3 Kings - Klecko

I hate when priests think that they're cool
Making reference of the Biblical Magi
They are the 3 Kings
As if you needed to be told
But, I guess sometimes perfections not enough

If you are a young boy
There is no image greater
To emulate through the holiday season

Before there were action figures
I'd extract the 3 kings from my mothers Nativity
And, we'd search for baby Jesus in distant kitchen cupboards

I didn't have any gold
Frankincense or myrrh
Our expedition outsourced wintergreen Lifesavers

And, if you explored the terrain deep into a closet
And, hit those mints with a hammer
The sparks looked like angels flying back to their father

My sister would get pissed
When I recruited Uncle Drosselmeyer
Who was carved into a Nutcracker form

He was an employee of King Herod
Hired to reenact The Massacre of the Innocents
In which her Barbie's starred as Bethlehem's slain

My sister would point out
That I was retarded
Since historically the victims had been boys

But, artistic license
Or a directors prerogative
Should always receive extended latitude when you are 6

A kitchen eulogy -- by Kim Ode

After all the calls were made --

"It was so sudden..." "She went quickly..."

After all the details were settled --

"The navy dress with her pearl broach..." "Rock of Ages..."

After the funeral had lent its comfort --

"Pastor was good today..." "They're together now..."

Everyone came back to her house

As everyone always had.

So it didn't seem strange

To be setting out her dishes,

And using her hot pads to pull

The neighbors' casseroles from the oven.

It wasn't until they were packing up the leftovers

That it struck them that no one lived here anymore,

That it was no use putting food in the fridge.

And that was when they found the cookie dough.

She'd put it there to chill in her pale green Pyrex bowl,

Dough the color of pale caramel,

Although one taste told them it was for peanut butter cookies,

The kind she criss-crossed with a fork.

She'd been known for her cookies,

Not so much for their particular quality

(Betty Crocker made everyone a good baker)

But for their constancy and quantity.

The women looked at each other,

Knowing that she'd never want good ingredients

To go to waste.

(She'd always used Land 'O Lakes butter.)

And so they set the oven to 350

And pulled out her cookie sheets

And rolled the dough into inch-wide balls

And criss-crossed them with a fork

And baked them until they were just firm

And cooled them on her wire rack.

And then they cried, cried as if they'd never cried before.

They cried as they washed the cookie sheets,

Cried as they dried the Pyrex bowl and asked which daughter wanted it,

Cried as they ate every single one of those cookies,

Then brushed the crumbs from their good dresses

And returned to their own homes,

And began baking in blessed grief.

West 7th Street - by Klecko

The snow plows have stopped running
While a gypsy - tins my bowl
The perverts at the Denmark hide
Because the preacher wants their soul

Children go on milk cartons
When parents ignore their debt
The old world must remember
Because the new school will forget

You can smile - or maybe laugh
But, buckle tight - into your seat
The Prodigals Son - just can't have fun
When he returns to West 7th street

Bathsheba's sitting in the driveway
With a hand gun in her purse
I asked why she was packing
You weren'y sure what was worse

Sleeping without Billy
Or sleeping in a hearse
The prophets didn't seem to want to try
Because you'd just rebuked their curse

For those who despise this infidel
They better just stare at her feet
Because the spirits strong - but the flesh is weak
When you partake on West 7th street

Cassius ran a supper club
Linen napkins and paper plates
At 2 O'clock - was his bank drop
He observed some criminals traits

4 Hmong boys - who fled abrupt
Holding canvas bags and guns
Everybody hit the deck
But, Cassius refused to run

Instead he followed in a Buick
Until they were detained - by the Heat
Our hero wouldn't touch his just reward
They passed it out on West 7th street

Mr. Twist was of British lineage
And, often ate things off the floor
An orphan who left us uncertain
If he was eccentric - or just poor

He was crucified by phobias
We watched while his neurosis grew
He was unable to void - while at the shop
Or share a toilet with the crew

