NUNS with GUNS

NUNS with GUNS Out for a Lark’s 10th Anniversary ~ The Klecko & Finley Farewell Tour, Live at the Turf Club, July 25, 2018

O Pioneers! Friends, good news! You have all been upgraded to first class. A change is coming. There is a movement building you can hear it behind closed doors, and in the cellars of old circus saloons There is a movement to overthrow a failing order. Dear Pioneers … Look around you. Men and women are standing in rows, Pioneer voices rise up like shoots of corn. Let the rain come, they say … let the sun shine.

Here is the wealth that is grown in the earth, Here are our children reaching toward light. Even the frogs in the mud by the river, Cry out ONE WORD to the stupefied moon: Join now, Pioneers, with the frogs down there in the slough, With bulging gullets they are croaking out a name – Let me hear you say it – Let me hear you cry that name -KLECKO! KLECKO! KLECKO! KLECKO! KLECKO! KLECKO! Pioneers, welcome the mayor for life For the city of St. Paul forever, the bread that feeds our bellies and our souls – The one … the only … the incomparable … Danny Klecko!!!

Klecko joins Finley at the mic. “thank you, Mike, for that lovely introduction …” We’re here tonight to celebrate the 10th anniversary of our breakthrough book Out for a Lark -- a/k/a -- NUNS with GUNS Let’s put em together for NUNS with GUNS! Danny and I had a meeting in the Nook. We didn’t plan on hatching a movement, but that’s what we did, over burgers and beer. The big idea was fireballs. No wasted words. Hit people hard and low. We would be fearless. Look you right in the eye and if you don’t like it, tough tea-tree. Celebrate love. Love your woman. Love your man. We celebrate nuns. They’re the best people, giving their whole life to doing good. If some nuns don’t have guns, they can call us and we’ll be their guns. And what rhymes with nuns? FUNS. We don’t do anything unless it makes us laugh, shout, or jump up and down.

We would be two, but we would work like a team, tagging in and tagging out. If one of us falters, the other bails him out. We don’t sweat bylines. Egos begone. We write the same language. It don’t matter who did what. Our books don’t cost $19.95. We print ‘em up cheap and we still make a profit. We declare war on lace curtain poetry. We declare war on woolen mufflers. We declare war on DULL wherever it rears its boring head.

Danny introduces Scott Vetsch

Something by Klecko

Klecko reads

13 Years Old Tom Thumb closes at 11 pm At 11:06 a Bonneville pulls up And two nun’s pop out and bum rush the door They are in need of cigarettes But the cashier must be a Lutheran Because she refused to answer the ladies prayers So the brides of Christ are in a black mood And brush past me and a friend Who have spent most of July in this parking lot “Excuse me sister” I called out “Would you like a Marlboro red?” I lit it for her as she pulled back her wimple Exposing her hair, and closing her eyes And when that smoke shot down the pipe The Holy Spirit gave me reason to know that For the first time -- I was absolved -

Mike then does his “How Good of a Guy?” cheer --

How Good Of A Guy Was He He worried that the flesh-eating bacteria were not getting enough.

POINT TO ART CAR HEATHER … call out her name

Eat Up, Moth -You like it so much, I'm prepared to sit here till you finish the entire sweater.

Following Art Car Heather, Michael Dean reads “Sexy Old Man”

SEXY OLD MAN Youthful beauty doesn’t deserve praise Why shower accolades on something achieved automatically And without investment It’s easy being handsome when you’re young Good looks are determined by what side of the gene pool you surfaced from Or the amount of pressure your head received exiting the birth canal Then, in a blink, it occurs, boys become men and vice replaces virtue The temple decays and the battle against gravity begins It’s never a matter of if, but when metabolism

will betray you And that’s precisely why your praise should be saved For a guy who flourishes during his golden years A guy with vanity attached to a sacrifice supreme A guy on his final lap around a track Where calories and opinions need to be rationed To defy overwhelming odds and remain relevant I’m not going to lie, this isn’t easy If it was, everyone would look like me The sexy old man

Mike points to ISADORA GRUYE …

The sucking sound At the end of the milkshake… [PAUSE] This poem is titled “Death” Mike then reads ‘Man with a Hole’ Another short one because mine are quite short during this part of the set

Chamberlain, South Dakota Bounding softly across the indigo prairie at night, the tumbleweed stop at the mighty Missouri, momentum stalled by a cyclone fence. Sure, these plantforms rolling eastward looked forward to a lit-up world of sights and stimulation, there were dreams of arriving en masse in Times Square But now they're stuck in Chamberlain forever.

