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DANNY KLECKO’S BRITISH HINDU BIBLE
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© 2015 by Danny Klecko ISBN 978-1-63415-913-5
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Danny Klecko's British Hindu Bible
Introduction by Mike Finley..........................................6 The University Club Svengali .............................................8 422 Goats ..........................................................................9 My British-Hindu Bible ....................................................12 Krishna .............................................................................13 Wide Awake in Bombay ..................................................16 My Mother The Mystic ....................................................17 Under An Almost Super Moon ........................................20 Under A Super Moon ......................................................22 Postcard to Heaven .........................................................24 Driving Outside of Denton ..............................................25 Our Friend Tunde ............................................................28 Old Woman .....................................................................29 Some Guy From Corsica ..................................................32 Monk About Town ...........................................................33 Driving Through Saint Paul With An East Coast Bias .......36 On Raspberry Island ........................................................38 City Of Polacks .................................................................40 Cocktails With Mish .........................................................41 Message In A Bottle ........................................................46 If 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 Finley Cardiff on The Sea April 1, 2015
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'I’ve had many writing mentors over the years, but the one history will 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 moments and 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 it on 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 who talked 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 “Monk About 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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And pulled away hoping She Would not only cherish me But view me As her monk about town
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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 my formative 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 spiritual hajj 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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Kraken Press St. Paul, Minnesota http://mikefinleywriter.com/kraken
$5
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