Do Artists Realize?

I thought I would get out of it.

I heard it was supposed to thunderstorm, but the skies remained dry and clear throughout the morning.

My wife wanted to go to NorthEast Mpls.

She wanted to go to Art-O-Whirl.

Art-O-Whirl, if you have never heard of it, is a hipster part of town where all the middle class Bohemian wannabes live.

Each year they cover a huge territory where basically every business turns itself into an art gallery.

Funeral Parlors, Dentists, Liquor Stores...you name it, all of these places convert these spaces into art galleries.

In theory.....it is kinda cool, however....in practical application, I just saw literally thousands of people sitting on uncomfortable stools hoping just one of the sweaty event attendants would stop and purchase one of their masterpieces.

So Sue McGleno pretty much stops at every jewelry stand right?

And our romantic stroll lessened in romance.

The air was heavy -

The humidity was off the charts -

But being that it was an official date.....

I had to act as if I actually was enjoying myself.

So Lo and Behold, by hook or by crook..........

I noticed that my wife and I were standing on the threshold of the Grain Belt building.

I hadn't been there in over a year and a half.

I hadn't stepped foot in this place since Finley and I preformed the Bavarian Oratorio.

As guys with head bands and man purses passed me in the hallway, I chuckled as I stood outside the room where Mike and I preformed our masterpiece.

I think we drank over 400 beers during script writing sessions.  

It was supposed to be a big deal, something epic that would change the world.......

We played angels that were flawed but loveable, and together....we'd set humanity on fire with beauty and wisdom that typically you can only get in the celestial kingdom.

The only problem was..............

Only 3 people came, none of which came with intent.

These people were holiday shoppers that simply wanted to rest their feet, and when Finley and I went into character....LOL, their sinful nature must have convicted them because they just got weird looks on their face and got the hell out.

So now, today in this same room sat a man.

He was in the back of the room.

He was seated with an older man.

The guys spoke English, but if my ears were accurate, I'm guessing they had Italian accents.

The younger guy, the artist was lamenting how he gave up his futball career to work with marble.

While he was explaining this, I saw a piece I liked.

I even flirted with thinking about buying it.

So I walked into the presence of their conversation.

"Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah."

The guy, even though I am right in front of him continues feeling sorry for himself......

"I gave it all up, all of it. That's how much I love this medium, that's how much I want to make this work, but I need to find a way to turn my passion into sales."

Tap=Tap-Tap

Goes the sound of patient Danny Klecko's foot.

I mean seriously......I am practically giving the guy a lap dance.

My head continues to swivel between the piece I wanted to maybe buy, and the artist.

Back-Forth and Back Forth....I was so Linda Blair by this time.

The artist continued.......

"If people just understood that marble is so much more than sculptures, or reliefs for that matter. Marble can transcend these camps and create paintings like................."

I laughed out loud.

The old man looked up at me in wonder, but the artist......he just continued do his best to figure out a way he could get people interested in his passion.

Sigh

The 2 Worlds of Richard Broderick

I dunno............

Maybe its because it was Friday.

Maybe its because I had been up since 3 a.m.

It could be that the weather was determined not to break, and for the first time in my life, I felt as if Spring might be bypassed in its entirety.

I had just gotten off work, and it's around 4 p.m., and I'm sitting in the bread truck parked in the lot at Korte's Grocery talking on the phone.

The conversation was with a guy named Richard Broderick, and if my life depended on it.....I couldn't tell you why.....oh....lol, yeah I can, he wanted to know if I was going over to Poet Fergie's Pizza bake.

What are we, in the second week of April, right?

And small flakes of snow are floating down and melting on the parking lots asphalt.

I was deeply discouraged by the lack of sunshine. 

Richard Broderick is an interesting person to talk to for many reasons, one of which is that intellectually he's one of the sharpest people I...or you for that matter, will ever meet.

His mind is methodical and amazing.

Many times I revel in his opinions.

Other times I couldn't disagree more.

And sometimes it occurs to me that conversation wise.....I'm swimming in the deep end of the pool when I'm in his presence.

Sometimes he'll be in the middle of whatever it is he's discussing, and sometimes that portion of his topic might be 3 or 4 blocks beyond my comprehension.....but most of the times he'll see my wonder shrinking in the rear view mirror, and at that point he slams on the breaks, shifts into reverse and promptly backs up to my comprehension level.

It's good to have friends that challenges your mind.

It's good to have friends with bars set a view rungs higher than your own.

It's even better when that person also has the ability to make you laugh in the process.

The snow flakes are getting bigger now and small droplets of rain start to fall.

Then in a split second, it wasn't quite like a crucified Jesus sky, but almost....the sky grew very dark - really fast.

I had to chuckle because at this point  I half expected John Wayne to prance out in a centurion costume and announce.............

"Surely this must be the son of God."

Now I think the topic turned to Broderick's most recent obsession which is Dichos.

I don't want to come across like I am proficient on the topic, but from my understanding.....in Central or South America, often times people will paint ideals or slogans on their cars, maybe in the same way people in my country use bumper stickers.

