danny klecko's british hindu bible
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Danny Klecko's British Hindu Bible
Introduction by Mike Finley..........................................6The University Club Svengali .............................................8422 Goats ..........................................................................9My British-Hindu Bible ....................................................12Krishna .............................................................................13Wide Awake in Bombay ..................................................16My Mother The Mystic ....................................................17Under An Almost Super Moon ........................................20Under A Super Moon ......................................................22Postcard to Heaven .........................................................24Driving Outside of Denton ..............................................25Our Friend Tunde ............................................................28Old Woman .....................................................................29Some Guy From Corsica ..................................................32Monk About Town ...........................................................33Driving Through Saint Paul With An East Coast Bias .......36On Raspberry Island ........................................................38City Of Polacks .................................................................40Cocktails With Mish .........................................................41Message In A Bottle ........................................................46If We Were A Norman Rockwell Painting .......................48
COMING SOON ......................................................50
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Introduction by Mike Finley
People sometimes come up to me and ask, "Mike, what's Danny Klecko up to these days."
And I smile. It's never an easy thing to explain the ineffable.
Then I say, "It's my understanding he's putting the final touches on his British Hindu Bible."
Then they get these confused faces and ask what that's supposed to mean.
And I say, "Well, with Danny --"
"With Klecko," they interrupt me.
"Yes, of course, with Klecko -- you can always be sure he's hard at work illumining the lives we live in a new way."
Then one of them says to the other, "I told you it was a mistake asking him."
And the other one replies, "You were right. What was I thinking?"
Forget those guys. The thing that matters is, Danny always does come through for us with observations that are honest, insightful,and applicable to the least of us.
So that's it then. Ladies and gentlemen -- and most especially the least of us -- I give you Danny Klecko's British Hindu Bible.
Mike FinleyCardiff on The Sea April 1, 2015
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'I’ve had many writing mentors over the years, but the one historywill probably attach me to is Mike Finley, arguably the Capital Cities' premier rebel poet.
My first tandem of poems hgere were inspired, or maybe even a result of an act Mike committed at a prestigious venue, an event I was lucky enough to witness.
At the moment, I never dreamed the calamity he was experiencing would ever drift into my waters, but, now that I look back…
Anyways, here are two poems about men who simply got tired.
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The 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
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422 Goats Why would you hop onto the cross so willingly
Absorb spikes
Shed blood
For a species that maintains no dignity
Humans resemble livestock
Void of vision
Standing in dung, bleating
Like sheep and angels longing for submission
On the day of my crucifixion
I’ll borrow your crown of thorns
And smile for the photographers
But, I won’t waste a drop of blood
To atone for the sins of the meek and simple minded
I’d rather save 422 goats
Independent, in a briar
A place where grace, might actually
follow its natural course
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Throughout my life I have danced between spiritual camps, all of which were Christian.
But in the summer of 2014, the unthinkable happened. I strayed from the cross. I strayed and the further I drifted, the brighter my surroundings became.
I was petrified, but grinning.
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My British-Hindu Bible Because
Nothing goes KABOOM like silence
Because
I believe Kerouac not scripture
Because
Without cufflinks and pushups, poetry is pointless
Because
When I wandered from the cross, white bulls and blue people appeared
Because
Thoughts lead to clutter. I choose, Chant and be Happy
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Krishna I waited for you along the ocean of milk
Where better to find love than the nexus of creation
I waited for you while gazing across the whale road
Wondering if you’d be a consort, or a companion
You said my heart would be safe with you
I chose to believe
Because it’s hard to go against a promise
Released under a canopy of stars
I waited for you along the ocean of milk
Gathering crescent moons and poison
Waiting for the days our prayers would cease
So you and I could chant and be happy
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It took me 52 tours around the sun to figure it out:
My mother and I drive each other crazy -- because we are identical.
That said, I love my mom.
The first poem is interesting because it’s really about the aftermath of our family.
Without getting into great detail, I’ll just tell you that for many years we lived in the suburbs, a family of 4.
But then our clan disbanded in a single instance. My step father, sister and I all moved out of our house within 24 hours of each other due to reasons unrelated.
My mother wasn’t sure how to respond to being left behind, left alone, but the poem documents it well enough that each time I call her, she asks me if I have time to read it to her.