When the last dough came off the mixer
We placed a spike right through his feet
He and 2 theives made quite a mess
So watch your step on West 7th street

Pocahontas was a pole dancer
Who just quit Deja Vu
She gave up lap dances for pastry training
And, took her breaks in my Malibu

Each night we'd smoke 2 cigarettes
A cracked windshield framed the stars
Her body was more than picture perfect
But, her confidence bore weighty scars

Then on tuesday - my night off
She disrobed - out on the concrete
Where she gave every employee a special good bye
Before she danced down West 7th street

Antoinette - was a buxom vet
We entered through the back
To plan another recognizance
It was her nature to attack

She hung maps displaying tortured dogs
And, we'd emancipate them between loads of bread
Within moments they were off the radar
Their owners assumed they were dead

So question our methods - if you like
And label us a cheat
But we were just taking orders
From the good Doc on West 7th street

Frost is on the window pane
while it bites deep into your toes
Rabbits - searching for their holes
Maybe half the warren froze

Icicles, boogars, boots and strep
Two called in with the flu
It's going to be one of those nights
If we don't die before we are through

Thirteen hours before sunrise
So lets absorb the ovens heat
Sometimes we take things by the minute
On West 7th street

Kamal hopped on the 74 B
Much to my surprise
He decided to sit behind me
There was strange peace in his eyes

I fired him for being slow
And called him a Turban Head
Then told him to fly out on his fucking rug
Or else he's wish that he was dead

When I got up - to leave the bus
He was full while I was incomplete
Because ignorance shrouded with mercy
were foreign on west 7th street

Santa and Othello
They didn't know what to do
the shelter had to lock the doors
Before their rye was through

They wrapped themselves with plastic
So when they slept - they wouldn't get wet
I offered them a flour bag mattress
Behind a pastry cabinet

That's when Othello began to grin
Exclaiming - My stars that can't be beat
Junior thinks we'd sleep in this dump
When we could bed down on West 7th street

1000 ghosts - they've all shared time
Lined up in this commercial space
Often times I can hear their voice
But, I can't make out their face

They might be recanting their promises
And, some opinions too
But, the one thing they hold in agreement
Is its all over - when I'm through

And, even though the outcome is flawed
The process was a treat
It's just to bad that the marvel must fade
When I step off of West 7th street

Vampire Baker - by Klecko

The bakery's old
The hallways cold
Condensation causing mold

On the baseboards
On the wall
Clock strikes midnight
The ovens call

I'm going to fly tonight
Going to fly tonight

Rule the world
While you sleep
So pray to God, your soul to keep

Bones are cold
Eyes are old
Seeing stories never told

At your tables
In your Malls
Clock strike midnight
Duty calls

I'm going to fly tonight
Going to fly tonight

The Peoples Empire - by Klecko

The shark defines an aquatic cage
Th perimeters always wide
We raise a toast - and shed an oath
And, get pulled in by the tide

You can lie down on the ocean floor
But, you can never hide
The truth is always seen in the peoples empire

The artesian will earn his keep
From sweat upon the brow
Everything's obtainable
When someone shows you how

And, every shift is tangible
From the oven to the plow
Your collars always blue
In the peoples empire

Grab the pot - and pour me coffee
Save room for some cream
It doesn't matter that I'm thirsty
when I watch your brown eyes gleam

I salute the architect of your temple
For creating such a dream
Enshrine this angel
In the peoples empire

Take my wallet - and my car keys
Crawl into my bed
Its seldom that I get to use them
I'm usually baking bread

And, I'm sure I'll give you many reasons
To leave me before I'm dead
Its hard to hold a bond
in the peoples empire

Judas usually held the purse strings
So the crew was in the black
After a merger with Pharisees
He tried to give it back

Sometimes in Hospitality
One day can break your back
There are no second chances
In the people empire

The police cruise the alleyways
Of kitchens and retail
If you are Black, Hmong or Mexican
Get ready to post bail