So while Richard is explaining this and that about that and this...... the grocery store employees aren't necessarily giving me the evil eye, but they are kinda giving me the WTF are you doing sitting in a bread truck in our parking lot for 40 minutes....."don't you have anything better to do" look. 

Truth be told....my dogs need to be let out to pee.

My stomach is grumbling, but I'm really locked into this insight and I'm nervous that once this conversation is terminated, I'll go back to life per usual where my focus will be stolen away by red head heads and box scores.

OK....so now you've heard the build up to my epiphany.....and when Broderick said the following, I don't really remember the context, but I do remember that even though this idea he blurted out may have just been another thread in his Techno Color Coat of ideas....it was kinda an anthem for me.....................


I will give to you my inspiration in poem form -
  

THE BRODERICK VISION


There are two worlds


The first world is the real world
In which most poets exist
Yet nothing there is real


The second world is reality

--- the end ---

Mr Broderick.......if you care to elaborate further......feel free, but you had me at "Yet nothing there is real."

Observations From A Know It All

Now that we are around the 1/2 way point of March.....

I have had a little while to do a February postmortem.

February typically is a popular month for poetry readings.

For some reason literary people seem to think that February and Love Poems pair well.

I guess in theory this might be true.....but on the gritty streets of "Poets Are Lame Avenue", I gotta tell ya, I'm seeing just the oppisite.

During the "Love Month", I attended several readings and the observations I made this year were the same ones I've witnessed in the past.

Poets can be cowards.

And just as Johnny Cash once said.......

" I am the greatest sinner of all!"

Of all the Love Fests I've been scoping out, the presenters seemed more intent to get across the fact that they were edgy. The work they chose to present at these venues more often than not dealt with sex.

Love wasn't even mentioned.

As I have discussed this observation with my acquaintances from the bar stool....all the way to the church pew, I am starting to realize something with clarity.

Many people, most people are afraid, or uncomfortable at best to express what emotion lives in their heart.

Communicating love is a lost art form.....or did it ever even exist?

I don't know if people feel that pin pointing their emotion(s) is a sign of weakness, but it isn't.

Others have mentioned that expressing love is kinda like cooking with cilantro, it tastes great for a bite or two, but if the valve gets stuck, the flavor goes from splendid to unpalatable in the shake of a tail.

I am sure that every person -

Every venue......all have different perimeters.

But as poets, if we have just one responsibility in this guild, and to this world, shouldn't it be to celebrate love, and do our best to live within the actions we best feel define love?

Life is interesting friends, and nobody wants to be made a fool.

Some of us have suffered from the sting of Cupids arrow, but c'mon.......

People do have a good side -

People are capable of putting others needs in front of their own -

People were created to live within joy, not the opposite.

In closing, yeah-yeah....I get it.

Sex is wonderful, and nobody likes a bottle of Scotch or a fresh prescription of pain med's from Marcus Welby as much as me.......

But those aren't topics that merit launching fleets,folly and dreams.......

Love is our go to, and if a poet doesn't understand love......there's a bowling league close to you that would be happy to have your services..........

Alright, it's late so I'll step off my soap box, but before I do......

I love most of you guys!

Finley Plays Central Park

If you go to YouTube, and type in Paul Simon / Central Park.........

You will get to witness a moment in time that is nothing short of astonishing.

The concert was legendary, and I'm sure many of you recall it, but do you remember the scale of the concert grounds?

Do you really have a mental image of its magnitude?

The opening shot shows a stage from an aerial view.

The stage is set way back in the park, and the camera pans back to reveal that their is an ocean of people, I mean numbers so large, it would be impossible to even speculate the attendance.

About a football field in front of the stage is a jumbo-tron so the people 2 football fields away can get a glimpse of Paul and the band......

And a football field in front of that is yet another jumbo-tron for the people 3 football fields back.

All this technology -

All this attention -

Aimed in the direction on an unassuming little guy wrapped in a charcoal colored sports coat that he might of picked up at the Salvation Army.

Paul strums, sings....and you can feel the pressure mount.

At the 3 minute mark of this video, the camera zooms in as he delivers the line......

"There's a girl from New York City, she calls herself the human trampoline."

When the words "New York" pass his lips, the crowd are already anticipating this.... they pretty much go bat shit crazy.

If you watch real close, Paul smirks quick, and from this point, his countenance changes, a rough edge has worn off.

I think part of this is for no other reason than.......

At this exact moment, Paul Simon found his element.

He found it.....realized it, and then I'm guessing he savored it for a bit.

It is a wonderful image, and I have carried it in my thoughts for years.

Last Sunday afternoon, I witnessed something that was eerily similar.   

Sure, it might not have been on a stage the same size, in fact, the stage I'm talking about was barely big enough to hold 2 people.

What I'm referring to was the book launch of "OUT FOR A LARK", the newest project released by Finley and me.

We threw a party/reading at the SubText Bookstore in Saint Paul, and I gotta tell ya, the intimate space was packed wall to wall.

The counter was lined with graham crackers and boxed wine, it was a class event.

I've been on stages before where the crowds were bigger, but I gotta tell you.......

I've never read-cooked or preformed in front of a group that threw off a more loving vibe.

So many people came out to support us.