The second poem is basically a list of observations I made on a morning not too long ago, when my mom taught me how to iron French cuff shirts.
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Wide Awake in Bombay She stood bulletproof
Alone in a railway station
Just outside of Bombay
Like a protagonist in a foreign film
She was on a spiritual Hajj
A course lacking direction
Shuffling tiny feet with a big ego
Toward a train that sped into the unknown
Chance placed our distant mother, a former wife
Into an aisle seat across from a Brahmin
Who questioned why Krishnamurti smoked cigarettes
And why his boxcar companion came to India
Our mother explained with confidence
She quit a job of 25 years
Sold her house and all its possessions
Because truth wouldn’t surface while
she was attached to material things
The holy man smiled, cupping her hand upon the arm rest
And explained with a clarity twice removed from shame
That she had attached to the detachment
And thus the journey began
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My Mother The Mystic My mother the mystic
Piled food upon last Sunday’s plate
Quadruple the caloric intake
My current lifestyle requires
With Tulips on the table
Champagne in the flutes
She began to unlock universal secrets
By telling me that chanting
Can’t be monopolized by contemplatives
And the way she defended her position
Helped me understand energy
Made me think of harmony
But before my epiphanies light bulb glowed
Two cats entered the room, howling for food
And as a student of my mother
I realized, history had to follow its natural course
By diverting her attention
To every creature in need of a meal
That’s just who she is
But as a student of my mother
When the secret of life eludes you
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There is no reason to be faint of heart
Knowing that another cosmic portal
More than likely will open
The following Sunday during brunch
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Is there anything worse than grandparent poems?
Well, maybe grandchildren poems.
Sigh... go figure.
My next pair of poems goes against my very own standard.
Which means you are about to take a journey in the Klecko time machine.
Your voyage will start with my grandmother and finish in the capable presence of my favorite human -- little Madison Rose.
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Under An Almost Super Moon As usual
We shared indifference – we shared darkness
From opposite ends of a park bench
Like God damn gargoyles with nothing left to defend
Distracted by classifieds – my comic book posed
the question
Do you know how to pick up chicks – I didn’t,
so I was intrigued
Grandma slid over and hung over my shoulder --
like some mind reading vulture
Lighting the evenings final cigarette – she offered advice
Don’t forget you’re a Polack, and not very smart
Which means you’ll have to work twice as hard
If you want to land a good woman
And thenshe stared into the distance
Stared with a look a boy couldn’t be expected to understand
Until years later when someone had not kept
his heart safe
Promises get broken everyday
Contracts and covenants strangle well meaning souls
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So maybe my mean grandmother was a blessing
Especially when she reminded me
I’m a Polack and not very smart
But at least… I’m easy on the eyes
Because I look just like her
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Under A Super Moon I took you to the playground at night
So you could have the swing set to yourself
You said – Push me higher
Push, me higher
And I did
The chains began to creak
Your body became a blur
Silhouetted against the stars
A tiny frame whooshing like a comet
There’s going to be hell to pay
When Grandma discovers our adventure
Explanations will be pointless
You said – Push me higher
Push, me higher
And I did
Because nothing is more beautiful
Than the glowing face
Of a granddaughter
Who smiles back
At the moon
As a boy I spent summers living in Dallas with extended relatives.
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These people loved me and were gracious. They offered stability because people with resources are often in a better position to do that.
For over half a century, nothing has offered me tranquility like Jesus and Texas.
Writing the next two poems took me far out of my comfort zone.
As America’s voice of reason, I’m not supposed to confess to becoming unnerved during my writing process, but truth be told, writing these poems kinda made me feel like Judas.
But I still stand by them.