If you don't have money for representation
An appointed attorney will fail
Don't dare to hope for justice
In the people empire

The waitress - who is a mother
Usually won't play fair
She'll dig in deep - for this months lover
And typically won't care

If he's trite, obscene, or slow to act
Or even losing hair
As long as that check clears
In the peoples empire

The inspector arrives unannounced
In hopes of striking fear
you can bet that they - will stay all day
It keeps their job secure

Some want to see that monkey dance
And others just want beer
You see - everyone's your overlord
In the people Empire

In the break room - the Italian baker
Was accused of being gay
Because he spent his Tuesday lunch hour
Reading Hemmingway

Owning books, values, or dreams
Will get you pushed away
Finish lines are never crossed
In the peoples empire

In the Midwest - there are wheat fields
As big as any sea
All my clients have driven through them
When they crossed - our country

It's a voyage - I have never taken
I've been chained to industry
Yes - I want to believe that the sun shines bright
On the people empire.

End

Solstice by Susan Koefod

http://www.tattoohighway.org/18/sksolstice.html

Just Once -- by Kim Ode

Just returned from visiting my folks in South Dakota, which recalled this moment, many years ago, when  it was good to be a farmer..........

Just Once

We’re millionaires, my father said,

Then qualified his pride:

On paper,

This year,

Because it rained.

Still -- millionaires.

He couldn’t say it without smiling,

Disbelieving what he’d done.

We kids wanted it to rain coins

Like in Scrooge McDuck cartoons.

But the proof was in bank ledgers

This year

Because corn futures were good.

And so even with his second

C.C.-and-7

Slaking his dirt-parched throat,

The truth of who owned his victory

Crept into his eyes.

Still, we clung to the moment, imagining

New Barbies

Or Disneyland.

“On paper” was for grownups.

I wanted the Dream House

And all the breaded shrimp I could eat.

Later that night, Mom’s quiet pride

Must have kissed away our quest for proof

Because the subject never came up again.

Still -- millionaires.

Just once,

On paper,

This year,

Because it rained. 

A Day at the Coliseum (an Easter Poem by Klecko)

In another lifetime - or maybe just a dream
I was frying mini doughnuts - at the Roman Coliseum
They were purchased by the Tribune - And, the Emperor too
But, when I sold out early - I didn't know what to do
I untied my dirty apron -And, tossed it on the ground
And, followed hot Phoenician chicks - while they walked around

Rose pedals fell from the sky - And landed in the street
Where a line of chariots rolled on by - for the audience to greet
Pilate proclaimed it time to start - until his lover cried
The race must be aborted - since the Corinthian driver died
Tiberius hiked up his toga - and formed a smirking grin
Somebody bring the baker - we'll make his ass fill in

The centurions pointed to my ride - And, said hop in if you will
And, when I asked what if I don't - they pointed to a hill
A billboard proclaimed Golgotha - the mountain made of skull
Its the worst place to get crucified - because their spikes are dull
I didn't like my options - I was being played by fate
So I finished my second Diet Coke - And, stepped into the gate

To my right were noble whites - you could listen to them purr
They belonged to some crazy Shiek - and a Prince who we called Hur
To my left stood Massalah - and his majestic blacks
He was a five time winner - and familiar with this track
Some have said the steeds rich color - held significanace
But, that was soon forgotten - when I looked up at the fence

Four Jackasses tethered - were staring back at me
Betty Crocker, General Mills, Doughboy and Sarah Lee
A motley crew for certain - but, we were still a team
Before I calculated odds - I heard the trumpets scream
Massalah sent praise to Jupiter - who granted all his whims
Which made me wonder hard and fast - why those razors on his rims

Nine times around the Circus - is what it takes to win
So no time like the present - I peeled out and took a spin
The rig from Macedonia - tried to vanquish me
But when I moved into 3rd place - his horses stopped to pee
Massalah and the Prince - saw me in their rear view mirror
And, as I closed the gap - they looked back and missed a gear

