s only broken glass and bullet holes

strewn across an asphalt jungle

bitter news of current wars

set upon by broken crows

 

unbelonging requires maps in multitudes

language shrill or under wraps 

the cunts who laugh at all the fuss

cleaning up comes after us

 

she likes her tea in a bath underwater

terrorists will sometimes surround her

content must be bigger than form

now that the dark gets in

 

there are things I think I don’t want to know

 

are you writing?

yes, and you?

I am, she said. How slowly is another story. 


nyc 10.3.23


 

Friday, July 14, 2023

 



flame

 

 

she’s a self-igniting moth

has been since fire was invented

gone up in flames 

only slower

than orange-robed men

lit a crowded town square

faster than a slow succession

 

she’s the open-hearted wrath

has been since no wars have ended

drowned by the noise

only louder

when frenzied birds laugh

under lamp post despair

louder than a bishop’s blessing 

 

she’s the best of sweet relief

has been since a rogue placenta

flooded with grief

sailing under

where embryos flew

across deserts mid-air

destined for the deepest cave-in

 

she’s the cover under dark

has been since a fresh reminder

pigeon-holed note

on a window

where harmed mothers clucked

over eggs that will never be raised.

 

nyc 7.14.23 

Thursday, April 6, 2023

 


Sissyphuss

She has herself a little cry
Not one to flail like a fully opened lotus
You know those
Blossom bombs that float like scum on a pond
You know the
Messages implied in the end you are done
Crying
Absolving,
Redrawing
And crawling from
The craters of ignorance
The sewers of romance
Those untidy typos in ransom notes
She has herself a little cry
Amp turned up high in a freshly watered silence
You know those
Welcome sounds see regret at a second glance
You know the
Floundering denied in the race to be won
Sighing
Resolving
Deploying
And landing on
The haters of ignorance
The matters of romance
Those untidy typos in ransom notes
She has herself a little cry
Flight-blinded soul when the story is expanded
You know those
Wounded beats on the pulse of romance
You Know
Lapping
Un-trapping
Rejoining
To the bloody limb
The haters of ignorance
The matters of romance
Those untidy typos in ransom notes
Leftover wars
In fields unsown
Apologies gone to ruin
mothers we bemoan
everything that’s always been
everything hidden
amidst history in luxurious linen
The fucking aimless at the nonetheless stage
The Bidden
And the unforgiven
The haters of ignorance
The matters of romance
Those untidy typos in ransom notes
nyc 4.6.23

Friday, September 9, 2022



 








Plate 


On the plate before me

I am the world’s worst daughter

On the plate before me

Familial slaughter

On the plate before me

Lies the meatless mutter

Of dissidents and kings of discernible means

On the plate before me

No chicken just greens

On the plate before me

On the plate before me

 

On the plate before me

I am a late blooming human

On the plate before me

Quietly stewing

On the plate before me

Remains of another

A mindful blending of the cold hard truth

On the plate before me

The fibrous root

On the plate before me

On the plate before me

 

On the plate before me

I am as old as the planet

On the plate before me

A life’s been well done

On the plate before me

fragments of the road rage

Left begging until there is full sun

On the plate before me

The map in hand

On the plate before me

On the plate before me

 

Isn’t life grand

 

On the plate before me

On the plate before me

 

Nyc 9.9.22


Saturday, August 20, 2022


 















She was once his father’s lover 

Rendered in a portrait unseen

Nights like these

Late and inky and full of spleen

She remembers the frothy beginnings

She remembers the barbed wire ends

How distance will grow like mold on a tree

When she is expected to

Remember free

when she has ejected false memory 

It arrives like a low-flying hawk in flight

How she took the boy to Coney on

The pirate ship ride

When he was smaller than she

Childlike, eternal, funneled and frightened 

the fearful mother

What each woman is certain

She will always know

No matter the clutter of sons and daughters

Or nothing to show

He was her son, her pirate in tow

Until trapped like rats on a towering cage

She bellowed her anger

The two of them caged

Take us down

Take us down

She shouted on high

A long silent ride from the island of mirth

That night in her rooms when they fell down to earth

Together forever for what is worth

Still determined he said

That grown up child of dissent

Back to the past’s reality berth

But I am still determined he said to see you at your convenience, 

Let me know when, she said

Let me know when it will work

Friday, August 5, 2022

 


he follows the path
in unquiet memory
what wins is the song




Thursday, June 9, 2022


 Review of "A Birdhouse in Brooklyn" by Katherine Howey, UK

Danz’s novel presents a seldom-seen view of life for ordinary New Yorkers in the aftermath of 9/11. She exposes the repercussions of the event on lives affected by the relocation caused by toxic waste, the increased security measures implemented by the government and the emotional scarring of citizens traumatised by terrorism. Her lively yet nuanced portraits of characters struggling for self-realisation in the face of monolithic corporate culture and the social, economic and political tensions entrapping them are moving and memorable.
Lucy and Vincent; Shawn, Alex and Carlos; Jason and Carina strive to realise their artistic and musical talent, whilst negotiating their sexual and cultural orientations in this polyglot world. Manhattan and Brooklyn are being swamped in urban sterility. The bird houses represent both the embracing of and protest against the citification of wildlife as capitalism steams on smashing everything in its path. Ideologies clash and the voice of the ordinary citizen, of reason and alternative views of why these events occurred, seems like a cry in the desert. Shawn, dealing with abandonment, parenthood and the spectre of aids frenetically recycles junk to make works of art whilst Jason seeks to justify his own vision through his graffiti protest. Lucy transforms herself from journalistic wage slave to a writer of integrity, recording and staying true to her values by helping the vulnerable and illiterate, instead of returning to the falsity of the corporate world.
As a native New Yorker, Danz sites her story in the history of this great city and records its changes as it moves between eras. From the social housing projects of the 1950s with their immigrant populations, independent retail grocery stores and industrial power plants, the narrative changes to show the invasion of the city by giant condos in the early 2000’s and the proliferation of high-end stores driving out the natives with their appeal to tourism.
Her characters flourish like wild flowers between the cracks of corporate culture, living lives which are of far cry from the polished media images of global capitalism. Their struggles show that the “little people” are not little at all but heroic. The lives of these characters will stay with you.