I don't say this often, but it is almost hard for me to find words to describe the moment because so much of it was surreal.

To me, the special part of this accomplishment was that I got to do this gig with Finley.

 And much like Paul Simon, there was a moment, maybe for a second or 2 when I saw the same look in Finley's eyes.

He had found his element too......

I hope he finds a way to put that fleeting memory in a bottle......

God that was a good day.

Possibly Finley's Finest Moment..................

University Club Svengali

The Poet Finley stood irreverent

Bypassing the podium

Insensitive to protocol

Replacing verse

With an account of loss

The stage became a confessional

Of which he took full advantage

By starting off the evening

Announcing he’d fired God

He didn't qualify as agnostic

He didn't convert to atheism

He fully believed in a supreme being

And terminated this companion

In ceremony and silence

Half the audience became unnerved

Pointing out, that heresy starts off

When manners become unleashed

But the rest of us fell into a trance

Knowing what our dear friend had lost

Finley Drops the "F" Bomb...in Guideposts?

I think it was 100 below zero last night, and pretty much the entire state of Minnesota is in hibernation.

I knew that my calling was to go to the gym, but that little cartoon devil that lives over my left shoulder whispered in my ear.......

"Call Finley, he'll be home, and who knows...he might distract your intentions and you might not have to go back into the cold."

The conversation started with....

"Hello, Mike Finley here."

But in no time flat, we were discussing the unthinkable.

I think it started with a joke about a religious book of poems. A parody where Christ and his friends would be featured in a roast like fashion.

Perhaps the project would start off with the Jews getting hyped up before the big Psalm Sunday / Passover Parade, you know....the one where Jesus enters into the city on a donkey while everybody tosses leaves into the street..

The Jews (from my recollection) weren't that excited about heaven as much as they wanted to see Rome pushed off the rails......

Anyways, Finley suggested that a good title might be.......

"Christ Without An Ass."

And in our featured story, we would talk about the pain even a Messiah can encounter when they suffer the equivalent to us losing their car keys on the moment of a big event.

I guess you had to be there, but none the less.....we were entertained, and I would like to think a host of angels smiled as well.

Then we starting talking about Billy Graham, and both of us voiced our concern as to his current state.

It's been awhile since his upstart kid took over the ministry, but for whatever reason....the Billy Graham Foundation seems to be pulling the old buck out for photo ops, and truth be told......

The pics that the shooter is getting of are not all that enticing.

These images appear like cardboard cut outs of a confused and bumbling man.

It's hard for me to hold them in contrast with..................

The man who led crusades across the planet -

The man who served as spiritual advisor to American Presidents -

The man who saw beauty in Nixon -

The man who answered the little girl who asked "Do puppies go to heaven?" to which he replied "If you want them to, I'll bet they do." -

So now Finley shifts the topic once again........

"Remember his publication Guide Posts? I wonder if they even publish that anymore, anyways...I actually had one of more stories published in Guide Posts."

So now I just sit there in the hum of silence, because in person Finley can lead you down the trail of well intended deception, but over the phone......

I remarked how much I enjoyed reading about Martin Sheen's conversion. It was appealing to me since Guide Posts seldom pointed towards Catholics, they were more "Born Again" in ideology. So when they reported on How Sheen (a.k.a. Captain Willard) had a real life heart attack, mental breakdown and survived a typhoon, all on the set of Apocalypse Now...I really dug this.

Finley listened to my entire take, but when I was finished, he returned to his own..................

"In the submission I sent to Guide Posts....I had the word (FUCK) in my story. As you can guess, they edited it out, but the process was awkward. They knew I was a professional writer, and they knew that the (FUCK) word made sense to the story, but Guide Posts is Guide Posts which meant they had to take a moment to contact me and act unaffected by the editing."

I can't tell you how hard I laughed, in fact...now I felt justified for skipping my workout.

"Only you would F-Bomb Guide Post." I said, but Finley returned a logical explanation....

"It's not like I wrote the story specifically for them, so when I sent it out, I never stopped to think they would be getting a story with the word fuck in it."

Over the course of the next hour, we talked about other world changing topics, but I think you've heard enough for now.

The following is the story that inspired the F-Bomb story....however, the obscenities have been removed for your comfort....enjoy.