The 2 of them collided - and the Tribune hit the dirt
You shouldn't go commando - when your uniforms a skirt
His legs were amputated - they were trampled under hoof
If there would have been a ceiling - we would have raised the roof
The Physicians tried to save him - But, he was to far gone
And, just before he passed away - he warned the the race will still wage on

My donkeys were dark horses - yet we occupied 2nd place
We got so close to Judah - that I could see his face
He whispered that a man he didn't know - served him and he wondered why
Perhaps I am mistaken - But, I thought I saw him cry
As we turned the final corner - I finally took the lead
This pacified the savage mob - who were cheering out of greed

In a final stretch an image appeared - it was divine
And, told me to take heed - if I crossed the finish line
I began to shake and tremble - pulled my donkeys in reverse
After the Hebrew won - he claimed the laurel and the purse
Caesar checked him out - because the Jew was cute and trim
Then he proceeded to advise the crowd - that they should worship him

As the day proceeded - I became upset
I knew I really won the race - But, yet I lost my bet
I was glad the Hebrew Nation - had a reason to believe
But, what about us Pollacks - we always have to grieve
That's when Jesus appeared to me - in a slice of toast
And, promised to give me victory - so Impressive I could boast

In another lifetime - or maybe just a dream
I threw a tiny pebble - at a big old Philistine

Minnesotan in New York - by Mike Finley

When I landed at LaGuardia
It was seventy degrees.
All I needed was a thin jacket.
For three days I walked the streets
Leery of beggars who seemed
to know something, and shadowy.
Figures lurking in doorways.
But when the temperature began
to fall and the canyon gusts blew
plastic sacks like ghostly luggage,
I came into my own.
I am more used to winter than them,
it is my element, walking into wind
swinging my computer case at my side.
All along 6th Avenue phalanxes of muggers
and murders part melted
from their purpose by sled dog eyes.
Urgent and cheerful on a cold,
cold night.

ODE.....this is the poem that Mike sent to me the week before I flew out to NYC to do the Martha Stewart interview. It really meant a lot to me, to have somebody else work become specified for my life. To this day I think Mike Finley is epic.

Under a Canaopy of Stars (Polish Kitchen) by Klecko

Sunday morning - after Mass
Grandma swears - Grandpa Laughs
Relitives - will be here soon
And we'll sit down - for lunch at noon
When we come together we're complete

Carry groceries - from the car
Little Debbies - Nutty Bars
Fresca, Tang - Quisp & Quake
Swanson's dinners - Shake and Bake
All packed neatly in Red Owl bags

Set the table - Then say grace
Pass the food - stuff your face
Aunt Jeanine - gets mad and shouts
Cuz Cousin Jack - hates Brussels sprouts
Everybody has to clean their plate

Broken dishes - stain on shirt
Arguments - before desert
Cup of Sanka - Sara Lee
Cribbage - and Monopoly
Grandpa stops to watch the evening news

And we don't want - the night to end
We don't want - to be apart
The stars come out - to - form - a - canopy
Everyone is comfortable
When they're not alone

Sunday evening - Kitchens closed
Say good bye - time to go
Weddings, funerals, holiday
Is the next time when we'll play
Grandma smiles - waving from the street
Cuz when we come together we're complete

Pastry Chef Lost - by Debora Gilson

Wearing a disposable infant diaper
her cat lies on the bakery office floor staring blankly
He is at once ethereal and macabre

Mary Margaret rolls out the puff pastry across a long floured table

Plastic credit has been used to pay
For blood transfusions, the forced feedings
He is the mate of her soul and she will not see him dead

She says its that time of the month again, the flow heavy, the cramps painful

Customers have complained about the chocolate chip cookies
So, she makes a new batch, the same larded recipe of her grandmother
She tells them that these are made of butter believing they cannot tell the difference

She is the first of four Marys, the sisters to four Josephs

Slowly each cupcake is lifted
the frosting massaged over the top, again and again
She thinks this is the love, but its really the desperation

