You Can't Beat the Fart Poem

I've got a friend by the names James Freid.

I love him dearly, but he certainly is an odd duck.

When I say this, I say it in the same way somebody would introduce their friendship with Groucho Marx, or Robin Williams.

James owns the Big Bell Ice Cream Company in the Twin Cities.

So every time one of the "Bomb Pop" trucks parks in front of your house, with that annoying calliope music covering a show tune hit from the 40's...you have him to blame.

James is also active in the Lions Club, and they seem to find him secure enough to be in charge of outsourcing cinnamon bread for their French Toast breakfast.

James in kind enough to buy his bread from me.

Last week he came in, stepped into my office and somehow we got on the topic of poetry....

I will paraphrase what Freid told me......

"My brother and I went to this organic farm festival not to long ago. He was really into this because he lives out in the country and had seen the direct result of how so many farmers are having a tough go of things. So at this conference, they had a part of the evening sectioned off where people walked up on stage and recited poems.

My brother was like the 8th or twelfth guy to go up there, and he did a really good job. He shared...as you can imagine, deep farmer thoughts, stuff about land-sky and corruption.

but later in the evening, I went up on stage and...."

James pauses, kinda grins, kinda smirks...then continues......

"I went up on stage and read my fart poem."

Now Freid actually laughs out loud, so much so....I had to close my office door.

I'm not sure if his story was meant to entertain me, or if he simply enjoyed reliving his brothers foiled experience.

Freid continued......

"Well he was kinda, well maybe not annoyed, but he certainly didn't understand how or why i would pick passing gas as a topic of for verse. Well the next day, the 2 of us were crossing the conventions floor, when somebody pointed in the direction of my brother and me. The person pointed and said THAT'S THE GUY WHO DID SUCH AN EXCELLENT JOB PREFORMING HIS POEM LAST NIGHT. So my brother smiles, and then steps forward to receive the accolades, but just as he began to raise his hand to act modest the person pointing the finger walked right passed him and over to me and said...OH MY GOD, YOU'RE THE FART POEM GUY, YOU WERE AWESOME!"

Freid sits down on one of my office chairs now and rifles through his wallet to find enough cash to pay off his invoice.

As he awkwardly thumbed through wrinkled bills, I had to ask.....

"So, did your brother ever get over being upstaged?"

Freid handed over a wad of cash and said.....

"Not really. The thing that really upset him is when he realized I was correct. You can't beat a fart poem."

I hate to agree with this, but Freid may be correct.



Here is the amazing celebration of
sophomoric American literature.
It is properly presented in a good
deep rich dramatic tone.


Demon Wind
By James V. Freid

It happened two yeas ago and you will see
The legend of it has never left the company

As I walked into my brother’s office I did not realize
That for years I would have to apologize
We chatted about something now forgotten
The meeting was about to turn rotten
Pressure swirled inside my bowels like a chained twister
I skillfully let some pressure out, quiet as a whisper
I had done it thousands of times previously
Any undesired scent could be fanned out easily
That day was different, things would not simply disperse
I must have been the subject of an unearthly curse
Whatever I hade eaten the day before
Bared no resemblance to the evil leaving my back door
This one was a demon creation, Satan’s beehive
Not silent and shy, it was quiet, but angry and alive
The rancid release shot up my shirt
A zombie’s hand thrust forth from the dirt
Like an errant match twists the hairs on your arm
The follicles in my nose curled, fearing immanent harm
It’s horrendous nature I could not deny
A tear welting up in my eye
My anus had given birth to the unwanted child
Of napalm and rotten eggs gone wild
My lungs shut themselves off to the outside air
Fearing the noxious cloud forming there
I wanted to flee the office now cage
Before the stench awakened my brothers rage
But it reached him in a dash
Speed that would rival the flash
Nerves send their signals at the speed of light
And the distance from nose to brain is very slight
His face twisted into an ugly vortex
Every muscle in his body a convulsive flex
I thought I had destroyed his ability to breath
He wasn’t very polite when he asked me to leave
I was happy to honor his request
Eager to get clean air in my chest
Out of the office my brother and I fled
Out to the parking lot his face turning red
All the while my he acted like I stabbed him in the heart
Believing I had somehow masterfully planned this fart
It was hours before the scent would subside
Easing out slower than a frozen tide
And while it happened ages ago
Its memory is leaving so very slow
I guess if the legend is never laid to rest
It only means that I produced the best.

THE END



James is typing ...

Poems About Cake

If you don't know, I have another Blog Site as well called The last American Baker.

It is basically a collection of culinary stories and observations that I have penned about a 30 year baking career.

I have close to 300 posts on that site, and to my surprise, the 5th most popular story has deals with poetry, crew cuts...and cake.

I don't like to cross post from one site to the next....but this time I will make an exception.

ENJOY


Sunday, December 18, 2011
Crew Cuts - Cakes & the Poet Laurette

About a week ago I received an invitation to a joint birthday party for Saint Paul's Poet Laurette Carol Connolly, and a friend of hers with a piggyback birthday.

It was been hosted by their friend Mary Beth Yarrow.

M.B.Y. is an interesting woman, in addition to once being married to Peter Yarrow (of Peter - Paul & Mary fame, she is also the niece to Eugene McCarthy).

Being thrilled to be invited, I called our host to ask if it would be OK to bring a birthday cake.

Nobody ever turns that offer down, however I was told that Carol Connolly can't have chocolate and the cake needed to be a white cake, with lemon filling and a butter cream frosting.

EZ Peezy.

Then just 72 hours before the big bash, I spoke with Mary Beth once more and she suggested that I and my teacher "A.K.A. Mike Finley" should be commissioned to read poems to commemorate the occasion.

I was thrilled, but I was kinda sick in my stomach too because I so love Carol Connolly and I wasn't sure if I could write something in 72 hours that warranted not only her attention, but that of her friends and family as well.

So after stopping at the bakery to get the cake, I headed over to Finley's house to pick him up so we could enter the party together,and maybe hash over a little strategy.

I had seen the poem Mike wrote...well actually, we both wrote poems about cake, and Mike had shown me an original version that he seemed to pen together with such ease.

I do hate him for stuff like this because I found myself like Jacob wrestling against the angel of God to get the proper words to express myself.

But that's why Finley is such a "True Blue" poet.....he just doesn't care. I mean he does, but not enough to knock himself off balance. How many times have I seen this guy write, rewrite and then turn around and present his original idea.

Some might think he is unorganized with his thoughts....they are fools, I think Finley believes that his poems are living-organic things....like bodies, they look a lot like they did an hour ago, but sometimes nothing like they did a couple months ago.

So we pull up to the mansion where this to-do is scheduled and the both of us climb a series a stair cases to make our grand entrance.

The house was stunning-stunning-stunning and within 3 seconds I felt so out of my element.

But then I looked up, and there across the room....the first body I saw belonged to Kim Ode, I didn't know she was attending this party, later on she told me she didn't know that she was attending this party until the previous day.

But my vision jumped head first into a free fall, because I noticed that Kim was wearing some bluish blouse.

Blue has never been in Kim's wardrobe palate, when I confronted her on my observation.....I think she was surprised I even noticed.

"Yeah....I'm not sure if it is quite blue, maybe it's more of a tope, or even".....

I interrupted...

It's more of a, or in between a royal blue and a aqua don't you think?"

Anyways, I'm not sure there was a definitive answer, but if the musings of the Last American Baker ever get made into a film....note to director.....

Kim Ode is always Pink and / or Yellow.

The party goes on -

Blah-Blah-Blah everybody was having a good time.

I've written about this before, but Klecko really feels awkward at parties...it's just a fact.

But I was THRILLED to be invited, but just for a little bit, I decided to find the kitchen and hang out there for awhile.

When I entered this space....Sweet Jesus of Warsaw! There were refrigerators and freezers bigger than some restaurants and bakeries I've worked in.

The pantry had pots and pans that were the size you would use to cook for an army.....literally.

I met the 2 guys who were catering this gig, introduced myself and told them how out of place I felt in the midst of so many pretty people and blue bloods.

Dudes laughed and told me they knew exactly what I was talking about, and I was welcome to hang in the kitchen.....just as long as I stayed the he** out of their way LOL.

So I pull out my Droid, check voice mails, check e-mails, check Facebook, and then I checked this Blogsite.

I had a recent message from fellow L.A.B. Rat - H.N. from Texas USA.

Actually it was more of a comment, or maybe even a question. She wrote something like.....

"Klecko, your blog cracks me up. Sometimes you seem so wise....but then other times you're an idiot (then she drew that smiley face thing), didn't you mention that you were like 50 or something?

I'll bet you were a trip when you first started baking huh? Were you a total rebel?"


Wow.....I love getting questions from you guys, maybe more than I let on. So now I pick up a ladle and began stirring some broth like substance. To be honest, I'm not certain exactlly what it was, but the stuff had just hit boil and none of the kitchen staff seemed to object.

So at this point, I had been thinking about how I would blog the events of this day, but now I was more intrigued by the Texas question.

H.N. - No, I don't think I was a rebel at all, but I'll tell you one thing I was (and remain).....I was an instigator.

I've posted in the past about some things I've implemented when I gained some supervisory authority, but then....right there as I stirred the broth, I remembered something that I did many-many years ago.

When I was working a rare day shift one summer I pulled out my Pharaoh ring and made a creed that Friday was haircut day.

You see, the shop I worked at had a barbershop on the adjacent corner.

The guy who ran it was a middle aged Irish guy, I forget his name, but I remember that he l-o-v-e-d horse racing.