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Postcard to Heaven Hello Jesus,
I heard, you heard, I’ve been skipping choir practice
No worries though
I’ve been busy chanting
I met the blue guy
He gets mad like you
But Hindu gods don’t send you away in shame
With assurance they encourage
Letting you know you’re going to get it right
If not this lifetime, the next
Jesus, can you believe it
Their gods smile
And offer second chances
Wish you Were Here
Klecko
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Driving Outside of Denton There is a point when dusk reminds me
I never seem to be at my best
When it’s time to turn on the headlights
There is a point when dusk reminds me
My extrovert has run empty
So I turn on the radio and hope for a second wind
A billboard along the highway
Paid for by the Texas board of tourism
Announces certainty in bold font
I am driving through God’s country
My heart yearns for these cows
A species that gives more than it takes
Grazing in the shadow of liberty
Grazing in the shadow of a Christian nation
Bull, cow and cattle
Receiving calm before the storm
Solitude until the slaughter
Nandi, I want to shower them with garlands
Special feedings and devoted reverence
But every time I enter the pasture
I’m chased away
By cowboys on tractors
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Isn’t it funny that some friends can be everyday fixtures in your life until you eventually forget them all together? Then there are those people that cross your path for only the briefest of momentsand you end up thinking about them forever.
In the next pair of poems the first one revolves around a chef that I hung out with for, oh I don’t know, like maybe 8 hours over 2 days, the guys food was phenomenal, but the stories that he told, and the words that came out of his mouth went off like bombs.
The second poem I’m guessing I will never read out loud. I wrote iton Thanksgiving Day after burying the Widow Lindahl. Although she was many years my senior, I kinda adopted her after we met at one of my baking demos at the state fair.
For years we hung out together swapping stories while drinking the grape.
I ended up catering the funeral, which worked out good because when I am terrified, I prefer to be in a kitchen.
As I finished finishing whatever it was I was doing, I remember standing alone in that church basement. I began to cry, and that made me really embarrassed, but then my countenance shifted and I began to grin when I realized ...
Of all the thousands and thousands of people I have met in my life, this old woman, the Widow Lindahl probably knew more of my secrets than anyone I had ever met.
A guy only gets one person like that in their life I think, and well, I knew things were going to be different from then on.
I really loved that old woman.
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Our Friend Tunde Our friend Tunde…
Entered our city by way of Nigeria
And Detroit
To make a special appearance
Preparing goat head soup
His head hurt from Scotch and plum sake
His checking account coasted on fumes
He said it was time to revisit poetry and chanting
He said it was time to say yes to everything
He said it was time to embrace death
As long as it didn’t last forever
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Old Woman You would have loved your funeral
The sanctuary, filled with flowers and Romanians
Father George left for the army
So the burial was conducted by a young replacement whotalked like Dracula
At the beginning of the service he said
You had fallen asleep and were forgiven
It was a great opening line; most of us began to cry
Next it was reported that while the world lost a saint
Heaven gained an angel
The entire congregation chanted “amen”
Toward the end
The priest said you were in a better place
I disagreed
Knowing for a fact
You’d rather be in the park
Stretched out on your blanket
With a candelabra and cabernet
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So I get an invite to fill in for the Poet Laureate of Saint Paul. She asks me if I will take over her Valentine showcase, book the poets and maybe read a couple of my own pieces.
As you might imagine, I was honored and thrilled to accept, however -- for the first time since I was, oh I dunno, like 13 or 14 --I didn’t have a date that year on Valentine’s Day.
Over the course of a week, I still had to knock out 2 love poems.
I would like to tell you that the first one was given to me by the muse, but in all actuality, I stole a conversation between some weekend reporters on MPR and turned their review of a new Napoleon book into a poetic masterpiece.
The second poem started to morph after a phone conversation with my friend Kim Ode. If you don’t know her, she is a writer for the Star Tribune newspaper and a hell of a bread baker.
Anyway, I was en route to a product presentation at a forgotten destination on the metro fringe, and as I closed our phone conversation with my standard “Chant and be Happy” salutation, I heard her sigh as she responded “Knock em dead, Monk About Town.”
I bet I smirked for days, in fact I was going to call this book “MonkAbout Town”, but naming books can be tricky and more pressure than I like.
So, in the end, I let my mom decide.
And the rest in history.