She moves across the kitchen, La Tortuga, her first steps sluggish and slow

During the long nights in front of the ovens
She drinks the boxed wine purchased to make the soup stock
The freckled Irish morning face has dulled and slackened

She says she's sorry she forgot to take the bread dough out of the cooler last night

The cat dies, the customers do not return in the morning
She lies drunk on the floor
The croissants crushed, the cakes in the pastry case upside down

She is bare, the contents of her stomach on the bathroom floor, left for the angels to clean

The Chef IV - by Debora Gilson

He tells you first thing, that he is a genius
He licks the cake batter from the tips of your fingers
He walks into the kitchen as though he is Louis XIV walking through the Hall of Mirrors
He uses the pastry cooler as a sound proof booth to speak confidentially
He will come for a hug of mutual support before the days battle
He rests a dead chicken foot on your shoulder for laughs
He stands in a stairwell to think about his crazy mother
He says he knows you better than anyone else
He states as a fact that which he wishes were true
He needs you to tell him that you have a plan
He believes in his mind that he is Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront
He smokes pot on his front porch after walking the dog
He carries your summer pudding up five flights of stairs
He kisses your cheek when you have done all that he asks
He lost the truth in his forest of lies
He's afraid of that look in your eye
He cries for you only once
He holds up the pill that keeps him sane
He throws it in his mouth, turns and walks away
He got you into this mess but he will not get you out

Kim....don't you just love this? Sequentially there are a few patters (and breaks in pattern that make this kind of (and I hate using the word) "organic"
Note how the first 17 lines are independent of one another, each could be the heading of its own story, but the last 3 pull together and not only tie together.....but close out the thought.
If you want to know which chef this was written about you'll need to buy me a drink. I would hate to pull a Carly Simon and rat out a brother in public.

Seam Stresses -- by Kim Ode

Somewhere in the mile-long seam

Of a flounce for a teenager’s prom dress

Whose success, at this moment, is in doubt,

I see what I am doing.

See it in that peculiar way in which

The past sometimes appears,

Clicking through scenes on a View-Master

From a cardboard disk I didn’t know I’d saved.

There I am,

Standing in a coldly sleek white gown,

Then in another with too much lace,

And in another that is, well, ick.

Click.

My mother says, I could sew your wedding dress.

I think it was a Simplicity pattern.

Or was it Vogue?

All I know is that she stitched miles of seams

In less than a week.

I sewed on the pearls to accent the bodice

But it was, as usual, a stitch to her every ten.

So here I am, against all logic,

Compelled by the reality of ick,

Volunteering almost word for word

To sew a prom dress for this Saturday.

I’m not sure what I will tell my mother.

Whether to thank her for these skills,

Or ponder how history rewinds itself,

Whether to confess to some competition

Or laugh about the hell we clench in our teeth

And wrestle to the ground

Because of a daughter.

Somewhere in the mile-long seam

That I am snipping open, stitch by stitch

To smooth away a pucker,

I hear a low chuckle

And I know what I will say.

Kansas City Bob - by Klecko

Angels flap their tired wings
Hoping to create a breeze
There's no place hotter
Than a kitchen in July

They've been sent in several legions
To observe your every move
You don't believe in them
But, your best friend does

They chuckle at your tattoo
The one that says Hillary 08
It pulsates on your bicep
When you fill those parfiet cups

You entered into my city
Wihtout cloak or beggers purse
The appropriete credentials
For a seasoned food service worker

Tonight I'm stuck in Moscow
And I'm watching CNN
The Popes at Yankee Stadium
Presenting his farewell Mass

I imagine blasphemous punchlines
Thay you'd deliver without effort
Then I feel nervous
Because I know they'd make me laugh

The Russian Chess Federation
Was closed when I stopped by
I bribed the guard
And, he let me look inside

I stared at empty tables
Where your heros waged their wars
I told their ghosts
Bobby Joe would kick your ass


Montreal, Chicago, Minneapolis too
Your tank was almost empty
If you didn't leave real soon
You'd never get back to Missouri

Angels clip their tired wings
They're not going anywhere
They prefer your company
And reside in Kansas City

END

Baker's Trinity -- by Kim Ode

Baker I

The Hobart scares me, frankly.