Sometimes the future and the past switch places in our lives. What went before foretells what is to come. And the future smiles back, and explains the past. My family experienced a tragedy when I was 11 -- my sister Kathy, who was born with a leaky heart valve, passed away. Her life had been tough in many ways. She could never exercise, her baby teeth never fell out, and her skin was grayish from poor circulation -- she was called a "bluebaby," and kids made fun of her for that. It's a condition that medicine found a simple cure for, to be administered at birth -- a few months after she was born. Kathy was a girl of great gentleness and sweetness. She was a painter and drawer, and a lover of horses. All my childhood, my job, and my brother Pat's, was to run and fetch things for her, because she did not have the strength. She was a sophomore in high school when she went into a coma and died. Her death made for a stormy adolescence for me. I stopped going to church, I got into trouble with the law, I became a bit of a hard case. Now fast-forward into the future, to my 15th high school reunion, in 1982. I returned to my small town with a bad attitude, determined to show people how far I had come -- not financially (I was broke) but in daring and worldliness. I drank with old girlfriends, I kissed my old prom date on the lips. I pissed off their husbands, on purpose. I had too much to drink, and I saw, at the bar, a big kid I remembered from grade school, Jack Mussina. He was the class psycho, built like an adult even as a kid, with a brutal jawline and a dead look in his eyes. In sixth, seventh, and eight grades, Mussina made my life miserable, chasing me on the playground, throwing me up against walls, and slapping and pummeling me. He hated me for some reason I didn't understand, and saw me as an appropriate victim. That's what bothered me the most -- I did not want to be a victim of anything. Taking courage from the liquor, I challenged him. "Mussina, what made you hate me so much in grade school? I wasn't a bad kid. What did I ever do to you?" Mussina winced. "Hey, man, I'm sorry. I was so crazy in those days. I had all kinds of problems." But I wouldn't let him off so easy. "OK, but why me? Why did you choose me to pick on?" He looked at me levelly, and I could tell something still bothered him. "Because you laughed at your sister's funeral." I flashed backward. I was excruciatingly self-conscious the day of the funeral. I was upset about Kathy, and I didn't want people peering in on our problems. But the funeral was a big event in the town. My whole school, St. Joseph's, was taking time off to attend. I remember glancing about during the service, looking for reassurance from my classmates that they wouldn't always know me by this moment. That this wouldn't mark me forever. I'm sure I tried to smile. It was a terrible day. Back to 1982. "Jack," I told him. "I wasn't laughing. I loved my sister, but it was no one's business but mine. I must have smirked, but you have to know I was dying inside. " "I know, Mike. I loved her, too." So that's what it was. When all the other kids called Kathy bluebaby, or warned her about the purple people eater, Mussina was her avenger. He beat up a dozen kids, and some of them must have said something. He showed his devotion the only way he could -- with his fists. When she died, he transferred his enmity to me. Out of love. Mussina went to Vietnam and was a behavior problem there, spending time in the brig. Now he was better, and counseled other vets with emotional disorders. And me, after what seemed like a lifetime of being alone, I met and married my best friend Rachel. Rachel, too, went through the mill, losing her father at 16. It's been an interesting marriage, because we are so gentle with one another, so aware of the old pain. Sometimes it seems like we are brother and sister. Now fast-forward to the present. My daughter Daniele, whose face so resembles my sister, is now her age, when she died. When I think of my sister's terror at that age, I can't help crying. I have a good one about once a month. And as I try to prepare Daniele for the long future ahead of her, I am so grateful for her health. You can not believe how rosy her complexion is, on a crisp December day like today. Or how embarrassed her brilliant color sometimes makes her. Or how beautiful it looks to me.

-   the end   -

Diane Arbus

"A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know."

Diane Arbus (1923-1971), U.S. photographer. Quoted in Patricia Bosworth, Diane Arbus: A Biography, Preface (1985).


Hello Friends,

Recently I have been working on a poem that Diane Arbus makes a cameo in. This inspired me to spend some time looking at her art work and reading a little more about what she was about.

My question of the day is................

do you agree with her statement, and if so, would this apply to your poetry as well?

Finding Your Angle

If 10 poets are looking at a woman sitting on a bus bench.....

The exact same woman, and then Finley takes these 10 poets to the Dublinger...........

And everybody sidles up to the bar..............

Then the bartender pours this crew not 1, not 2....but 3 beers........each

And all of a sudden, out of nowhere.....tablets and pens are produced........

 Then Finley hops on top of the bar, stomps his feet and says..............

"I want each of you to please write a poem about that women on the bus we passed."

I wonder, would all these poets write similar poems.

Of course we'll never know the answer, but every once in awhile I run across a work that is written from a P.O.V. that simply blows me away.

EXAMPLE -

Ms. Szymborska “looks at things from an angle you would never think of looking at for yourself in a million years,” Dr. Cavanagh said on the day of the Nobel announcement. She pointed to “one stunning poem that’s a eulogy.”

“It’s about the death of someone close to her that’s done from the point of view of the person’s cat,” she said.

That poem, “Cat in an Empty Apartment,” as translated by Dr. Cavanagh and Mr. Baranczak, opens:

Die — You can’t do that to a cat.

Since what can a cat do

in an empty apartment?

Climb the walls?

Rub up against the furniture?

Nothing seems different here,

but nothing is the same.

Nothing has been moved,

but there’s more space.

And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

Footsteps on the staircase,

but they’re new ones.

The hand that puts fish on the saucer

has changed, too.

Something doesn’t start

at its usual time.

Something doesn’t happen

as it should. Someone was always, always here,

then suddenly disappeared

and stubbornly stays disappeared. 

-   END   -

For once I'm going to shut up, I going to hold back opinions, I want to hear from you....the seasoned poets, do you, should one...try to find different branches in the tree to sit on when writing a poem?

Can You Answer This Question???

If you had to pick just one, and there's no middle ground on this topic......

If you had to be one of the following, which would it be, and why?

#1 -

A poet with too much ego

#2 -

A poet with not enough ego



I await your tribal wisdom.