Anyway, I worked out a deal where I would send at least 8 guys over every Friday if he'd give us $5 haircuts. Back then I think the going rate was $7 for a buzz cut.

The guy was thrilled by this and told me that he loved the idea, and to show his gratitude, he was going to give me my cut for free.

Well....Klecko told the boys about the one "free hair cut" and I offered to let everybody throw their names into a hat, and whoever got picked would get the freebie.

O-M-G......LOL, is was such a ghetto-lotto.

Each week whoever won the freebie would stand on top of the pallets of flour and beat their chest.

I think we had 12 or 13 bakers there, and every-every-every single-solid one of these guys participated every week.

You might think this is odd, but too many of you guys have watched movies where the bakers work in those little artsy bread boutiques, sporting ponytails and silly hats.

When you work in a bread plant, and it's summer time, and you have no air conditioning.....hair is a liability.

It's would be the equivalent to wearing a parka to the beach.

So here I am, a guy who is on his way to getting old, standing in some mansions kitchen, remembering something dear to me that had eluded me for at least a decade.

All I could do was smile.

Everybody wanted cake.....the clamoring started, but our host informed them that before anybody got dessert.....we were going to have a brief series of poems to commemorate the day.

I asked Finley if it would be OK for me to go first. It's almost never that I volunteer to defer to somebody else but...........

I'm not an Idiot.

I realize that at this particular moment......Mike Finley is the Beatles, and I'm more like Alice Cooper.

So figuring out that marquee shouldn't be too hard.

Writing poems is hard.

Writing poems for people you love is even harder.

I do love Carol Connolly, so I was actually nervous.

Klecko -

"Good afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you so much for joining us on this day where we are fortunate enough to celebrate two of the loveliest women that Saint Paul has to offer.

I have been asked to present a poem to commemorate this occasion.

So before I do that, I will mention one thing.....Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Klecko, the CEO of Saint Agnes Baking Company and in the 30 years that I've been baking, I've learned one thing.

Women have one common denominator......cake."

Many people laughed, and the remainder returned pleasant smiles.

"CAKE by KLECKO"

NOBODY UNDERSTANDS
A WOMAN'S THOUGHT PROCESS
ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTHDAY
QUITE LIKE THE VILLAGE BAKER

FOR HE HAS PLACED ONE THOUSAND CAKES
IN FRONT OF THE FAIRER SPECIES
AND HAS DEDUCED FROM THESE OBSERVATIONS
WHAT THE MAJORITY WILL MISS

WHEN EYES PEER THROUGH THE CANDLES GLOW
WHICH PUNCTUATE THE CANDLE TOPS
A WOMANS THOUGHT WILL NOT ALIGN WITH LOSS
OR LAMENTATIONS OF THE PAST

AND AS HER MOUTH BEGINS TO PUCKER
TO EXTINGUISH FLAMES, TRANSFORMED TO WISHES
IT IS NOT AFFECTION THAT SHE COVETS
SHE SIMPLY WANTS DESSERT

Hey Finley....I would be honored if you posted your poem up here when you get time, and Ode.....did we figure out the official-official color of your blouse?

either way......you looked Meow!

7 comments:

1.
Mike and sometimes RachelDec 18, 2011 06:29 PM

Thank you for the kind compliments Danny.

I had fun, too -- but I did not feel so out-classed as out-Irished. My mother aspired to lace curtain Irishery but we lacked the credentials to put it over. She would have so enjoyed lingering over the books and wall art.

Anyway ... the poem exists in two forms. Klecko mentioned that I am a quick rewrite guy. I like to do rewrites (and first drafts) with a ballpoint pen and then put it up. The computer seems to box off my thoughts in a way that seems imprisoning.

But this time, having only 3 days, I wrote out a first draft on the computer, I think as a facebook note. The draft was strong, but I felt I had disclosed too much, and gotten unaccountably religious in it -- more religious than I in fact feel. Also, too long. So I busted down the long version (http://mfinley.com/pdf/cake.pdf) -- the tiny print is the stuff I cut out.

In a way the poem is insincere. I really don't care about cake. I just wanted something frothy and rhetorical and bright to give Carol. But I have been feeling blue lately and kept inserting unnecessary thoughts about the great beyond. I mean, I did want to say that cake is not just cake, it connects us to Higher Things ... but it was turning into a love poem, for someone else entirely.

Here is the edited-down version:


Cake
for Carol & Marine
We consider ourselves virtuous when we hold up our hands
as the Christ held up his hand to the Devil
and we say No Devil No

But it is self-serving.
If we break the rules and begin eating cake,
it will be our undoing -- flesh will swell
like a rising tide
and sweep over our hopes
dragging them inland.

The fear is that we will become cake-eaters, Ambrosians,
island people cut off from the main,
we will lose our credentials as everyday persons.

Cake is premature, it is undeserved, it clogs the cell walls
and sweetens up the blood.
Calvin was against cake, it did not suitably mortify the flesh,
because it brightens the darkness we are supposed to bless
it was in fact sin
we commonly call it sinful
as in sinfully delicious.

and yet ...

through history it was an idea that had heft –
in the moment of rejoicing we offer our best --
it was a gift of first fruits given back to the Holy
it was the best that was in us,
the angel's food of our better natures
Dear friends, you do not bake a cake on a Tuesday
you wait until the weekend,
you wait until the feast

and when we make cake we put into it
all that is good that we have in our possession,
all the things that we did not have
when we dwelt in the cold dank cave,
shivering, sniffling, barely living without cake

And so we turn to our treasure to decide what we will put in ...
cinnamon, coconut, lemon zest, nuts,
pistachios, date meat, ginger, brown sugar,
the frosting, the pudding, the dusting of sugars

Cake is faith, it is a symbol of the life we can't see
the life that flows around us in swirling mystery

It is the excellence that is always just outside our grasp
it is the spirit in the kitchen, the aproned ghost,
it is not the chocolate-cheeked beast with wooden spoon,
it is not the suffering human in the cave

It is our offering of greatest faith and greatest joy
one that we should not demur
we should accept it as we accept holy communion
as an expression of a brighter truth
our love for one another,
if I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake...
if I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake...

so take your plastic fork between knuckle and thumb
and do not shovel, do not grate against the plate
but lightly slide the stainless under the host

and please, please, please …
partake.

The Greatest Day of my Life

The following is a rebroadcast from my "Last American" Blog Site......


In Case You Missed the Greatest Night of my Life......
Some of the soundest advise I have ever received came from my writing mentor Mike Finley.

He advised me........

"If you want people to hate you,invite them to your poetry reading!"

OK-OK, I realize that this Blogsite is geared towards "All Things Baking", but bare with me just one time.

Throughout my entire life I have been in a position where I have been in service to others.

While you were enjoying Christmas with your family during the 80's 90's and today....Klecko was preparing bread for your FAMILIES following morning.

While you and your clan were riding boogey boards that were tied behind a fat pontoon boat....Klecko was teaching your Grandson how to hit a curve ball at Little League.

I love my life, and I am thrilled at the opportunities that I've had, but yesterday, I swear to Polish Christ that I had a level 10 epiphany.

When I got up yesterday and hopped into the bread truck, I don't know why, but I went on an exploration in my mind.

Through my jaunt to work, I strolled through my mental warehouse and opened each and every crate that said.......

GREATEST MOMENTS OF KLECKO'S LIFE

So on the first crate I take a crowbar, remove the lid and inside the contents were......

KIKI'S WEDDING DAY

Further down the aisle I stumbled into other boxes that were filled with other glorious moments........

KIKI'S COLLEGE GRADUATION and TYDAS LEADS HIS HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM TO CITY CHAMPIONSHIP

So now I lean back in my bread truck cockpit and I began to get nervous. I was pretty sure I might have an idea of what was in store for me around the corner in Aisle #8.

Sure enough, there it was. A pyramid of crates, 10.956 to be exact. I didn't have time to open all of them, but I did break into a random few.....

NIGHT #2467 WITH SUE McGLENO, NIGHT #8441 WITH SUE McGLENO.....

You get the point.

So now it hits me....."BOOM FRICKEN BOOM" like a bag of bricks.

Every single "Greatest Moment" of my life has had one thing in common.

I was never the person of focus.

For whatever reason, the moments that have meant the most have always been when I have seen those that I love happy.

So I pull into work and the reality of the day is at hand.....after a long time of secretly hoping....I was going to get to get my shot at reading poems at the University Club, which in my opinion is the Twin Towns equivalent to the literary Taj Mahal.

Funny, when I coveted this dream in secret, it was always exciting.

But yesterday I felt like barfing, and maybe for the first time in a long time, I began to regret pursuing a goal. It's so much easier to sit on the side lines and blend in.

At this point I started to get emotional and weird in my head, and I didn't like that feeling, so I flashed back to my son and remembered how prior the the biggest moments in his life, he would just stand in the middle of the kitchen with his Dre Beat's on and listen to music for 12 hours before he had to leave for the game.

The kid defied time.

So I did that as well. I just went into the shop and made pretzel bread.

I figured I would make 3-4 dozen loaves and put them out on the table at the reading and peeps could plunk down donations that would go to the host's favorite cause.

But when I was done, it was only 1 p.m., I still had 6 1/2 hours left to burn, and was petrified by that.

I don't do it often, but I left work early and went home.

The house was empty, Sue McGleno was en route from Omaha, so I sat on the couch with 4 dogs and watched the clock, tick and tock.

Then I fell asleep, for 2 1/2 consecutive hours. That doesn't even happen to me at night.

Following my son's example, I decided I would be the first person at the event. So back into the bread truck and off we go.