Klecko takes a minute to give Ted King the Ted King AwardAnd Klecko introduces Zoe Bird -

CROSSING TEXAS When I think of Texas I remember big sky and open spaces Rattlesnakes at sunset Enjoying the asphaltâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warmth When I think of Texas I remember hitchhiking and freeways Truck stops and rest stops Packed with hookers and Christians Demonstrating equal enthusiasm Denton, Dallas, Austin Corpus Christi too Mile after mile of on- ramps and off -ramps Where road houses were filled with women Who believed men in black hats Gave guardian angels purpose When I think of Texas I remember setting up camp under bridges Praying the moon would vanish So the world would become dark enough To dream of Minnesota

Klecko reads Muttnik

Muttnik Baikal heard the children laughing From what appeared to be a distant room The most beautiful sound she ever woke to When Victor brought her home from work last night And took her straight to bed It seemed natural to assume they were alone Fraternizing was considered unprofessional But this secret would remain safe By this time tomorrow she would be gone Boarded onto a tin can Filled with rocket fuel and no parachute All the more reason to break protocol This is why the entire science team And the launching crew Held their tongues and looked away While Victor escorted her Off the project site So her last day of freedom Could be spent outdoors Getting belly rubs From his daughters

Finley - calls for Terrence Folz

You Know What I Hate? I hate when people use long words they don't understand in order to make themselves seem perpendicular. Then Introduces Tom Cassidy -

Rapid Decomposition (Finley, but you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need to credit me. Edit to your taste, within sane limits) Some people want to be mummified and have their bodies last millennia. Others want to be buried deep in the ground, sealed away from the worms by silk and steel. This proposal is for the rest of you, who want to go out with a flash, and give the world an amazing experience. Instead of keeping the spiders and microbes and bugs away, you hold a party and invite them all. This is what you do. You have to bathe your body in accelerating agents just before you die. Nitrogen and carbon are the best for this. We suggests creating a slurry of sheep's manure and tapwater in an outside cauldron. You want it thick, but still a little soupy. You lie down in a sunny spot in the garden, with aerated soil, and you ladle about six gallons of the stuff all over you. You want a good coating, top and bottom. Then you die.

Dying itself is amazing. One moment your cells are firing on target, performing trillions of molecular transfers and metamorphoses that keep you cooking in unison. Next moment, all the lights go out, cell after cell. It's like you didn't pay the electric. Breathing and heart rate stop. Blood begins to pool in the lowest part of you, the ones close to the ground. For a few minutes not much happens. But the slurry shoots out methane and the methane is like reveille to the local biosphere. Insects look up from what they are doing. Microbes are drawn to you like filings to a magnet. The gas goes out of you and you may wonder: Is this creeping cloud what is left of my thoughts and memories? Could this be my soul taking leave of the body? No! It's just stinky gas. That other stuff is long gone. But consider what it's doing. While other people are still in the freezer at the funeral home, people blowing their noses in grief, you are going to town. Bacteria accelerate the breakdown of your cells to lightning speed. You discover something remarkable. Inhalation is out of the question, but you are exhaling like never before. You are sending one fugue after another into the atmosphere, like that snippet in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. You are instantly the talk of the biological neighborhood. They ride in your direction like the Oklahoma land rush, everyone scheming for a piece of the pie. It's the Fourth of July and everyone is waving their flags and shouting Oh! as you rip a great one, and then rip another. People can't see it, but there is a grand finale going on that fills the daytime sky. Everyone and everything wants a piece of you. Everyone makes off with what they can carry â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a cell, a fleck of skin, a drop of blood, a pimple. There goes the neighbor's dog with your right index finger. "I saw that Buddy! I saw what you did!" It's a jubilee day, with streamers and noisemakers, picnic blankets spread upon the lawn. A brass band is celebrating your gift to the world. Speech, speech, the gathering exclaims! And you are moving. The biting and sucking and ripping of

membranes causes you to hum. Your face makes faces, your tissues flinch. Every part of every part of you is causing you to dance, like a puppet connected to a billion strings, like Bonnie, like Clyde, like that old gospel testimony. I hosted the feast, you seem to be saying, I partied till dawn, everyone left with the first rays of sun, carrying a tinfoil package in the shape of a swan. Now isn't that better than taking it slow?