Happy New Year from Klecko and your friends @ Lief

The Newest Finley Truth

In 1991 the band Naught By Nature owned the #1.....

ARE YOU DOWN WITH O.P.P.?

What those 3 initials stood for stirred up quite a bit of controversy, but I will let you guys do your own research to dig up what that was all about.

I believe its the book of Ecclesiastes that says "Nothing is new under the sun".......

I wonder if Solomon was implying that one day Mike Finley would resurrect the 3 initials that put America on it's ear over 20 years ago.

Our story starts where so many of my afternoons end,

In the parking lot of the gym, just prior to me getting a lift in.

Usually during these moments I've taken a "Pre-Lift" drink that really jacks your system, causing it to feel as if you are on some kind of heavy speed.

As my adrenaline was at it's peak, I figured I should run in and attend to my workout so as to maximize my buzz, but instead I thought about something poetry related and decided to call Mike.

Truth be told, I don't even remember what was so important, but I do remember getting a hold of Finley, and somewhere we discussed a post I had written (on a subsequent Blog) that talked about me on the verge of an altercation at the Grandview Theater on Christmas day.

I was with my family who had outvoted me, and therefore they selected Les Miserables.

In the concession line, just ahead of me was an equal sized lout who started gaffing off and talking about what a douche Russell Crowe was and how he was going to mess up this epic film.

Not that the "Gladiator" needs me to cover his back but.....

I interjected to this thug who chose to wear sunglasses even though it was18 degrees and overcast outside that he might want to keep his thoughts to himself.

What many of you may not know is that us "Big Guys" have a Big Guy club, we don't pay dues, but the code is observed across the globe, and rule #1 is.......

Don't ever talk crap about another Big Guy.

Anyways, the guy rolls his eyes at me, and when he did this, I mentioned I was just giving him a little honest grief, but if he wanted to roll his eyes.......

Dude grabbed his box of Milk Duds and scurried into the show hall.

My Blog Post that focuses on this story goes much deeper into detail concerning this moment, but before I digress, let's go back to the parking lot of Snap Fitness.

Finley comments...................

"That story you described, or rather your actions in it, well.....they were like a poem in itself."

Klecko responded......

"Huh?"

"Well when you stood in line, the first thing you did is what all poets should do. you OBSERVED. Next, after the guy made his senseless remarks about Russell Crow, you PONDERED. And when that part of your process was completed.....you PROCLAIMED.

OBSERVE

PONDER

PROCLAIM

I am down with O.P.P.

There I sat, in my bread truck, rushing through scenarios like........

Can you Observe and just move on to proclaiming?

Or can you simply skip the first 2 steps and soley  

Why Poets Don't Become Famous.......

I get it.....

There's not many things worse than a baker telling the entire poetry community about a flaw in their system that nobody seems to notice, but I'm going to take a chance, and risk severing a few potential friendships to shed insight that I am betting will help my friends who love verse.

To start off, this post isn't aimed at those of you who are happy to sit down and write poems for fun, but instead I am talking out loud in front of those poets who harbor asperations of reading in front of large audiences.

Or any audience for that matter.

The Test -

Saturday Night Live

Jay Leno

Conan O'Brian

David Letterman

Every Other Show That Has Held National Swag

If you look at the venues listed overhead and make a list as to who has preformed on these programs, you might come up with something like this..................

Musicians

Actors

Politicians

Acrobats

Athletes

Animal Trainers

Chefs

Tattoo Artists

Etc-Etc

The list goes on, but its not very often, or ever that you'll find poets on these programs.

In a way this boggles me.

It seems wrong.

So after thinking about this for awhile, I rendered my clothes, shaved my head and rubbed ashes on my face as I journeyed into the wasteland to find out......

Why can't poets have commercial succsess?

I would love to tell you about the veil opening and angels hovering above, whispering truth into my ears, but I'm guessing you might not buy that so instead.......

Let me just blurt out the answer.................

PRODUCTION VALUE

That's correct, production value.

Most poets simply don't have any.

Bono has sunglasses

Michael Jordon a basketball and a wicked vertical

Snooki sells sex- flesh -additude and parties

In closing, what I;'m really trying to get across here is, I really love watching poets present live.

Theres nothing I would love more than poetry holding it's own with the other arts.

But when I think how for every literary reading theres 20 concerts, 42 sporting events, 8 cooking demo's.....it makes me wonder if we poets shouldn't discuss how PRODUCTION VALUE creates oppurtunity, because it adds to people entertainment.

I'm not sure I have the answer to how one incorperates production values into poetry, but I am guessing that I am going to start later this month by incorperating a bad a** wardrobe into my set, and adding on from there.

Have a good weekend guys, and if you have thoughts on the topic, I would love to hear them.

Bob Dylan VS Finley

Just the other night I attended the Bob Dylan concert with my wife.

During the intermission I ran into Finley and his son.

In a way it seemed almost surreal.

Mike and I have had, oh I don't know....like maybe a 1/2 million Bob Dylan conversations.

And now.....all these years later, the 3 of us were in the same room.

I didn't know what to expect from Bob at one of his concerts, I had never seen him perform before.