As mentioned in previous posts, the reading room at the University Club reminds me of the belly of a pirate ship. In addition to the obvious beauty, if you stand in this space alone (and being alone scares me) you can feel the ghosts.

Not ghosts of people as much as ghosts of events.

The greatest poets of my homeland have all delivered their best shot right here from the spot I was standing on.

So after placing the pretzel breads on a table I stood in the middle of the room all by myself.

1/2 of me was amped, but the other 1/2 was terrified.

So people start trickling in and I did my best to greet the guests I had invited, but I did feel awkward, after all this might have been the first time (other than a wedding) where I wore a tie.

Then our host and emcee, Saint Paul's poet laureate Carol Connolly approaches me, wishes me good luck and hands me a roster that will tell the presenters what order they will go in.

MARTIN KIHN
LINDA BACK McKAY
KLECKO
CARY WATERMAN
GREG WATSON
FREYA MANFRED

Drawing the 3 slot isn't so bad. Going first can sometimes be lame, and if I go last, I never get to enjoy the other readers because I'm always a little nervous and it's hard for me to relax.

So Martin Kihn gets the show rolling by informing us.......

"Hi.....I'm Matrin.......and I am a alcoholic."

Everybody laughed, including himself, but then he informed us that he really was, and he had written a book about going through the 12 step program while getting a dog who simultaneously was going through a 10 step program at obedience school.

He wrote a book about this and SHOWTIME liked it and decided to do a series about it.

Martin has got to easily be 6 feet tall. He is thin, handsome....and white.

So who does Hollywood cast to play a guy like that?

Easy.....Don Cheadle! LOL

Martin did a great job opening the show, however....the presenters were told firmly to not exceed 10 minutes, dude went well over 20.

So he hands off to the next poet, and I guess that's where my black out starts. In less that 24 hours I am sad to report that I couldn't pick her out of a police line up if world peace depended on it.

Next thing I know, my bio was being read and there I was walking from the back of the room, up the aisle, and behind a podium that contained the worlds shortest microphone stand.

I was forced to hunch over.

I planned on strictly reading, and not adding any filler or banter, but Martin went sooo long, that I felt if I did a 8-9-10 minute set, I might come off as weak.

Sometimes in "The Show", game plans get shifted.

"Hello, my name is Klecko. I'll be honest....I kinda feel sick right now, like the day my daughter got married. Actually I have been nervouse all day so I spent the first 1/2 of the day baking you guys that pretzel bread over there.

Then I spent the second 1/2 of the day on the internet trying to figure out how to tie this tie."

The crowd cheered until I continued......

"Yeah, if you ever have that problem, Brooks Brothers has a good web site that shows you how to make one of these Windsor knots. Anyways, tonight I'm going to read 3 loves poems, and then I am going to close with something special. By the way, being that 1/2 of you guys in the audience are my friends, that means 1/2 of the audience doesn't know how to conduct themselves at a literary event. At the end of each poem I will say "Thank You" and your job is to applaud frantically."

Poem # 1

I LOVE YOU JANE GOODALL -

I WOULD PAY TO SHARE YOUR SILENCE
WHILE BUGS WOULD CRAWL ON ME
SECRETLY A CHIMP OT TWO WILL SURFACE

WE WOULD SIT ON BEDS OF LEAVES
OR MAYBE EMPTY SCOTCH CASES
I'M TOLD THAT YOU ARE PARTIAL TO FAMOUS GROUSE

IF THE JUNGLE REMAINED SILENT
AND WE WERE LEFT TO OUR OWN DEVICES
MAYBE THAT WOULDN'T BE SO BAD

WE COULD CLIMB INTO YOUR TREE HOUSE
AND YOU WOULD MAKE US OOLONG TEA
WHILE I TELL YOU - HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE

THANK YOU"

So now people responded with enthusiasm, and I started to feel a little better.

"Poem #2

13 YEARS OLD -

TOM THUMB CLOSES AT 11 P.M.
AT 11:06 A BONNEVILLE PULLS UP
AND TWO NUNS POP OUT AND BUM RUSH THE DOOR

THEY ARE IN NEED OF CIGARETTES
BUT THE CASHIER MUST BE A LUTHERAN
BECAUSE SHE REFUSED TO ANSWER THE LADIES PRAYERS

SO THE BRIDES OF CHRIST ARE IN A BLACK MOOD
AND PUSH PAST ME AND A FRIEND
WHO HAVE SPENT MOST OF JULY IN THIS PARKING LOT

EXCUSE ME SISTER - I CALLED OUT
WOULD YOU LIKE A MARLBORO RED
I LIT IT FOR HER AS SHE PULLED BACK HER WIMPLE

EXPOSING HER HAIR AND CLOSING HER EYES
AND WHEN THAT SMOKE SHOT DOWN THE PIPE
THE HOLY SPIRIT GAVE ME REASON TO KNOW

FOR THE FIRST TIME....I WAS ABSOLVED

THANK YOU."

And now people were more than gracious with their applause. I know people like Nun poems right LOL? But I'm not sure I expected this kind of response. But either way....it didn't matter anymore.

I had hit my groove and now I think I had every ounce of KLECKO CONFIDENCE restored.

For the briefest of brief seconds, I took a mili second to realize that I was in one of those life moments that transcend time. Then it occurred to me how quick things like that get rusted and dented, so I didn't try to capture it....I just recognized its importance and moved on to my 3rd and final love poem.

"POEM #3

LIQUOR STORE PARKING LOT -

HULA GIRL - HULA GIRL
DANCE BENEATH THE RAIN DROPS
I'M PRETTY SURE MY WINDSHIELD WILL KEEP YOU DRY

LEFT/RIGHT - LEFT/RIGHT
YOUR HIPS GYRATE WITH FLUIDITY
AS IF YOUR BALANCE WAS DETERMINED ON A SPRING

TICK-TOCK - TICK TOCK
THE CLOUDS ECLIPSE THE MOON
BUT IT'S STILL ENGAGING WHEN YOU DANCE IN THE NEON

HULA GIRL - HULA GIRL
I AM FEARFUL OUR TRYST MUST END
MY GIRLFRIEND IS HEADED TOWARDS THE CAR
AND SHE HAS A BOTTLE OF TANQUERAY

THANK YOU".

So yeah....hip hip hooray and all that jazz, but this time I cut the accolades short.

"Now ladies and gentleman, it is my pleasure to announce that for my final poem, I will be joined by Saint Paul's own rebel poet Mike Finley."

And this part right here was w/o a doubt the coolest part of one of the best nights in my life.

For me, Mike Finley is like Babe Ruth.

Can you imagine going to the batting cages for 5 years and getting hitting lessons from the Bambino, and then one day, years later you get penciled in the same batting line up as him.....at the World Series.

Mike Finley has handed me the keys to the vault I value the most.

He's taken the time and patience to instruct me, aim and launch me.

I think the part that secretly nerved me so hard all day was knowing that if I bombed.....it wouldn't destroy his career, but when you are a cities token "Rebel Poet" I imagine you like to keep casualties to a minimum.

So now as he walks up the aisle, I can see the intrigue in the eyes of the audience. Especially those from the literary community.

What was this unique tandem up to?

I will never come close to writing the following as cool as it really happened, but just let me paraphrase it, and if you dial it up 500%...you just might get a sniff......

This is Finley talking in a low stoic voice now...........

"Greetings friends, it is an honor to be with you here tonight as I celebrate the accomplishments of my protege, but be forewarned...if you like what you see, and want a piece of him, you'll have to come through me.

Tonight as we celebrate love, I think it is important that we visit the past and explore the works of a poet that we are all familiar with. This poet is no longer with us, but his message remains in all of us, not just in words, but with rhythms as well.

It is true that he was skewed different, but you all love his message and would be lost if his work was....(pause)....NEVERMORE."

As you can imagine, everybody in the house was set up for some kind of Edger Allen Poe tribute, but in fact.....We read Michael Jackson's Thriller.

Without the music, the lyrics weren't that obvious, I started off doing MJ's lines, and Finley would conclude with the portion that Vincent Price did.

The response of happiness was like watching a pile of pop corn kernels exploding in a kettle. They don't do this in unison do they?

So on the 2nd or 3rd line, a couple people got it and smirked, at the end of the first paragraph several others roared. By the time I hit the chorus, most of the house understood the message, so when I relinquished the stage for my mentor to tie things up with the Vincent Price epilogue......people LOVED IT.

Then we said thank you, and turned to each other and nodded, shook hands, and then turned to the crowd and bowed.

Of the 1000 times I have been on a stage, for a dozen reasons. This was the funnest moment I ever had.

In a million years I would have never-ever guessed that reading something from the Michael Jackson catalog would be a lifetime highlight.

But if I've learned one thing in life....

If there's somewhere you want to go, surround yourself with people who will get you there.

Last night my friend Mr. Finley did that.

In closing, what can I say but thank you to all of you who were able to come. It meant very much to me that you stood at the finish line of one of my biggest emotional rollercoaster days in my life.

Thanks.

Turning the Tables on God

Baking, the tattoo industry, and even poetry.....

These are 3 worlds I have enjoyed dwelling in.

One thing I've noticed, that these camps have in common is that whether you like it or not, you've really got to apprentice in these fields, if you are going to get good.

If you don't pay you dues, most of the "higher ups" will simply stop giving you their time.

Nobody wants to invest in a scratcher.

One of my favorite things to do with Finley is to shoot him over a poem, then hold my breath until he sends me back the version that he and God would endorse.

I am not in a position to return the favor, but today I am going to rebel against the rebel, and do it anyway.