Its steel arm churning through

Small oceans of dough

Rising and falling in the bakery’s battered cauldron

Not unlike how Captain Hook made Wendy tremble

Before she found her nerve.

My home mixer’s tidy dough hook

Is, in suburban scale, a mere toenail

Writhing efficiently through

A baby’s bottom of dough that

Gratefully

Makes just two loaves.

Sometimes I go off the grid

With my Ma Ingalls bowl,

Smiling placidly at the unemployed outlet

Hands clad in gloves of flour and water

As I lift and stretch and turn and fold

Dough that has behaved this way

For centuries.

The kneading leaves me winded

If I’ve done it well enough,

And I catch my breath with Caroline.

Baker II

My poor brick oven.

Good that I sunk its concrete footings

Four feet into the earth

Burdened as it is with metaphor.

Midlife crisis is my answer to why,

Which makes women laugh

Into their elastic waistbands

About my wood-fired therapist’s couch

Brick ovens have a goddess

Of course.

Fornax, who relies on dead trees

To work her magic.

Does she seduce Zeus

To aim his lightning bolts

Toward that elm, that oak?

Or am I overthinking this?

I bake in the 21^st century.

I bake in a suburb.

I bake while my children

Wait for the microwave to ding.

Baker III

When all is said and done

-- As if it ever is ---

An old church cookbook

Holds all the answers

To all the questions of

How long?

How much?

How hot?

How many?

The capture of wisdom so pure and plain

Often makes me underestimate its value,

As did those who recited their recipes

From memory

While sitting distracted in the pews.

On my 5th flight to Moscow by Klecko

On my 5th flight to Moscow
I flew Delta Airlines
They repaid me with an aisle seat
In a row that resembled lawn chairs

To my right sat 4 Dutch boys
Who stared into the shoulder blades
Of the chairs directly in front of them
Which doubled as a theater

The screen was Pop Tart sized
Placed just above the magizine pouch
No one ever reads them
Are they there to cover barf bags

I was watching Clive Barker
And, the Dutch all switched to Disney
Just when that Little Mermaid spoke
The seat in front of me reclined

At 6 foot 3 - I grimaced
And, gave the guy - that guy look
Which said "Do you have to be such an A-Hole"
His silence indacated that he did

He was talking with some woman
That his wife the flutist wasn't coming
Her hand had lost it's faculties
Because she suffered from drop palsey

Several rows behind me
Sat a chick in fish net stockings
She was familiar with the red light
And I wished I was as well

But then my wifes silhouette - it surfaced
In a cloud bank full of thunder
And their was no silver linings
Just a contract for divorce

When the airplane finally set down
The passengers shared a strong sense of accomplishment
We had survived the boredom - and each other
It felt good to stretch our legs

My layover was in Amsterdam
But I spent it in the airport
Applauding all the wooden shoes
And, tulip laden post cards

The chick with fishnet stockings
Sat down - just to my left side
And, another woman approached her
And, chose to sit upon her lap

The 2 of them started kissing
Not like the lesbo's in the pornos
I think they really loved each other
So I got up to go pee

The bathroom looked progressive
With its vogue new line of urinals
But, they smelt like litter boxes
That has been submerged in ancient puss

I began to gasp, and almost gagged
While one hand shielded my unfiltered airway
I turned my back and ran out
I didn't even wash my hands

The stench hung out in the hallway
and, the non descript didn't notice
Because the people who go to Holland
Have only one thing on their mind

It seemed like I crossed a dessert
Or at least a couple bad dreams
Before I saw myself standing
Under the concourse K's flashing sign