But truth be told, I was kinda surprised that he did "Tangled Up In Blue" for his 4th song of the night, after all....it is not only his greatest song, but in my opinion, the finest song that's ever been recorded.

As I sat back letting all this sink in, I had to smile remembering a conversation that I once had with Mike.....

Klecko - Ya know, what's the odds that 2 of the best songs ever would make it onto the same album?

Finley - Huh?

Klecko - I'm talking about "Blood On The Tracks" since it has both Tangled Up In Blue and Shelter From The Storm.

Finley - Those are both good songs, but I'm not sure they can even be considered as the greatest song ever recorded when they are not even the best song on the album.

Klecko - Huh?

Finley - Just go home and listen to the last song on the album "Bucket Of Tears" and you will know what I'm talking about.

Who is Who?

Finley would be John........

I'm Paul.

SEE SEE SEE CRY

So here's the deal, It was last week, I'm sitting around thinking as to whether or not I should head over to the Subtext bookstore for a Saint Paul Almanac show.

This event fell on a Thursday, and Thursday is Project Runway....so now I had to pit my love for Heidi Klum against the Twin Cities literary peeps.

Next I pull out my droid and dial Finley's number, Mike insists I go to the show, and the 2 of us were to meet up across the street at W.A. Frost.

Just before I hung up the phone, I refreshed Finley's memory......

"Don't forget to bring me that Ezra Pound complete works....please."

Tick Tock goes the clock and whoosh...within moments I am pulling open the heavy wooded doors that will let me pass into Saint Paul's most expensive cocktail lounge.

As I sidled up to the bar, I could of swore I saw a ghost....there was Finley leaning forward on his bar stool.

He had a beer in his left hand and a paper back in the right.

This might not seem like much of a deal to you, but if you are a friend of Finley, you can attest to the fact that Mike is never, never ever the first of 2 friends to arrive to a meeting point.

More often than not he slides in with a smirk while you're just ordering your second Stella.

So now that I know that the world is tilted I ask to see the book.

Mike hands it to me.....

THE CONFUCIAN ODES by EZRA POUND

I picked it up, opened it....and all the poems seemed like a Chinese version of J.R.R. Tolkien's Elven poems.

I shrieked in silence.

Now Finley takes the book back, utters blasphemy and then confesses......

"It wasn't the book that I intended to bring, b-u-t.....in some ways maybe that will be to your advantage. This book has one of the most beautiful poems in it of all time.....

THE RIVER MERCHANTS WIFE!

Then my mentor begins thumbing through the book with attitude....

"What the hell? this book doesn't even have a table of contents....I don't know maybe this book isn't all that good, but you know, it wouldn't kill you to study the Chinese poets. Look at this book....Ezra Pound translated the whole thing. Can you imagine that?

And one thing you have to remember about Pound is that he came from the armpit of Idaho. He wasn't connected or a networking genius....but this book probably is."

Then Finley kinda presses the book to his chest and I began to wonder if he truly let me leave with it.

"You know Klecko....the Chinese poets had probably the best formula any poet could use....
SEE SEE SEE CRY."

I took a sip of my beer all slack jawed and continued listening to the master........

"Yeah, those Chinese poets were really cool. SEE SEE SEE CRY, that's how they always did it."

Now Barkeep comes and hands us each another beer without us asking for one.

Finley continued..........

"SEE SEE SEE CRY. When Chinese poets wrote their poems, most often they wrote man to man. Their culture found it more romantic than the standard loves poems that the rest of the world engaged in. Instead one guy would stand on a mountain top and tell this other guy friend how sick he was over the fact that the other friend was leaving the mountain and now the two of them wouldn't be able to participate in their daily routines together.

Most of the times when this is being explained, the poet explaining it is on a horse and his horse stands high in the air and leans back."

Finley actually jumped off the stool to give me the visual....

"And the the friend who would be leaving would wail in sorrow, and he was usually on a horse too, and his horse would neigh like hell."

"SEE SEE SEE CRY" I said.

"Yep" Finley responded. In many ways that's kinda a theme that you try to write with.

I looked at my cell phone to see how much time was left before the show started.

The Barkeep brought our tab and strategically set it down right between Finley and I.

With the hands of a Ninja.....Mike slid the tab in front of me and swung around.

As he made his way across the bar, he announced it one more time for everybody to hear.....

"SEE SEE SEE CRY."

Grant Writer or Rock Star?

I'm sure there are an infinite amount of camps that you could put poets in.

But from my limited observations....I've only found two.

The first would be the academic poet.

These people write grants, receive funding, and then go into the world and preach whatever gospel it is that they want to preach.

However....the one thing I've found interesting about grant writing poets is that many of them recycle their same set...over-and over.

Last February I saw a woman who fit into this camp.

She is a brilliant mind,she works at a University, but over the course of 5 or 6 weeks, I saw her read at 3 different venues, and at each one of these events.....she read the same material.

OK, I know many of you will say it is important for a poet tour their new work, but c'mon......

Poet's are still poets, and even when U2 tours a new album, they comprise a new set list most nights.

Finley on the other hand would be a good example of a rock star poet.

By Klecko definition, a "R.S.P." is a poet that doesn't write grants, their work isn't beholding to somebodies money. They just enter into the most interesting hallways life has to offer.