It all started a couple days ago when Mike posted a poem of his on Facebook wall, and truth be told....I thought it was much more the type of poem I would have written.

I looked over it several times, and everytime my eyes slid down the column of words....I just smiled and thought to myself....

"If Finley dies, I'm swiping this poem and calling it my own."

One unusual feature about this work was that their were mispelled words, and a couple ideas I felt were forced, but one thing I'm noticing about Finley as he gets older is he is at the point where he simply could care less about impressing any of us, he's just gonna chuck mud on the wall w/o worrying about splash marks.

But this poem means a lot to me. In all seriousness, when I look at it, it comes across like a super model, but one with shoe boxes for slippers.

So Klecko is going to do the unthinkable and rub a little polish on this piece, and then maybe I'll spend my next few days ditching lightening bolts.

Enjoy..........................


The Great Ladder of Being
by Mike Finley on Monday, April 23, 2012 at 12:22pm
(the Klecko-Edit Addition)



On the top rungs are angels and just below... men

Who are splendid in reason, and shining like gold



Next comes everybody else,

The blowhards, the lepers and knaves



And then the other species line up

Noble ones first, then the great apes



Who are followed by loyal dogs, dolphins and so on

Desending in importance, until they reach the bottom rung



Which is surrounded with beetles,tapeworms and germs

And those little black blobs of smut that grow on corn



Then finally the rocks, rust and dust

And the empty air of outer space



And the people on the ladder keep falling,

While the worst of us watch the chimpanzees climb by



And we slip on the rungs and tumble downward

The once-great, coming to horrible ends


Until it couldn't be any darker

Until the air can not be breathed or believed



And there is God waiting to greet us --

Wondering why we didn't envision him at the bottom


END OF POEM


Finley, I hope you enjoy my edit, but let me ask you one more question......

It is against God's Law to covet thy neighbor's wife....

Are we allowed to covet our teachers poems?

I so wish I had written this, I can't express how much I like your piece.

.

Meet Tim Nolan

At a 1/2 dozen poetry events, I have been lucky enough to sit at the same table as Tim Nolan.

In baseball terms, its kinda like saying that as soon as I got called up from Triple A, I got to sit in the the dugout next to Rod Carew or Hank Aaron.

I have said it before, Tim Nolan is a complex guy.

Not many Irish lawyers built like a linebacker, take the time to express their thoughts through poetry.

Although Tim works in a white collar world, in my opinion..he is a blue collar poet.

I think his strength is his honest approach.

I'd be willing to bet that Tim has never tried to tempt,bait or sucker punch an audience for effect like so many of us do.

Instead he probably just sits in a quiet space and tries to look at the poems topic from an unique angle...his angle.

One night I was at a showcase where I got to read with Tim and a bucketful of other writers for a Thanksgiving benefit.

Tim read in the lead off spot and got the evening rolling on a good note.

When he was finished, he returned to our table, smiled...and leaned forward and in a hushed voice. He offered me the following advice....

"If you want to be a good poet Danny, first off....a good poet can always read their work a little slower, but when you are writing poems...if you want to write something that everyone will like, you should right for that woman sitting behind you."

Immediately I twirled around and noted that the woman sitting behind me must have been in her late 70's.

Tim continued.......

"If you can come up with something that inspires this woman, you will be able to inspire anyone."

I've never forgotten those words.

I was so thrilled, not just at the advice, but knowing that Nolan is more than arguably the most accomplished male poet in my state, and yet he took the time to assist some guy who is still cutting his teeth.

His actions speak volumes.

Tim Nolan is a good guy.


Once In New York

by Tim Nolan


Once In New York

I spoke to Greta Garbo—I said—
"Good evening"—she said—"Good evening"

I was a young man-she was an old lady—
but she was beautiful in her actions—

rushing across the lobby—she was as fleet
as a doe-turning in the dark forest—

wary of everyone in the woods—but not me—
she was not wary of me—I was harmless—

Then I knew the quick connection to something
rare and passing—the only living example—

Helen—long after the Greek men found their way
toward home—and tried to remember her voice again.

END OF POEM

Conversations VS Poetry (featuring Werner Herzog)

Finley always says that a writer is better off using prose to convey their ideas instead of poems.

I know that he has more expertise in those areas, but none the less....I've always wanted to disagree. To me, i just can'r imagine finding a stronger platform to deliver an idea than through a poem.

Does that make me more of a romantic that Mike?

I'm guessing no.

Instead it probably just shows my ignorance.

I have always drawn a concrete line between prose and poems.

In my world...prose is just a fancy word fot telling storys, while poems seem to express the emotions that live within the story.

Like all great debates, this one wasn't settled in my mind by trusting my mentor as I should have.

Instead...the angels simply trolled by and a story in my lap.

Isn't it funny where evidence comes from?

The story is actually a message from German film director Werner Herzog to his maid.

How fitting that my exposure to Werners words would put closure on this topic, after all...if you recall, it was Werner's work that acted as a launching pad for my friendship with Finley.

Enjoy -



Rosalina. Woman.

You constantly revile me with your singular lack of vision. Be aware, there is an essential truth and beauty in all things. From the death throes of a speared gazelle to the damaged smile of a freeway homeless. But that does not mean that the invisibility of something implies its lack of being. Though simpleton babies foolishly believe the person before them vanishes when they cover their eyes during a hateful game of peek-a-boo, this is a fallacy. And so it is that the unseen dusty build up that accumulates behind the DVD shelves in the rumpus room exists also. This is unacceptable.

I will tell you this Rosalina, not as a taunt or a threat but as an evocation of joy. The joy of nothingness, the joy of the real. I want you to be real in everything you do. If you cannot be real, then a semblance of reality must be maintained. A real semblance of the fake real, or “real”. I have conquered volcanoes and visited the bitter depths of the earth’s oceans. Nothing I have witnessed, from lava to crustacean, assailed me liked the caked debris haunting that small plastic soap hammock in the smaller of the bathrooms. Nausea is not a sufficient word. In this regard, you are not being real.

Now we must turn to the horrors of nature. I am afraid this is inevitable. Nature is not something to be coddled and accepted and held to your bosom like a wounded snake. Tell me, what was there before you were born? What do you remember? That is nature. Nature is a void. An emptiness. A vacuum. And speaking of vacuum, I am not sure you’re using the retractable nozzle correctly or applying the ‘full weft’ setting when attending to the lush carpets of the den. I found some dander there.

I have only listened to two songs in my entire life. One was an aria by Wagner that I played compulsively from the ages of 19 to 27 at least 60 times a day until the local townsfolk drove me from my dwelling using rudimentary pitchforks and blazing torches. The other was Dido. Both appalled me to the point of paralysis. Every quaver was like a brickbat against my soul. Music is futile and malicious. So please, if you require entertainment while organizing the recycling, refrain from the ‘pop radio’ I was affronted by recently. May I recommend the recitation of some sharp verse. Perhaps by Goethe. Or Schiller. Or Shel Silverstein at a push.

The situation regarding spoons remains unchanged. If I see one, I will kill it.

That is all. Do not fail to think that you are not the finest woman I have ever met. You are. And I am including on this list my mother and the wife of Brad Dourif (the second wife, not the one with the lip thing). Thank you for listening and sorry if parts of this note were smudged. I have been weeping.

Your money is under the guillotine.

Herzog.

MINNEAPOLIS VS ST PAUL

One mans observation....

Mpls poets seem to be more independent, maybe even a little stand offish.

Saint Paul poets seem to need to work in teams, writing groups, travel in a pack.

One night I went to see a guy named Kevin Fitzpatrick read at the University Club.

After his set, I approached him.

I don't do that kinda thing too often.
After talking with him, and telling him how much I enjoyed his set, he was kind enough to give me his Greatest Hits 1975-2000 book.

Keeping in theme with the title of tonight's post, let me present a poem Kevin wrote entitled......

TWO CITIES

Its still there
Paint chipped and signless
The pole which once proclaimed
In the middle of the Lake Street bridge
MINNEAPOLIS ST. PAUL
Whose side you were on
Essential one spring
When these cities seethed an hour apart
Over daylight savings

I'd forgotten that, until this morning
At dawn driving from Minneapolis
Those streetlights, west of the pole, were already off
While those east of St. Paul blazed orange
I shifted up Marshall hill
Checking my rearview mirror

So they're still at it
As if O'Brien's Bar, gone years
Were open again, serving St. Paul
Where Harry tells off a customer
Who admits from being from Minneapolis
Get the hell out
You're all Swedes or Republicans
Which rattles my friend Jim
A colonel's son who has lived all over
And has cornered me with his hope
Of one world in this lifetime

THE END

The Gauntlet of Judgement

Before I started reading poetry live, I spent a couple of years surveying the many venues that the Twin Cities had to offer.

As a Food Service worker, I learned early in life.....don't cook what you like for people, cook what "they" want to eat.

So I went in pursuit to find out....what does the Twin Cities desire in the realm of poetry?

Finley always gets a kick out of it when I talk this way, because he swears that most people turn tail at the mention of the "P" word.

The first observation I made was in conventional poetry camps, there are 2 types of poets.

#1 is the grant writer.

#2 is the rebel.


#1 will typically be published and will swim in a fishbowl with other like minded people. Their work will usually focus on topics which are either safe, or self serving.

#2 won't have commercial success. Unlike #1...they won't win any awards. Seldom will they be written about or have their shows strike excitement in social media. One of the main reasons is because Poet #2 scares people.

Poet #1 doesn't hate Poet #2, but why would Poet #1 want to stare at concepts that are pulled from deep waters?