Finley - reads Teaching My Dog to Read --

Plan I know what I will do. I will drive to the wilderness, and I will pitch my tent and wait. I am prepared to wait there as long as I have to. And when a tree within earshot has had enough and is ready to fall to the forest floor, I will be on hand to evaluate the sound it makes, and report back to you.

Klecko - introduces Susan Koefod -

Don't Be Like The Moon (Finley) Don't be like the moon, your face all scars, dismayed by your bombardment. Because if that is your choice, To be like the moon, The night is what you will be relegated to, a lantern hanging in the darkness.

The world must carry the moon on its shoulder like a child borne to the grave in a box. Do not be bewildered like the moon Do not gaze open-mouthed into space Do not dwell on memories gone bad Be like the earth you were plucked out of, The one that lives, that bleats and sighs Deny your losses, shed your skin, Pack the dead away so they cannot be seen Make roses grow between the rows Be like the blooming earth and forget

Klecko - talks about his work and what it means to him this summer, heat wave, cheering for Mexico

124 Degrees With two hours before sunrise The last baker enters the break room Joining a crew, soaked and faded Their shift hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t started Condensation on windows And Gatorade puddles Serve as warnings That this wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be a day for talking In silence they wait Listening to the compressors

Wheezing for air on the other side Of the oven room door Each considers leaving But fears being the first To turn tail While their brothers face the dragon Only years later will they realize Why they had to carry on It wasn’t for themselves But each other

Mike then introduces Rebecca Paradis -

Breakfast With Barack (Klecko) During his first presidential campaign Barack stopped by my neighborhood for breakfast He chose the Copper Dome, in many people’s opinion Because it came across as middle class While he fidgeted in the dining room His handlers stood near the pantry Discussing what America Wanted their President to eat "Maybe the hash brown platter"? "Nah, that could come across as gluttonous" "How about an omelet?” "Nope, that would denote boring" "Has anyone considered waffles?" This just made the entourage laugh

It was finally decided pancakes Would get high ratings, from every demographic As long as the portion size Was smaller than a tractor tire So while Barack collected his half stack Packed neatly in a Styrofoam clam shell All the customers slumped in their booths And curbed their opinions with a sigh Knowing that if an outsider wanted to secure The trust of the neighborhood All you had to do was order bacon

“All you had to do was order bacon” … Cmon Barack! Here introduce Michelle Monserrat, who will read the LIEF submission guidelines

LIEF Magazine Submission Guidelines  Have a heartbeat. We’re here to have fun.  Don't be the hero of your own story. Or the victim.  We are not interested in your wonderful mind. We are interested in almost anything else.  We understand that artists get depressed -- but why load that onto the reader? They’ve got enough problems.  We like news, things that you yourself saw, things that actually exist. Be a reporter of something outside yourself.  Write like you are telling your best friend something wonderful that you just learned.  We don't care what trouble you've seen .. or been.  Unless it feels like a gift, don't give it.  An inner child is a terrible thing to waste.

Rebecca Ramsden

45 Minutes In Como Park (Klecko) Between the hours of 3 and 4 On the bench - adjacent to ours Sat a man who was not put together A man at the end of some battle Big drops of rain began to fall Rain drops by the tablespoon The man refused to move A woman with a Terrier Stopped as if she knew him Offering dry escort Underneath her umbrella The man began to cry "What determines luck? Who makes up the rules? Why is value attached To everything but me?" The woman sat by his side Put her arm around his shoulder In silence the umbrella twirled

Until she offered explanation "Everything will be fine,” she said “Just not today" "Everything will be fine,” she said “Just not today" THANK YOU REBECCA!

Klecko and afterward, Finley Danny reads The Howling

The Howling In the song Beautiful Creatures, Bruce Cockburn intones the phrase and his voice rises like a chimney sending sparks up into the sky. And what Cockburn is saying – the beautiful creatures are going away. Their beautiful eyes, their beautiful cries, the tree frog, the antelope, the radiant butterflies, the clarity of their hunger. the fierceness of their love. We will watch them go and be unable to stop them, 17

because other things mattered more to us. Going away by leg, by wing, on their beautiful bellies, they are taking their beauty away from us. They are never coming back. Mike calls on Rick

Rick Monteith Never call another human being “emotionally disregulated.” It's EXTREMELY hurtful! Now it’s Mike’s finale

What are you looking at? Stop looking at me! How ya doin, -- everybody having a good time? Anybody having a good time? Danny asked me to close out the evening with something. I said, What kind of something?

