POETRY BY JOSEPH V. DANOSKI

Joseph V. Danoski is a writer of letters and essays on diverse subjects, with strong opinions on many topics. A poet of horror, science fiction, and fantasy; he has been published in journals and webzines both in America and abroad.

Various publications include Scavenger’s Newsletter, Pegasus, Red Owl, The Ultimate Unknown, Penny Dreadful, Pivot, Psychopoetica (UK), The Nocturnal Lyric, The Quest (India) The Aurorean, The Mentor & Masque Noir (Australia), Twilight Ending, Talvipaivanseisaus (Finland), The Romantics Quarterly, Hadrosaur Tales, Endemoniada, Northern Stars Magazine, The NeoVictorian/Cochlea, Frisson, Black Petals, Outer Darkness, Sanitarium Magazine, and The Horror Zine. Other activities include being a multi-instrumentalist, songwriting, and recording original music.

Joseph currently resides in Berlin, New Hampshire.

INTO A FUTURE UNKNOWN

Driving into a future unknown,
With “take out” for one and on my own.
The storm clouds gathering up ahead,
Low pressure feeling fills me with dread.

My future through the windshield,
My past life in the rear-view;
As I leave my solitary home,
Setting myself and cell phone on roam.

Riding upon the highway of life,
Lightning cutting the sky like a knife.
Rain pounding down as I push the odds,
Didn’t realize I’d anger the gods.

Arriving in the empty city,
With no cars nor people on the streets;
My destination and destiny,
Just a theater full of empty seats.

Maybe I’m early, one step ahead;
Maybe too late, everybody’s dead.
There’s a beach that’s closed for the season;
Everything off limits for some reason.

The street signs seem to be in Chinese,
Letters from a dream like Bonsai trees;
Or a language where the words can change,
And turn what was once-familiar strange.

My future in the rear-view,
My past life through the windshield;
As I head back home to what I own.
So I guess the future stays unknown.

302 ASYLUM AVENUE
(Coming Home)

Home,
Where I found myself, then lost my mind;
Where I left my heart and old soul behind.
The drab neighborhood I long left for dead,
Where I lived and I died of living dread.

I find everything in sad disrepair;
The family furniture, my favorite chair.
The clock is striking as I climb the stairs;
Time to take to care of important affairs.

The dreary backyard where I misspent my youth,
Where I buried my dog so long in the tooth.
Revisiting ghosts in my after-school room;
The tattered wallpaper and afternoon gloom.

I open up windows to old points of view;
Never knew just how much I missed all of you.
I have come home to roost at 302;
The inmate of Asylum Avenue.

Home,
Where I lose track of time that I spend,
Go off the deep end and around the bend.
Fading away in the light of each day;
Nothing left to me now but shades of gray.

Reconnecting with my old younger self,
The memories that I left on a shelf.
Things I’d forgotten, fondly remembered;
Thought the collective long-since dismembered.

Writing confessions to crimes not committed;
The mirrors in hallways, pockmarked and pitted.
Discolored and covered in cobwebs and dust;
My haunted reflection—who else can I trust?

ON THE FILM NOIR SIDE OF TOWN
(And the Down Side of Night)

Now that my life is on the rocks,
You’ll find me walking by the docks.
The worm has turned inside my brain;
Hit the gutter—next stop, the drain.

Streetlamp Sally in her alley,
She’s the lily of this valley.
Midnight lady, always shady;
Sometimes she does go by Sadie.

I’m on the film noir side of town;
The underworld that drags you down.
Walking the wrong side of the tracks;
One false move, you fall
Through the cracks.

Jack B. Quicker, wears a slicker;
Sells his moonshine rotgut liquor.
Indian Giver by the river,
Always gets you in the liver.

Now that my life is on the skids,
I’m glad to have no wife and kids.
I stay up late and out all night,
This life’s a film in black and white.

Frank Casino out of Reno,
Telling you to call him Dino.
Pauley Putter, he’s a nutter;
Balls are always in the gutter.

A place where gangsters run the streets,
And clockwork cops just pound their beats.
They walk the walk, and talk the talk,
And those stool pigeons
Always squawk.

Pete the Cheater packs a heater,
Wears a grimy old wife beater.
Speaking easy, slow and sleazy,
This old movie’s getting cheesy.

So don’t get in over your head;
Can’t pay the debt, you end up dead.
Don’t get involved, and in too deep;
You see too much—it’s that big sleep.