The range in Poet #2's camp is much wider than Poet #1's group.

Those established in the "Upper Literary Crowd" are not necessarily using poems to find enlightenment, or themselves, I think with, or w/o knowing it...these use poems to build their own confidence.

Rebel poets kinda crack me up though, because they honestly think they should-could-would deserve a platform in the main stream, but you know what?

It would never work. The establishment NEVER wants to hear the truth, they want to hear words that will add to their comfort.

Finley recently sent my a link were Guns & Roses front man Axel Rose turned down his induction to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

We both got a kick out of it.

I respect that Axel is one of the few people that really does understand his talent level, and where he fits in amongst his colleagues.

But Finley...LOL, let's just say if he were invited to be the band on Saturday Night Live, I think he'd end up doing the poetry equivalent to Sinead O'Connor's ripping up the picture of the Pope.

Rebel Poets can't help themselves.....its in their genetics.

Give them a chance to endear them selves to the world and they'll indite them instead.

That's why they are so dangerous, they place the truth before there own vanity.

Finley says that each poet should run their work, or even their image through the "Gauntlet of Judgment" and then take time to evaluate peoples perception, but I honestly don't think most poets even bother.

Running through such a gauntlet can make you vulnerable if you are not bullet proof.

Another reason Poet #2 is kind of a social mess, is because they simply don't realize that the majority of poets are afraid of them.

People are afraid of the truth.

Sometimes they'll stick you up on a cross over such things.

In a recent conversation Mike told me that he went dog walking with another rebel poet (Rich Broderick) and he said that Rich never in a million years would have thought people were afraid of him....Hah!

The only thing that freaks people out more than honesty is sincere confidence, and Mr. Broderick has that in spades.

Secretly I know I want to be Poet #2.......

But if I am honest, I don't think I am quite there yet, but I'll be gunning for it.

Tonight I am going to leave you with a piece form Richard Broderick's book entitle WOMAN LAKE.....enjoy.


EX NIHIL ARACHNID

In every abandoned house
A spiders working
From the Oblique gray light
Of window wells, spinning

Galaxies of silk
In her airy garden
The random buzz of flight is stilled
And turned to winter fruit

O goddess of dusty corners
And the overlooked
Out of such a ringing emptiness
The universe was built

THE END


Wow.....is that stunning or what?

Finding, and Losing your Voice

When I was 18ish, I read Brenda Ueland's "If you want to write".

At the time, I had been dismissed by my 3rd high school, and although I knew I was clever....

I secretly wondered why I couldn't plug into the academic system.

Part of me thought maybe I was genetically disposed to failure.

My mother told me I was afraid to succeed.

But Brenda Ueland informed me that intelligence never surpassed creativity.

Her words encouraged me enough to dare to start writing poems,songs and propaganda.

But it wasn't until I received Finley's famous "Fireball" speech that I began to understand how to harness what was in my mind, and then gain the ability to transfer it to paper.

Every time I sat down to my keyboard, before my fingers touched the keys....I would (and still do) go through this ritual where I would close my eyes and pretend I was talking to people at the bar, or in a church pew.

It was that easy. I simply wrote my Klecko conversations.

To my amazement, some people actually liked my writing.

Often times I'd hear people describe my style by saying something like.....

"He sure has an interesting voice."

This made me feel good.

In a short time I was able to get gigs writing for publications, things were starting to look up.

But that's why it is paramount in my opinion that a writer has a mentor that cares enough about them to help them continue their growth.

In all walks of life, it has become apparent to me, that most people are not willing to subject themselves to somebody elses authority.

The praise and criticism that I get from Finley don't get dropped on me in a weekly, or daily basis....

Mike offers his opinions when he gets around to it.

I'm bringing this up because in the last 12 hours, I have sent him the skeleton of a poem that I was working on. It is an important piece.

When I asked Finley if he had any thoughts....his response was that although it was an interesting read, it simply wasn't a poem. It was more of a story, and Finley believes strongly that there is a clear division between these camps.

Then, a couple hours later I received an e-mail from Mike with the following information,

This is Finley now........


The rhubarb piece is good. You reel people in with the rhubarb supply material, and then wonder, but antithetically you counter-wonder, "What would the young Kleckos have made of this?"


Four lines in a row do this:


So after placing my order, in the back of my mind I started to think......

"What was that Kim Ode rhubarb poem?"

But then I stopped for a second, and kinda recoiled in fear.

My mind flashed back to the Klecko of 10 years, and 20 years past.



You need to "underwrite" sometimes, not going to the hyperbolic positions like kinda recoiled ...


It's a question of natural-sounding transitions ... otherwise we are listening to you thinking and sometimes it is not real-sounding ...


One solution is to do what Family Guy does, and just charge into these digressions without pausing to say, "I just wonder ..."


It's a common feature of your story telling so I think you need to devise a few ways to get to these gems more comfortably


One way is to say:


Thought: what would 28 year old Klecko have said about this?


Or a typographical transition , like a blank paragraph space, then you just jump in:


The rhubarb reminded me of a poem.
(space)
28 Year Klecko: Hey, dude, don;t be such a pussy


etc.


The rhubarb was delicious, of course

(END OF FINLEY'S THOUGHT)

I think that after a poet finds their true voice, it is common for them to find such comfort in their style. When this happens (and I'll just speak for me)I find myself unconsciously trying to imitate myself.

Finley looks at each written piece he runs across, and then critiques it w/o prejudice.

It doesn't matter how cool you are, what awards you've won, or the back story to the image you are trying to convey.

Each effort needs to have the strength to stand on its own merit.

Finley told me that the main reason poets are lame is because they fear doing what it takes to become a better writer.

"So what does it take Mike?" I asked....

You know he smirked when giving me this reply....

"You have to be bulletproof."

P.S. I hate being so hyperbolic !

KiM Ode ='s Cookbook Poet

This morning Hennessy told me that we needed to get a shipment of rhubarb in.

When you purchase this unique ingredient for springtime fare you have to be careful.

Produce companies will never warn you with.....

"Be careful, this is the last shipment of rhubarb we'll have for the season."

Instead they'll simply say something more like....

"Huh? let me look....nah, I guess we're out. Sorry, maybe next year."

Rhubarb freezes pretty well though, so it never hurts to order it in large jags if you have the freezer space.

So after placing my order, in the back of my mind I started to think......

"What was that Kim Ode rhubarb poem?"

But then I stopped for a second, and kinda recoiled in fear.

My mind flashed back to the Klecko of 10 years, and 20 years past.

What would 28 or 38 year old Klecko think if he saw todays bumbling buffoon pondering garden poems?

38 year old Klecko would roll his eyes in disgust.

28 year old Klecko would simply fall on his sword to save future embarressment.

But I guess this is how the maturation process works huh?

There are other quirks that I've viewed as pathetic in my life, that I have later grown to embrace.

Pulling crabgrass on Sunday afternoons.

Planting Moss Roses.

Eating asparagus.

Listening to WCCO....real radio for real people.

O-M-G.......now I see why we immortalize people like Cobain and James Dean.

When you die young...you end up leaving behind a template of perception that remains raw, with sharp edges.

Well....now that I've surrendured to my new me....won't you join me in celebrating my Minnesota springtime with a poem written by my friend Kim Ode?

Enjoy.......


RHUBARB


Come midmorning, my sister and I

Would be shooed from the sandbox

To pick a dozen stalks of rhubarb

For that day’s pie.

There is a knack to picking rhubarb.

Grab too high and you snap the stalk.

Grab too low and you lose the leverage

For that crucial tug from the root,

Like pulling a boot from spring’s muddy gumbo.

Then we would take our lives in our hands

Lopping off leaves coursing with enough poison

To kill a congregation –

Or so we’d come to believe

Given the stern order never to taste them.

The work was both gratifying and disconcerting,

Entrusted to wield foliage so deadly

We could not feed it even to the hogs,

Bur heaved the leaves into the ditch

Onto a wilting mound that grew with every pie.

So, if I hesitate over that first bite,

It’s only a flicker of remembering how it felt

To bring those stalks into the house,

Hoping we had not been trusted too much.


THE END

Nature Poets are Needy

I might have this memory filed off balance, but I think Finley believes that "Nature Poets" tend to be high maintenance and needy, kinda like self help poets that right entire catalogs on topics like rape, addiction or mental illness.

Finley said that a persons need to define nature is convoluted in a way.

And yet when you read his Yukon Gold collection......he embraces the elements.

This baffled me for a time, I wondered if the "Masters" point of view was skewed....or even hypocritical.

But then I studied Mikes "Nature Poems" and realized that often times his view of nature is different.

It is as if he believes nature is an extension of our consciousness.

As if we don't belong to it, but it flows from us.......

The more I thought about this...the more intrigued I became.

Remember when I shared with you his poem "Wolf House"?

That poem took place in nature, but the logos of the message was human frailty and abject horror.

Tonight I will leave you with another Nature poem from Yukon Gold.......it too takes place in nature.....

But is it really a "Nature Poem"?


I Saw a Deer, Now I Must Write a Poem

By Mike Finley / Yukon Gold

I saw a buck bolt onto Highway 5, down by the airport,
where workers are fixing the bridge.
Suddenly it was there, standing by the shoulder,
its side all rough as if scraped against stone,
then bolting into traffic, dodging cars,
leaping over the lane divider,
skidding away from a trailer truck, then vaulting
onto a bank of unaccustomed slag, and dancing, whitetail
bounding, back into the trees.
The wrong place at the wrong time, rush hour,
it was lucky it didn't get run over.
Motorists were shocked, workers stared open-mouthed.
The frantic look in the deer's eyes spelled
terror, confusion, the suggestion of reproach.
Deer and construction sites don't mesh,
the deer so fragile sprinting between bulldozers.
The overarching sense that road construction is wrong
and cars should pull over and give the natural order
the right of way and any poet seeing a deer
in the wild must file a complete report,
express solidarity with the animal,
remorse for the thud of mankind,
acknowledge complicity in the hazing
of innocent blood.
I was thinking that if deer
had short legs and made grunting noises
there would be fewer poems about them.