He said, “Ya know … that talk you gave at Daniele’s funeral was just about the most amazing thing I ever heard.” He was saying “Do something like that.” I’ve known about this since April and not written anything down. I wrote some stuff down, but … So, over the weekend I asked myself, “What was it about that talk at the funeral?” And I remembered. There were like 450 people there. The funeral hall was packed, with friends my age and all the young people who loved our daughter, and were wrecked -- wrecked by her suicide. I wanted to say something to them. To tell them to stop dying. Cuz every time someone died this way, we all got killed. It had its own terrible momentum. So -- stop, I said. Right now. Stop dying. I need to mention at this point that in recent years I have been more emotional than usual, flying off the handle, weeping at the drop of a hat.

I see a fruit bat and I think, “That’s the last fruit bat I will ever see! “And in a temperate zone!” And the tears roll down. Right … me, Mister Tough Guy! I made a deal with Rachel. I would see a shrink about my emotions. Saw him just this week, on Monday. Nice fella. And the other promise … I would donate $5 every time I cried … to the Ku Klux Klan. I got their mailing address and everything. Now, I needed to get technical about this promise. My eyes “welling up” didn’t constitute crying. That was just me being … soulful. Poet, right? A tear could form and appear ready to roll down. But somehow, perhaps using my yogic optic muscle powers, I sucked that sucker back in. It has actually to roll down to trigger payment to the KKK. So I don’t want to cry, even though the material is … uh … And … if I do cry, I am putting you on notice … None of you can pay my $5 to the KKK for me …

That would be enabling … very, very bad … I must subsidize racism-hatred-and-murder myself. So far, after three weeks of promising, I have paid them nothing. So .. Nyah, nyah … Klans of America. Four days ago Rachel described me as “naive.” Later that very same day, a friend said to me: “Mike, I do enjoy your cynical worldiness.” See the paradox there? Or am I alone?

I’m taking Ritalin these days, to offset some other drug that makes me drowsy. Gamma Gabba Hey? Gabapentin. I’m telling you, the Ritalin makes me naive … in a lovely way. Everything seems unique and wonderful. Instead of thinking, “That’s my last fruit bat” … I say … “Wow, amazing, a fruit bat hanging by its feet from our porch ceiling beam!” With Ritalin, everything is beautiful for four hours every morning. I fill my gas tank and I am exuberant.

“You could go anywhere with full tank of gas!” Fergus … Bettendorf … Superior … I took the Lou Reed song Heroin and recast it. Heroin? … Ritalin! … it’s a perfect fit, metrically speaking. I-- don't know -- just where I'm going But see that sunshine riding through the treetops, And those schoolkids waiting at the bus stop, Shoving the weak ones off the curb And that woodpecker pausing by the hedge, Its cheeks so rosy red … Cuz when the Ritalin is in my veins I tell you things aren’t quite the same And I thank God that I’m so aware And I thank God that I want to care … That’s right … So I’m at Dunn Brothers with Rich -- the one by Macalester. I’m peaking on the Ritalin. I’m looking around at the people reading and sipping. And I say to Rich, “You know, Rich, because of my illness, I'm really aware that everyone around me is dying, too.”

I want to go from table to table and say to people, “Hi, did you know you’re dying, as we speak? What do you think of that?” And Rich leans across the table and whispers very gently to me, “I don’t think they want you to tell them that, Mike.” Thanks, Rich. That was a close one. So I think I figured it out. I’m naive until the Ritalin wears off. After that I’m Lou Reed -- “cynical and worldly” -- again. Deal with it. I’m complicated. Yeah. I was rude to my own dad, growing up. I was hard to give advice to. Nevertheless … I was lucky to brush up against some other great dads -teachers -- in my life. Some are here and some are gone. I’m gonna rattle off a list of the gone …

James Wright, Robert Bly, William Stafford, Julie Miller, Michael Cuddihy. Frank Brainerd. Charlie Waterman. John Judson down in Lacrosse. He was a good guy. And then some writers who are still respiring: Best friend Rich Broderick. Keeps me company even when I want to be alone. Sounds bad, but it has saved me some days. Good poet, too. Sharon Olds -- my mentor in a Loft thing years ago. Also good poet. My little sister Marisha Chamberlain -- wow, what a writer! The real deal. The great Charles Potts of Walla Wall, Washington -Charlie published my first book. Outlaw. He bears a lot of responsibility for all this. Yes, blame Charlie Potts. Now, none of these wise teachers came right out and said â&#x20AC;Ś Get off your high horse, Finley. But they all encouraged me to work at it. And then my less verbose friends.

