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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..........................................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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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 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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Kraken PressSt. Paul, Minnesota

http://mikefinleywriter.com/kraken

$5

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