The End

Big Cash 4 Poems...See Details.

Remember the Peanuts comic strip?

Most people know Charlie Brown and his faithful mutt Snoopy.

But when I think back and relive those iconic stories, more often than not....I dwell on Lucy.

She was opinionated,loutish, and shrouded in false confidence.....maybe she reminded me of me (in my earlier years).

The coolest thing that Lucy ever did was set up that psychologist booth where she'd charge people a nickel for her opinion.

I think she did OK at this, because every third page, some insecure kid was handing over their piggy bank to her.

I have often thought it would be cool to set up some kind of booth like that....shoot, I'd be willing to give advice away for free....just as long as somebody would pay attention to me.

If one wanted to write up a buisness plan with this template, and hoped to make a few bucks off of it, I'm guessing you'd have to give advice on life, love or sex if you wanted to pay the bills.

But to dream of getting people giving you coins for poems......well Finley would tell me in no uncertain terms that - that would be impossible.....

Well, a student never should show up a Master......but look what was sent to my E-Mail today Mr. Finley.

Thanks for tossing this my way Lee Svitak Dean!



A Poem Store Open For Business, In The Open Air
by Cindy Carpien / NPR

April 17, 2012


Poet-for-hire Zach Houston works at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market in San Francisco. Houston says he is paid about $2 to $20 for each poem.
text size A A A April 17, 2012 Zach Houston runs his Poem Store (on any given sidewalk) with these items: a manual typewriter, a wooden folding chair, scraps of paper, and a white poster board that reads: "POEMS — Your Topic, Your Price."

Houston usually gets from $2 to $20 for a poem, he says. He's received a $100 bill more than once. The Oakland, Calif., resident has been composing spontaneous street poems in the San Francisco Bay Area since 2005. Five years ago, it became his main source of income.

"I quit my last conventional job on April Fools' Day, 2007," says Houston, 29. "They didn't believe me, because I said I was going to write poems, on the street, with a typewriter — for money." It was no April Fools' joke.

On most Saturdays, you can find Houston at San Francisco's Ferry Plaza Farmers Market. Passersby eye his sign and watch intently as Houston types away on his Swiss-made, green 1968 Hermes Rocket.

"Straight out of Switzerland, man," Houston says. "And it's my purse full of language. I love it."

A woman visiting from Olympia, Wash., gives Houston three ideas for her poem: spring break; road trip; and Olympia. Houston starts typing away immediately. In roughly 60 seconds, he pulls out the small, asymmetrical piece of white paper from the typewriter and reads it aloud:

"Where the Greek gods live with history and trees
protecting patience of rainforest
where it doesn't rain
simmers, fog, moisture
worship her, mother nature, newly wed
every year to visit a season
is called spring
forever returning to its source"

"I've always loved poetry. I've always cared about how language works," Houston says.

His mother claims that Houston carried a dictionary around when he was little. But even though he loves writing poems, his motivation wasn't "bringing poetry to the world," Houston says. Rather, he thought, "I love writing poems. I bet I could make a few dollars and survive off of writing poems."

"Believe it or not, it's not totally a reliable income. Who knew?" he says with a laugh.

Zach Houston reads a poem about Legos aloud. The work was commissioned by Miles Fogler, 10.
But the career choice has its advantages. Last year, Houston's work was featured at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, Mo., and at SF Camerawork in San Francisco.

As Houston stretches his back between writing poems, someone has been standing behind him for quite some time, paying close attention: 10-year-old Miles Fogler of San Francisco, who had been walking down the street with his family when he noticed Houston.

"I really like typewriters," Miles says, "and I wanted to see someone write on a typewriter, because I haven't seen anybody do that." And when Miles saw that Houston was writing poems, he decided he wanted one. His topic of choice? Legos (he's building a big structure at home).

Houston is delighted. "Legos are amazing," he says. "What a wonder. Discrete units, man." He starts typing.

Listen to the poem Zach Houston composed for Miles Fogler:

The Legos Poem
Houston says he's written thousands of poems in the past seven years on his Hermes Rocket. He gives them away to his patrons. He writes his e-mail address on the poems and asks them to send him copies. Some do.

In the past, Houston could be found regularly at Bay Area art festivals, coffee shops and farmers markets. These days, Houston primarily shows up at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market on Saturdays. The rest of his time he now devotes to more private writing.

He also toys with the idea of going back to college, Houston says, so he can "get into arguments with poets about how they're using words all wrong."

Last Night my Son Opened for a National Act!

Just when you think life has no more surprises....that's when it happens huh?

I mean there I was watching Drago kill Apollo Creed last night.

Sure, I've seen this movie 1/2 million times, but SPIKE TV is running a Rocky marathon all weekend.

RING-RING-RING goes my phone.

It's Saturday night and my son is calling....hmmmmm unusual.

But I'm thrilled none the less, and when I answer, at first I became alarmed because it kinda sounded like he was hyperventilating.

My son assured there was no tragedy to report, actually quite the opposite.....

"Dad how many national acts did you open for tonight?"

I didn't know where this was going, but from the tone in his voice....I could tell it was a JACKPOT life moment.

"Ah, none tonight, I'm just kicking it with Drago."

Tydus doesn't ask me for details, this conversation is going to be about him.....

"Tonight I made my poetry debut. I opened up for Def Poetry artist Shihan. I really can't believe it. The guy is my favorite artist and he asked me If I wanted to open for his show tonight?"

I know very little about the "SLAM" side of poetry, but my son follows it, hip hop and rap religiously.

He always has.

Apparently Shihan was being sponsored by Adidas to tour colleges performing spoken word sets.

I guess he gigged in NYC the previous night, but now....there he was in the middle of an Iowa cornfield at Luther College.

Tydus purposely switched his work shift so he could get off early enough to get a good seat at the performance.

While my son was camped out in the hallway....Shihan walks by ready to enter the concert hall.

I don't know what Tydas said, but he struck up a conversation with the poet, and truth be told, I think Shihan was impressed with how in tune my son had been following his career.

Shihan then asked Tydus if he wrote, and my kid said.....

"Yes, but I've never hit the stage like you do, but I will soon enough, you'll be hearing about Tydus down the road."

Then this wonderful man smiled at my kid and responded.....

"Good, go get your work and meet me at the stage, you're gonna open for me tonight!"

Tydus said he was scared sh**less, but he ran back to his dorm and got his stuff.

In 20 years I don't know if I ever heard my son so excited.

My mind began racing back to taking him to little league games while listening to Eminem, The Beastie Boys and Run DMC.

I don't get silent very often, but I think I was shocked from my son being shocked.

Finally I said.....

"Did you post the info on your Facebook wall so I can see your sets lyrics, or find out more about the guy you opened for?"

Then my kid says in an anxious voice.....

"No, I will in a minute, but I wanted to call you before I did any of that."

O-M-G.....I'm not gonna lie, I almost cried.

I was so grateful to this man, a guy whose identity was foreign to me.

We live in a world where media promotes cynicism, but that's not always the case huh?

This Shihan guy was confident enough in himself to share his resources with another person who had nothing to give back other than respect and admiration.

And through this action, he gave my son an experience that has changed his life for the better.

I'm still not sure that "SLAM" will ever be my scene, but Shihan, 1000 thanks.

And let me remind you.....the world will be hearing a lot from young Tydus in the near future......due to your generosity.

Russian Toilet Poet Story

Hey Mike, when you get a chance, could you tell the story about the Russian poet that ended up by the toilet?

Thanks in advance for your consideration.

Open Michrophone

Every city has about 1000 places that offer open microphones to those that write poems,prose or fiction.

Finley and I have a few select venues that we enjoy going to so we can try out our new material.

It is seldom that we call each other to see if one another is going to attend, instead...like all good Jedi Poets, we just use the force.

I'll never forget, when was it? Maybe a year....year and a 1/2 ago I went to one of these events, knowing with certainty that Finley would be there too, so I got there early, put our names on the sign up sheet, and placed my clipboard across the table from me to secure a seat for Mike.

Tick-Tock...............Tick Tock, time was flowing by, showtime was starting soon, and I eventually had to forfeit Finley's chair to a young woman who studied her work as if she were was about to take her an exam.

I'll bet there was 15 tables, all of which had 3-4....5 people at each one, but my table was a leper colony....

When you see open mike situations on TV, it's easy to get the impression that the rooms mood is festive, but truth be told, that almost never happens.

More often than not, most people go so they can step under a spot light and either amuse or heal themselves.

More often than not, the room becomes dour and void of hope!

But when their 6-8 minutes is finished, you can almost bank that they'll just sit back down and indulge the other presenters and leave it at that.

Now we are 3 poets into the show and the chick who is sitting across from me is called upon, so as she rifles her papers and breaths deeply, I give her the nod of approval, as if I'm some kinda of expert, or maybe even a friend.

As she made her way to the stage, I remember thinking....

"Where the hell is Finley."

Now the young women greets us, the audience with a non descript intro and then blasts ahead...balls to the wall, every verse is dealing with mental health.

Every line, informing us that hers is sketchy.