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Some Guy From Corsica A poet, male, 6 foot 3 - seldom takes comfort
Beginning the first verse of a stanza
With a description of himself, spooning
Even if the interest of his affection is a goddess
Such was my position the morning of Sunday last
As I placed my hands on her in a way
That announced I was open to skipping church
However, my advance was deflected by the following question
Did you see the Napoleon book review in the Times
I held my tongue, I held her waist
Realizing I wasn’t going to land on my love destination
Until she had her say, so I asked
Do you think the little guy was sexy
She grinned while responding
What’s not to like
When a man is willing to crown himself emperor
Then she rolled back over
Leaving me alone to wonder
Would this be an opportune time
To claim my kingdom
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Monk About Town Seldom does she give advice
But one night over cocktails she offered
Chant and be happy
Focus on what you desire, and the universe
will make it yours
She said my wardrobe could skew Hindu
Adorn myself in bindis and turbans
View the world through rose colored glasses
Like the pair she forgot in the cup holder of my truck
I was alone when I found them
Compelled to try them on
I wondered if they would make me look foppish
But then I remembered, Indian fashion
was gender neutral
The frames seemed small, the fit snug
But when I opened my eyes
I saw pink landscapes, pink crowds
Pink traffic, yet the world remained noisy
So I began to chant until the universe explained
She was more happiness than I could consume
Smiling, I took off the glasses
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To me, there is nothing worse than those writers that spend their time writing ill commentaries or worse yet, completely ignoring the city that surrounded them as their adulthood matured and their opportunities blossomed.
When I was a small boy, I was born and spent the beginning of myformative years in Inglewood-Los Angelo’s.
From there my family moved to Minneapolis, but when I turned 20, I had an opportunity to move to Saint Paul and go to work for SuperMom’s. They let me design bread lines for hundreds of gas stations.
I loved the Capital City, it wasn’t necessarily better than L.A. or Mpls, but it was -- and is -- very different, and to this day I am proud to call it my home.
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Driving Through Saint Paul With An East Coast Bias
God hates me – It’s the only explanation
Stare forward – Red light, stays red
Look right – Look towards the river
Examine ships staying put
Car pulls up – Left turn lane – No turn signal
Old woman, driver’s seat, cigarette dangles –
Lips, almost blue
So – Attention returns to the river
Examine ships – Examine rope looped over stanchions
Gangplanks providing passage
To weary rodents beyond international waters
Lights turn green – Blue Lips flicks the cig
onto the highway
The world is her ashtray – She speeds away
Without purpose - Without plan – I follow
I follow, wondering why I follow
An intersection stops us – I’m positioned behind
To nobody’s benefit, my eyes volley and wonder
My God, she’s Got New York plates
“G-A-P 4563” boasting in gold & black
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My rage fumes, fists clench
“The Empire State” boasted in the Land of 10 000 Lakes
I’m pretty sure, I’m pretty sure I blurted FUCK
How quick an expletive serves as a final coffin nail
For an event destined to become a famous poem
Since everybody in a civilized world knows
Klecko never issues F-bombs in narrative
Light turns green – Blue Lips turns left – Poet turns right
Knowing today, he won’t suffer fools gladly
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On Raspberry Island On the first day you could wear mittens
Without looking silly
She chose not to, and I imagine her hands
must have been cold
Sliding them under the jacket, and possibly the shirt
Of a small man that might not have been
Far removed from being a successful gymnast
Her fingers glided over muscle and bone
as she informed him
Your body is old, not old-old, but Cain and Able old
Your spirit has to know its way around the planet by now
The guy just smirked before asking
Which brother was I, Cain or Able
She answered
I don’t know, but even if I did
I wouldn’t tell you, since it wouldn’t make a difference
Until you realize you’ve become a product of your environment
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On Labor Day 2014 I was having a horrible day. Now that might not mean much to you if you hang out with glass half empty people, cuz I imagine they’ll frequently barrage you with all kinds of comments indicating their day sucks.
I’ve never paired well with negativity. It’s not like I’m trying to get “youth pastor happy” here.
I’m just saying out of 365 calendar days, you’ll only find 1 or 2 were my demeanor is sour for the majority of the day.
Labor Day 2014 was one of those days, that is until the sun set and I ran into somebody that gave me reason to be filled with a joy I hadn’t experienced in ages.
The next 2 poems are related and should be read in the same sitting.
The formatting is a bit unorthodox, but I almost consider this an opera and it could be my favorite thing I’ve written in the last year.