I mean lets face it, as a poet.....where will you find more inspiration, where will you witness the things worthy of your attention... at school, in an office......or in the ditch? LOL

Typically the R.S.P. is flawed, rough around the edges, but when they hit the stage and step up to the podium, you just don't know what you are going to get.

In all the years I've watched Finley read, I don't know if I've ever heard him read the same poem twice.

How confident is that?

How liberating and cool is that?

Academic poets are OK.....and I not trying to convince anyone to hate on them, truth be told....if somebody dangled a pay check in front of Finley or myself, we'd quit are jobs tomorrow.

But the message I am trying to share today is, there is a difference in writing poems and being a poet.

A rock star poet would simply dread having to reread the same topics.

 

Hemingway says of Ezra Pound

He gets his friends in magazines, and out of jail.

What a great quote.

If Finley Died Today......................

Leave it to Finley.

First he vanishes, not just from our city......but to where....Canada?

Then after a couple of weeks doing whatever he is doing there, he headed straight to Wyoming or Idaho, someplace like that to do more vacation stuff with his family.

I don't begrudge a guy or cutting loose and stretching his legs.

In fact I recently read a list issued by the Dali lama where he said one good way to experience personal growth was to visit a region you have never been to, one time every year.

Like I said...I get that, but Saint Paul w/o Finley is like going over to your Grandmothers house.

The Grandma that lives in an apartment filled with old people so there's nobody to play with.

Then knowing that you're bored out of your mind, she scrounges up a coloring book for you to play with, but then she apologizes cuz she can't remember where she put those blasted color crayons.

So now she hands you a blue Bic ballpoint pen and tells you........

"Knock yourself out kid."

Thats what Saint Paul w/o Finley is like, a coloring book and a pen.

I know it's only been like 3 weeks, but 3 weeks is a long time in my world.

Then one morning, a Thursday, the day I see Finley drinking coffee with Brian Horrigan,  He wasn't there, and then I thought.....

OMG - If Finley dies one day, years before me......who will I discuss poetry with.

I could discuss it with you peeps, but no offense... it wouldn't even be 1/2 as  much fun.

Well Mike, if you stay alive, and come back to Minnesota, I can show you the poems I've written in your absence.

Here's one that I finished earlier today, and I really like it, not a little, but a lot.

That's another reason it sucks to have Finley out of the Capitol City.....who will tell us all what we need to do to improve our poems? LOL

I miss you friendo - enjoy

 

Skulls & Airports
  

I took the wrong turn off

I cut through the airport

I got to the place where you drop travelers off

I almost drove by, but then I saw an old man

Embracing a woman that may have been his wife

Their moment of separation was touching

Touching enough to turn off the ignition

And watch people separate from one another

On a sidewalk that offered

Departure to each corner of the globe

If you stand in one place

Engulfed in this mob

You’ll witness people exercising emotions

Ranging from despair to elation

I only stayed 7 minutes

People are flawed

People are stupid

They disappoint

And seldom deserve trust

But if you stand outside an airport

Where people send those that they love away

It might be just enough to give you hope

It did for me

The 12 Winners (KPV State Fair Poems)

One day I was sitting with Finley in his kitchen, and somehow we had an idea that we should sponser a poetry contest for the State Fair.

We decided that since the venue I would be working from would be a Demo Kitchen, that perhaps the poems should focus around food.

Finley usually isn't big on rules, but he did suggest that we limit each contestant to 3 submissions, none of which should have more than 100 words.

Oh yeah....the entire contest took place on Facebook.

Here you go, submitted in no particular order are the winning 12.

#1 -

JoyandDubblex Leftow

 Apples in Seatlle

I smell like an apple
Today just for you
Only you're not here so I

Smell my apple scent
Myself and imagine you
Smell it instead of I

#2 -

Jana Anima

To know the melon's soul, choose
The large knife, the heavy blade
With swift stroke, a rupture of the dull globe

Two suns that wobble
And slosh, their slippery afterbirths ready to spill
From the hollows of their bellies

You will think you see it, pulsing in that blaze
Of fruited orange. But its all show
And dazzle. You cannot see the melon's soul.

You will not know it until the moment it
Explodes upon your tongue.

#3 -

Ethna McKiernan

Untitled

She loved that stove, high backed,
Black, old, the one she's written poems
On forever, gas, not electric. her neighbors
Worried she would burn the kitchen down

So many papers, so many words
No casserole to speak of
The boys were young, but even after
She could afford a desk

She persisted in the kitchen
Writing, dreaming, At ease
With spices to her left, the notebook
To her right, the harmony of writing at the stove

#4 -

Kim Ode

At The Great Get-Together

The concession stands in Heaven
Have nothing on the Fair
While ascended souls from Nevada
Or Kentucky, or New Hampshire
Marvel at bags of warm tollhouse

Ears of butter-drenched corn
And pikes of deep fried candy bars
Minnesotans who have passed on
Silently give thanks
For pockets no longer lined with sticky change

#5 -

Jeannie Piekos

Sunday Dinner

After mom left him
My dad began to cook
It was 1969

Man had walked on the moon
America survivied three days of peace and music
Richard Nixon was President