The poem made War & Peace seem "tight".

I don't think I timed her officially, but I'd be willing to bet that she did a 14 minute 6-8 minute set.

Oh yeah....and her poem concluded with "Orderlies raping me with their straight jacket."

So when she announces that she is finished.....

Nobody claps, why?

Because nobody cares.

This woman came to participate in something that she envisioned would be healing, but in fact the opposite happened.

Where do we come up with the notion that just because we openly confess, that healing will take place?

So next is a guy who reads to us from a novel he is working on....

A novel about Lizard Martians.

"O-M-G.....Finley where are you?"

Eventually I got a chance to do my set, and I have to chuckle as I remembered all these people, like 60 of them sitting out in the audience.

1/2 of them were texting,or reading whatever was handy, while the other 1/2 were kind enough to watch me, but their faces resembled deer staring into the headlights.

Actually they weren't watching me...they were looking through me.

Now I guess that I'd get this if it were my first time attending, but Finley and I had been here together 7 or 8 times.

Finley never did show, so the next day I called him and said something like....

"In addition to nobody applauding or showing a speck of interest in anybody's set but their own, they also didn't even say "Hello" or "I enjoyed your work, will you be coming back?"

I can hear Finley on the other line laughing.

"Dude" I lamented..."It wasn't even so funny that its funny. It was down right creepy, like the movies where the family in a Winnebago break down in some town in Ohio, only to find out that everybody who lives there is in some devil worship club!"

Finley continues chuckling before asking the following.....

"Don't you have to be a good judge of character in your business? What is the main difference between us and the people you read with last night?"

I had a dozen "wise guy" answers, but I could see that Mike was about to make a point.

"I would think that you would have picked up on the fact that we are unusual, we don't fit the writers template. We actually are outgoing, and have some joy in our life."

Finley's comment amused himself.

"I mean just take a look at writers, at poets, by nature these people are introverts. They are fragile. Groups like that never reach out to anyone."

When I asked if they were higher maintenance than artists, Finley roared......

"Yes, its not even close."

Carol Connolly @ the Lexington

What are the odds of a bread baker and a Poet Laureate finding common ground?

Becoming the dearest of friends?

Maybe better than you think.

Capitol Cities Poet Laureate didn't actually start writing poetry until she was 40, but she's always loved dessert.

Over the last couple of years I have had the honor of joining Carol on a series of culinary dates to a variety of Saint Paul's trendiest dining establishments.

Although our destinations have been diverse, dessert has always been the common denominator.

But other times people choose restaurants for more than food, they choose places that give them comfort, and for Carol Connolly, nothing says chillax like the Lexington.

I think it was last autumn when we last met there.

Carol had made prrevious arrangments for us to secure a corner table in the bar, however....when we got there, her favorite spot was filled with louts.

She wasn't very happy with this turn of events, and as she explained her displeasure to the wait staff, they offered up a half million apologies and possible resolutions, but by this time Carol didn't care....nobody rebounds quite like Connolly.

So now we are out in the dining room and after receiving water and a bread basket she asked me.....

"So tell me young man, how have you been, and what are you writing about these days?"

The question made me smile because I was in a phase where I was trying to understand why for so many men, the most difficult person in the world to talk to was their daughter(s).

'You know Carol" I said....."It started off with me focussing on me writing down conversations with my daughter. Some were actual, and others were discussions that I wish had taken place. But then as time passed....I started to wonder if other Father/Daughter relationships were as difficult to navigate, so I started to talk to women of all ages about their fathers, and I'm finding out that this is a powerful topic.

So tell me Carol...what do you most remember about your father?"

Carol paused for a second, and I think her eyes began filling with tears, but good tears, not sad memory tears, finally the Poet Laureate responded......

"My father was big like you Klecko, he was a good man, but he had so much work, and such a large family to consider. I remember one day he was moving a dresser from the top level of our house to the main floor. The staircase was tight and there was several different landings.

It was obvious that this dresser was too large for his to accomplish this task, but he kept trying anyway. Finally the dresser slipped from his grip and I'll never forget his response. He just stood there with an akward smile and said LET THAT SON OF A BITCH GO.

I had never heard my father speak like that. He was quiet and to himself, but that didn't mean he didn't have a sweet side. One day when my brother (closest to me in age) was getting into some trouble of some sort. My father caught him and playfully explained......

IF I CATCH YOU DOING THAT AGAIN, I'M GONNA KNOCK YOUR HEAD CLEAN OFF YOUR BODY, AND IT WILL BOUNCE DOWN THE STREET SO FAR THAT YOU WILL DIE OF STARVATION BEFORE IT RETURNS!"

Carol stopped speaking, grinned huge, and did her best to savor her fond memories.

That evening at the Lexington was such a brilliant moment for me that I could go on telling you guys stories for the rest of the day, but as I regress, I guess I should just return to the likelihood of a baker and a Poet Laureate becoming great friends.

For the longest time I felt that our friendship tandem was so unique and in many ways it defied the odds, but now that I think about the time we have spent together....

I just think our friendship is obvious.

Submitted below might be Carol's legacy poem. Often times when she is asked by a group to recite a spontanious poem, this is what she pulls from her tool box.

A Gentleman's Invitation

Meet me at six o'clock
at the New French Cafe.
We will share,
says he,
a cup of consomme.
Handsome is he
and debonair.
His smile is as wide
as the English Channel.
But a hungry woman
searching for substance
could
drown
in a cup of consomme
at six o'clock
at the New French Cafe.

THE END

Tribute Rerun

The following is a Blog post from my "Last American Baker" series.

However, had this "Poets Are Lame" project been running at the time, I would have channeled it through here.

So sit back, relax....and enjoy this mornings rerun.


Friday, March 16, 2012

The Finley Tribute

If I have ever written anything that has inspired you, or brought you joy.....90% of the accolades would have to go to my writing mentor/master Mike Finley.

Over the years i've popped over to his house to hit him up for advise, or wisdom on different things I've worked on.

Under his tutelage,I have secured book deals, written hundreds of columns and basically opened my world to all the freaks that one only meets through literature LOL.

My favorate time to go to Mike's house is around 11 a.m. because often times he'll offer a guy, what he calls "Pollack Breakfast."

Finley's step father was a Pollack who worked in the Food Show, and Mike often celebrates his memory by making a late breakfast that incorperates eggs, sausages, bacon, little red potatoes, onions and hash browns.

Everything just gets swirled around in a cauldron and then after plating it...well lets just say it wouldn't been unheard of if an Irish beer get cracked open.

Well Mr Finley.....how does one thank their Master?

How can a recipient of such a priceless gift return the favor.

When I think back on the volumes of advise and correction you have so graciously dispenced throughout my "career" I am always on the lookout to find ways to....not repay the debt, but more appropriatly offer tribute.

The following is submitted for your approval.........

Several weeks ago I teamed up with Saint Paul's Poet Laureate Carol Connolly.

We met at an inner city high school were we were asked to discuss poetry with the students.

When the gig was brought to our attention....my friend Carol advised me....

"Expose as many tattoo's as possible, it might buy us some credibility."

Then the 2 of us went, discussed our work, and I was really moved at how open these 17-20 year olds were.

Yesterday I receaved an envelope in the mail.

It was large and thick, when I tore it open and dumped its contents onto my desk, I was thrilled to see that each young person sent me a "Thank You" letter that seemed more than the generic ones that your teacher forces you to write....

But this one that I'm going to show you now is the very first one I read.........

DEAR KLECKO,

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR TAKING YOUR TIME FOR BEING OUR GUEST IN CLASS.

I APPRECCIATED YOUR PERSPECTIVE ON POETRY. YOU BEING A BIG GUY, I REALLY DIDN'T EXPECT YOU TO BE EMOTIONALLY EXPRESSIVE. BUT WATCHING YOU EXPRESS YOURSELF, MY MENTALITY TOWARDS EMOTIONS HAS COMPLETLY SHIFTED. I KNOW I AM EMOTIONAL, BUT I'M NOT USED TO TALKING ABOUT IT.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR CHANGING MY MENTALITY.

AND THANK YOU FOR THE CAKE...IT WAS WONDERFUL.

Can you believe that Mike?

A kid a the height of "coolness" daring to say something like that.

I sat in my office stunned, for like 10 minutes.....your Goodwill has moved down the line, and I thought it was important that you get a return on your investment.

The Poetry Toy Box

Finley has many Finleyism's.

If he had his own reality show, I'm guessing I could get a partime job deciphering his lingo for the programs producers.

EXAMPLE -

The words Toy Box.

Finley loves to say "Toy Box", but if he used this phrase on the air, a directors cut scrawl wouldn't easily be able to produce a simple definition.

In Finleys world "Toy Box" is another way of saying Jack Pot.

Other times he'll use it for some kind of Utopian existence.

But more often than not, when Finley drops "Toy Box" on you....he's simple referring to the thoughts in his mind.

Over the years, I've kind of pushed "Mental Vault", but I think it's too formal for him, and therefore lacks credibility.

Recently Mike wrote a poem about Atheists in Heaven.

When I complimented the piece and asked when he wrote it.....I shouldn't have been surprised by his response....

"I think that I pulled that one out of the toy box 2 years ago, but it sat in there for over 20 years before it ever saw daylight."

This is a huge difference between Finley and I.

I hate knowing that somewhere is a place where orphaned poems exsist.

God only knows how lonely popular poems can get.

So during the last couple of days, I have been clearing the cob webs in my toy box, and thinking of ideas, or poems that needed final tweaking.

The following is my first attempt ever at pulling discarded words from the past, and trying to create a platform for them in the now....