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City Of Polacks Prelude to Cocktails with Mish
In a city of Polacks
And 100 cousins
Mish was the youngest
Korean
Adopted and quiet
During the holidays
When booze poured
And parents unleashed
We searched for quiet places
To share whatever silence was available
We liked each other
But not celebrations
We endured in solidarity
Until we reached an age
Where tired parents
Dispense emancipation
With pleasure
30 years would pass
Before we would become reacquainted
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Cocktails With Mish LABOR DAY NIGHT –
I stepped into Whitey’s World Famous Saloon
Thinking a vodka tonic might save my soul
Every table was vacant, a woman sat alone at the bar
I heard her order Johnny Walker Black, it was
my cousin Mish
Realizing each other, we smiled in silence
I sidled up to her and ordered a Stoli
Both of us grinned awkwardly, reading each
other’s tattoos
Both of us covered head to toe with permanent graffiti
Appropriate conversation eluded us
She mentioned something about Canadian phone carriers
I got off my stool and hugged her
Then ordered another round
HALFWAY THROUGH THE SECOND DRINK –
She asked how many times I’d been arrested
When I gave her a number
She grinned, nodded and thoughtfully slurred
That my answer was competitive
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She continued with confessions of living in the sex district
Revolving memberships in therapy and sobriety programs
Then she shot a brief glance that suggested
she awaited judgment
I kissed her on the forehead and told her I loved her
WHEN IT WAS TIME TO ORDER A THIRD DRINK –
I switched to Diet Coke, but she kept pounding
the “Black”
Just when the tumbler pressed her lips
She set it down and asked if I wanted to go to
the strip club
The proposal threw me, I knew couldn’t happen
But her tone seemed innocent
More than anything, I wanted to trust her judgment
She explained the guy she lived with paid the bills
But romantically, she was into some chick
A dancer named Sprinkles, she wanted me to meet her
AFTER LAST CALL –
I told Mish she was special
Then we sat through a patch of silence that seemed
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a mile long
My cousin looked content, as if she enjoyed
this Black Sheep reunion
I asked if she would be cool with no white picket fences
Or pictures on the fridge, and the thought of dying alone
And even though that bar was empty
She gave me a wink and whispered
Not every funeral requires an audience
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One of the Klecko secrets I haven’t shared with the world until recently is this:
The best way to know that he likes you is, I become quiet in your presence.
For decades I have been married to a small Russian-Jew that may have had to endure more silence than she bargained for.
So I think it’s kinda appropriate that I close this book, this spiritualhajj with these 2 poems.
The first one, “Message In A Bottle,” was written during a yearlong estrangement.
Truth be told, I still don’t know the plan for our future, but I will say to the Russian-Jew that I really like my life when you like me.
The second poem is “If We Were A Norman Rockwell Painting.” This poem is genius and every single time I’ve read it in an auditorium, all the guys shake their head in agreement because it’s so true.
At least to the guys who’ve have had good fortune.
Thank you for being my friend Sue McGleno and if you ever want to convert to British-Hindu --
I can hook you up with my blue friends.
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Message In A Bottle Amidst the season our gods vanished
You waded in the river
Rejecting warmth of a sunbeam
Refusing to wait on chance
Like those left upon the shore
Amidst a season our gods fell silent
Mercy made an upstream cameo
Whispering to me in a silent space
That forgiveness might make haste
If I sent a letter revealing my heart
Grabbing a piece of paper, wondering what to write
Mercy whispered a reminder
Sadness and joy are often separated by a single word
So I thought of the word confidence and left
the page blank
And placed it in a bottle before releasing it in the current
Knowing when my message arrived downstream
You’d be surrounded by trolls mocking my inability
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To define our love with language
Until you smiled reminding them
When we are together, our silence makes
a powerful noise
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If We Were A Norman Rockwell Painting
I imagine our likeness would be captured
Outside an ice cream shop
In ideal weather
Where I would find comfort
In the predictability of ordering a vanilla cone
You on the other hand
Would place your faith in flavors never sampled
Knowing that after one lick
If your eyes announced disappointment
I would swap you my vanilla, for the thousandth time
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COMING SOON ...
Finley and Klecko are proud to announce that Kraken Press and White Bull Productions will be teaming up to release …
KLECKO FOR MAYOR
Look for it at SubText Bookstore in downtown St. Paul in the fall of 2015.
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