And my father made Chicken Cacciatore
He cleaved the breast from back, thigh from leg

He stirred and stewed then took me to church
Where I contemplated
The transformation of father

With shrimp cocktail to begin
We sat down to dinner
I peeled back the hard pink shell

Finally understanding the sacrament
For here in my father's kitchen
Was resurrection

Redemption and, best of all
Communion

#6 -

Susan Koefod

Free Samples

Vivian pitches the pleated sample cups
in the Pardeeville Piggly Wiggly,
Her hair net jaunty over her perky perm

This week it's salmon with slivered almonds
And harissa-smothered sirloin
Though Viv's quick to say that the the sirloin's a dollar off
And salmon's half price
She never pushes the hard sell

So there's no need to scurry off after slurping your sample
Because Vivian lives for that guilty look you give
When you help yourself to seconds

#7 -

Tim Nolan

Roasted Chicken

I'm writing on the cutting board after
One hour of the Amish chicken roasting in the oven

How can I say this other than directly
He is beautiful, brown and still cooking here

On the cutting board, he's so beautiful, all fat
In the breast, his legs sticking out, I salted him

All over, upside and down, in the dark cavity of him
The salt draws in the moisture of him

Praise be to his absent little brain, his beak
His pecking intentions for the bit of grain, I'm sorry

But hungry, writing here in red ink
The splotched grease of him, smeared here with my words

#8 -

MaryAnn Franta Moenick

Egg

This dream has no wings
Keep it warm

#9 -

Loren Niemi

Soup

The circumference of the world is no bigger
Than this bowl, nor the stars any further
Than the length of this spoon

The sun embracing summer is no warmer
Than love, even that of wife, mother, father
Or children any less filling than this soup

#10 -

Erin Boylan

Yin Bread Yang

This morning I burnt the bottom
Of something I was cooking up

While the top stayed golden
And the rest laid charred

Neither crumbled in the flip

#11 -

N.M. Kelby

Dinner in Havana

The orange blossem air is little consolation; the kitchen does not want you.
The stove turns the other cheek.
Oysters here are salty pearls. Mangoes bleed pink sugar.
The word "hot dish" cannot be translated - no one is sorry for that.
After rum, and more rum, small spiny lobsters marinate in sour orange and garlic.
Black beans and amethyst. Annatto bleeds saffron into the rice.
Outside, peacocks shed their iridescent plumage without poetry.
Nothing here needs you for its beauty, and there is mercy in that.
The ravenous crchids thrive in the salt air alone.

#12 -

Julie Wheeler

Good Gravy

Some were impressed
When water turned into wine
Not me

Water and wine into gravy
That's the miracle, performed yearly

Three days and three nights
From roasting to ressurrection
Lesser cooks lose faith
Or never had any
Or resort to a flavor packet

I draw a faithful crowd
Giving thanks and praise
Renouncing their low-fat ways for the good-good gravy
Only the bird is sad to be invited
But his sacrifice serves us all

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Marilyn Monroe VS Jim Morrison

I don't know if I've ever met anybody who didn't think Jim Morrison was cool.

I sure do.

As a teenager, I had his American Poet poster hanging in my bedroom.

It was my thought that this would raise my street cred, and chicks would dig me.

But how good was Morrison's poetry.

To be honest.....I find it to be droll.

I am going to speak for Finley, w/o speaking to Finley, but I'm pretty sure he would say something like...........

"Jim wasn't a bad guy. some of his music was fun, however....his poetry seemed a little shallow. Too much of it was a spotlight shing on himself......"

I don't know, maybe you like Lizard Kings and fire.....but as I get older.

I don't want to hear your bullsh** neurosis, I just want to cut to the quick and spy in on the things that really jump start your mind and heart.

Just recently a book of Marilyn Monroe's poems in progress was released.

I really enjoyed her honesty.

This coveted sex goddess wasn't trying to get your attention, in fact just the opposite.

I think she was trying to run from herself.

Here is just one of several portions i read that I kind of enjoyed................

Oh damn I wish that I were
dead — absolutely nonexistent –
gone away from here — from
everywhere but how would I do it
There is always bridges — the Brooklyn
bridge – no not the Brooklyn Bridge
because But I love that bridge (everything is beautiful from there and the air is so clean) walking it seems
peaceful there even with all those
cars going crazy underneath. So
it would have to be some other bridge
an ugly one and with no view — except
I particularly like in particular all bridges — there’s some-
thing about them and besides these I’ve
never seen an ugly bridge

Anyways, I almost always pick girls over boys, but if you would like to voice your opinion.....I'm listening.

EIGHT

Finley Says...............

A fortunate writer will have 8 people who review their work on a somewhat constant basis.

6 of these people should know nothing about writing. They should simply reveal whether or not they enjoyed what you wrote.

2 of the people should be writers. These people will focus on the technical aspect of what you are doing.

So after hearing this Klecko asks Finley.....

"Why wouldn't a guy just ask 8 writers to review his work?"

Finley was silent.

Then he laughed.

"Because writers are mean people by nature. They don't have it in them to be encouraging. Most writers will tear your confidence to shreds, if you give them the chance."