My dear Rachel, Al, Mary, Worth, Debbie -- really, many of you here tonight. You know I love you. Thank you. And FAREWELL to you, my friends -- in the original strong meaning of the phrase -- to fare well -- continue being great. And good! So, so much goodness in you. All of you. Except â&#x20AC;Ś no, letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not go there. Friends, be kind to yourselves. Safe journey. Tashi deley. I know you all struggle to go forward. Fighting your circumstances. Grinding your teeth in your asleep. Wear that tooth guard! Holding up the sky. Watching Rachel Maddow. Fighting your own selves. Fighting the guy across the street. I know what is in your heart. Know that my spirit will always be with your spirit, pecking the crumbs off of you. I feel ya and I always will.

Finally … because tonight is our night … I want to thank Danny Klecko. You know, Danny and I are not as similar as we look. Danny started as my protege -- someone you protect. Pretty funny, huh? But that’s all over. He’s a major figure now. Big time. There’s a lotsa poets here, but Summit Avenue? Give me a break. He and I have enjoyed a weird, wonderful partnership for much longer than 10 years. But seriously … it’s a very rare thing to have another person listen to your advice, and actually take it. And then, succeed with it. WTF? Him and me, we edited a magazine, ran a couple reading series, drank barrels of red wine -- oh, what a night that was, in Ohio! We traveled to great acclaim in Cleveland, Bemidji … Redwing? I guess that’s about it. But we knocked ‘em dead, didn’t we Danny? Like what they said in that movie, “We’ll always have Cleveland.”

Danny and I were successful because we always tried to give people something … a laugh, a story, a weird thought, a hunka chunk a burnin’ love. By our selves, we would have been like most everybody … gnashing our teeth and going without the bacon. But … we came up with tag team poetry. The hell with the bylines and egos, let’s just put on a show. Let’s put out a collection. Lean on one another. Have fun with fun. Flirt with The Ladies. Drink red wine. I will conclude … wait for applause … But first, a cautionary word about standing ovations. Twin Cities audiences are known to ovate at the drop of a hat. We’re not as restrained or sophisticated as audiences back east, like Cleveland … or Columbus … So I’m very much opposed to them! Nevertheless, as an entertainer, I have to respect the wishes of an audience that needs to show its sincere appreciation and love. I mean, who am I to piss all over everyone?

And … I realize that such an expression would be for both myself and the author of this very charming love poem about naturalist Jane Goodall … I would also like to invite our classy readers up here, just in case such an ovation were to spontaneously occur, upon the completion of the poem: So come on up … Scott Vetsch Michele Montserrat Michael Dean Zoe Bird Tom Cassidy Susan Koefod Rebecca Paradis Rebecca Ramsden And our persons on the street, stand right where you are … Terry Folz, Rick Monteith, Heather Beatty, Isadore Gruye Don’t take a bow yet. Hold your horses. Let’s do this damn thing right. This poem sums up everything about both Danny and me -- our historic feelings about stuff. It’s dreamy … it’s loving … and it teeters right on the edge of stupid:

I Love You Jane Goodall I would pay to share your silence While bugs would crawl on me Secretly hoping a chimp or two would surface We would sit on beds of leaves Or maybe empty Scotch cases I've been told you are partial to Famous Grouse (that’s a brand of Scotch) If the jungle remained silent And we were left to our devices … Maybe that wouldn't be so bad We could climb into your tree house And you would make us Oolong tea While I … I tell you … how … beautiful … you … are OK everybody -- you’re beautiful too. And fuck Lou Gehrig! I’m the luckiest guy -at least in the Clown Lounge at Snelling and University. Scott Vetsch, Michael Dean Zoe Bird Tom Cassidy

Susan Koefod Rebecca Paradis Rebecca Ramsden