Mr. Finley, this is is several "LOVE" concepts rolled into one, but that doesn't mean you need to feel bad about tearing this down and reconstructing it in a public arena...I can take it.

THE PEOPLES EMPIRE

God's the true artist
Not Pablo Picasso
I traveled his sculpture
Early in April
The ocean, a tribute
The mountains, cathedrals
Such a sight to see

Creation divine
Aesthetic sublime
But still
You would have to be his masterpiece

So grab the pot
And pour some coffee
Save room for the cream
Your morning face
A flawless canvas
While those brown eyes gleam
I salute the architect of your temple
For producing such a dream

Finally
A Goddess dwells in the people’s empire

THE END

You Walked Into the Party.........

You walked into the party, like you were walking onto a yacht.

Remember a few years back when that rumor started surfacing about Carly Simon, and how she would raffle off who that song was written about to the highest E-Bay bidder?

Some of my workmates were pretty sure it was James Taylor, where me and a few others were more than certain that it had to be Warren Beatty.

Well, after attending Mike Finley's "THE UPSET SEA" reading, at Trotters Cafe, what was it? Maybe the autumn of 2010....I might have to reconsider.

The story goes like this.......

At this period of time, Finley was in one of life's dark corners.

By his standards, he hadn't been out on the streets as much, he wasn't blitzing social media like he likes to do, and he hadn't read publicly in a long while.

Well, right when it got to the point where people were wondering if or when he would resurface, a mass E-Mail was sent out informing the people of his world, that he would be conducting an intimate reading. much of which focused on the trip he had taken to Alaska with with wife.

We were promised by Finley that he had some observations and ideas to share with us that were inspiring to him.

Basically,in my thoughts.....I just think that when Mike spent his "Dark Period" that it was hard for him to find not so much stuff that he could write about, but content that he wanted to talk about.

There is a difference.

So the gig was lined up at Trotters Cafe (a reading venue set up by James Silas Rogers)which conveniently was located just blocks from the Finley estate.

It was good to see my mentors former countenance returning.

For the next week he assaulted Facebook and many other outlets with invitations for his....well he'd just call it his show, but in many ways I feel this night was his resurfacing.

Trotters Cafe is a nice place to have lunch with some friends, or to grab coffee or a beer with a family member, but in many ways it is an unusual location to hold readings.

The place is made up of three rooms.

If you are walking through the front door, the threshold enters into the dining room on the far right.

The room I like to refer to as Room #3.

To the left is the hub of the cafe. This is where the ordering counter is located, and if you head towards the back, that is the area that allows you access to the kitchen, we'll call this room #2.

If you move a little further to the left, their is a long, almost corridor looking space, and you can only enter it through a narrow passage towards the front of the building.

This is room #3.

Room #3 is where the readings are held.

The presenter is stationed at the back of this room and usually stands over a modest podium which is aided by an even more modest sound system.

Not much is required, since there is only 7 or 8 tables in there.

In case you didn't know this, poets are extremely needy people....LOL and Finley is certainly no exception.

He'd been out of the loop for awhile.

As each day counted down closer to this "Intimate Reading" I could see him getting more excited.

We talked in the evenings prior to this occasion, and the thing that cracked me up was...well first off, I wasn't familiar with the work he was going to unleash, but some of the poems were actually kinda long.

Finley has told me in the past...."Any poem that is more than 16 or 20 lines should be read at a campfire, not from a literary platform."

So when I reminded him of this, he laughed and told me that he just taught me facts in case I wanted to become a great poet, but one of the reason he hadn't found "The Commercial Jackpot" was because he hated following rules....even his own.

That's what I admire about Finley.

As he approaches each project, verse or line.....he simply does what he thinks is best for it, not his status, or poetry career.

So now its the evening of the show.

The microphone was getting clicked on at 7 p.m.

Finley can walk to this venue in about 5 minutes, so when I looked at the time on the clock at the bakery, it was 6, so knowing Finley always leaves early, I wasn't sure he'd answer at home If I called.

But I called.....and he did pick up.

6:06 P.M. -

KLECKO "You ready to splash hard tonight sen-say? Launch time is in 54 minutes and counting."

Finley "Yeah, my wife is heading over there from work, so I think I'll just walk over. When are you getting there?"

KLECKO "I am washed, dressed and will have a beer in my hand in 13-14 minutes, see ya and good luck."

CLICK

So I get there at about 6:22, and figured I'd get tonight's feature act a beer as well, but he's no where to be seen. So I just bought provisions for myself and was lucky to nab the last table in Room #3, the room where Mike would be reading.

Now Jim Rogers enters, he's doing a sound check and people continue flooding the cafe, now Room #3 is packed, and the over flow are filling #2 and trying to find spots where they could goose neck a view.

Now its 6:44, Finley still hasn't shown up.

I'll bet there's 50 some people waiting for the show to begin.

But the front door keeps opening, then slamming shut....over, and over again.

Each time this happens, everybody is looking to see if its Finley.

It wasn't.

50 people have just turned to 70, and it's now 6:58.

I don't know if Rogers has ever had a crowd this big, but if he has, I'll bet the headline act was there with him.

Rogers goes to the podium, and in a good spirit smiles...graciously thanks everybody for coming, but informs us that Mike hadn't arrived yet, and asked if anybody had any pertinent info concerning the matter.

I stood up to report......

"Yeah, I just talked to him less than an hour ago, he lives 2 blocks away, trust me...he's on his way."

Tick-Tock goes the clock, it's now 7:19.

People look nervous, I kinda chuckle because I have confidence that my mentor can navigate a curb for 2 blocks w/o getting run down.

In simplest terms, Finley is the Axel Rose or Jim Morrison of the Twin Cities poetry community, he does things on his time, not to be rebellious, but sometimes the world can distract him.

Knowing this, I pull out my cell phone and call his house.....

Ring-Ring-Ri

"Mike Finley here."

"Mike, it's me (laughter in my voice)and there's 1/2 a million people here for your show."

Then Mike does his best to contain his relief while responding....."Good, I'm glad my friends were able to make it, but why is everyone there already? The program doesn't start for 10 more minutes. I thought Rachel might be home after all, and I thought I would walk over with her."

Before he continued, I interrupted....

"Actually your show started 20 minutes ago."

PAUSE..............PAUSE............."SHIT!" says Finley, and then the phone hung up.

About 152 seconds later, a slightly winded poet entered Room #3, but he didn't look panicked, he didn't look out of sorts, instead he just played it off like "Yeah.....when Mike Finley is about to drop the bomb of excellence on you, a couple minutes isn't going to hurt."

Later in the evening, Mike did reveal the truth about his ineptitude when following time, and everybody laughed at his honest remark.

The reading was spectacular.

Friends - Fans and Poets from different periods of Mike's life showed up and it was really a special evening.


THE UPSET SEA

Is an interesting work (it's registered online, you should really take a little time and check it out) because this is one of the few times where Mike blends humor/tragedy/observations into a single work.

I think this collection was really important too, because w/o it, I'm not sure if his head would have been....."level enough?" to write his BIG ASS ANGELS book which I and other critics agree, might be his legacy.

I could have chose a number of poems to present, and in some respects, I probably should have listed "Under the Sea" or some of the witty stories that almost remind me of Older Johnny Cash songs.

But to be honest, this piece is powerful and tender all in one breathe.

In Many ways, this is the poem that inspired my submissions in the GODIVA GOES RIDING book that I co wrote with Finley.



ON THE PLANE


I sit next to a Chinese student

She has no nose to speak of

She is moonfaced and it is a late flight

And I want to turn to her and say

You can lay your head on my arm

If you like

It will keep you from getting a stiff neck

But I didn't, of course

I miss Daniele so much


THE END

The Dogs of Easter

As a gift to Finley, on this bright Easter morning, I will pay tribute by leaving a valuable gift.

Now how does one dare offer tokens of gratitude on the same day Christ resurrected from the dead in hopes of giving eternal life?

You leave a list of dog quotes.

And not just any list, a Mark Twain list to boot.


MARK TWAIN SAID.....................


By what right has the dog come to be regarded as a "noble" animal? The more brutal and cruel and unjust you are to him the more your fawning and adoring slave he becomes; whereas, if you shamefully misuse a cat once she will always maintain a dignified reserve toward you afterward—you will never get her full confidence again.


Every time you stop a school, you will have to build a jail. What you gain at one end you lose at the other. It's like feeding a dog on his own tail. It won't fatten the dog.


He wasn't no common dog, he wasn't no mongrel; he was a composite. A composite dog is a dog that is made up of all the valuable qualities that's in the dog breed—kind of a syndicate; and a mongrel is made up of all riffraff that's left over.


Heaven goes by favor; if it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.


I have been studying the traits and dispositions of the "lower animals" (so called) and contrasting them with the traits and dispositions of man. I find the result humiliating to me.


If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.


If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.

Pudd'nhead Wilson


It takes me a long time to lose my temper, but once lost I could not find it with a dog.


Man is the only animal that blushes—or needs to.


My father was a Saint Bernard, my mother was a Collie, but I am a Presbyterian.


Of all the creatures, man is the most detestable. Of the entire brood, he is the only one that possesses malice. He is the only creature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to be pain. The fact that man knows right from wrong proves his intellectual superiority to the other creatures; but the fact that he can do wrong proves his moral inferiority to any creature that cannot.


The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man's.

Letter to W.D. Howells, 2 April 1899


There are no wild animals until man makes them so.


When a man's dog turns against him it is time for a wife to pack her trunk and go home to mama.

Mark Twain

THE END

Happy Easter All