I was the second person
In a line that would gain admission
To a rusty sort of contraption
That might just find the Motherland

The girl in front was pretty
With her hair that was died to the 11th shade of red
But, the thing that drove me crazy
Her belt buckle was not flush

When our conversation ignited
She volunteered her name
"I am Olga from the Oblast
Have you noticed how they treat us

If you were to fly to Germany
Or even viet Nam
The line in which you waited
Would be equipped with someplace to sit

But just because we are Russians
They have to treat us so unfairly
It is because they are so angry
Or maybe just because they are stupid"

On my 5th flight to Moscow
22 hours dragged by
From the time I left my front door
And, crossed the Hotel Bega's threshold.

My 3rd Flight to Moscow by Klecko

On my 3rd flight to Moscow
I flew Delta Airlines
Their television blared
As I sat in the concourse

ESPN and CNN
Discussed Brett Favre
And, whether or not
He would finally retire

It was 10 a.m.
When I synchronized my watch
And, wondered if I dared
To do the same with my bloodstream

At this time tomorrow
It would be midnight in Moscow
And, I would be sipping vodka
In the Hotel Bega's lounge

I stepped into a saloon
Which doubled as a cafe
And, sidled up to the counter
And, waited to be served

The barmaid with red hair
And, jeans of tight black denim
Approached to take my order
Damn - she was tall and thin

Her nametag announced her as "Viv"
As did her raspy voice
She placed a coaster in front of me
Then asked what would be my pleassure

When my answer was finally poured
Viv barked orders to the servers
Displaying alpha status
It kinda turned me on

Next she shoveled cubes
From her portable ice cart
When the station was finally filled
She continued our conversation

So tell me my brave sailor
Where will your adventures take you
When I answered southern Russia
She adjusted her apron and smirked

Thats the first time I've heard that port
And I've worked here several years
If Ivan decides to give you back
I get most Tuesdays off

A night with Viv was illusion
Due to previous selections
But, the prospect was alluring
Because like me she was a lout

We'd come home from dinner parties
And, parade ourselves upstairs
And while she would take off her jewelry
She's start a fight I couldn't win

And, maybe that's the reason
Those possibilities remain just that
Because if they reached fruition
The planet would become off balanced

After 30 minutes and 3 shots
There was an awkward moment
she realized I was leaving
And, slowly produced my check

My bill was 18 dollars
So I handed her 2-20's
For a moment she seemed puzzled
As if I overpaid

For pennies on the moment
I filled the role of mystery
Enough to occupy the moment
Until another sailor came along

END

Kim this might be my favorite work in my "VODKA DIARY" series. In my head I read it rhythmically, and it works because i know it, but on a first time through, did you experience "chops" in the rhythm?

Klecko's Cafe

Klecko Said God - hey let's cut a deal
I missed the last supper
So I want the first meal
Where the angels and humans - gather to kneel
And, the lion and lamb start to play

The event of the season - attendance is great
When Peter wakes up
He'll open the gate
Everyone's hungry - the sinners and saints
And they'll all eat at Klecko's cafe

Failure and shame are a thing of the past
There is no hiearchy
Or social caste
Christians and Muslims will all have a blast
And here comes those guys who are gay

Coexsistence is the mantra here
Isn't that John Paul
Fetch him a beer
Nothing is taboo - where their is no fear
We'll be pouring at Klecko's Cafe

JFK reads the Washington Post
While he sits on the patio
And, remembers his ghost
Seasons in limbo - without any toast
In a system where all feet are clay

Irish and Italians - really got hot
A Catholic President
Had to get shot
His country didn't question - instead they forgot
Let's hold the trial at Klecko's Cafe

Gandhi was famished - and ordered puff paste
He ended his fast
And, displayed his good taste
Chicks really dig him - but he'll remain chaste
Because now theres no reason to play

The earthly coil - was a magnet to sin
But, when you get feathers
You're certain to win
Hop on a comet - and go take a spin
You'll walk the runway at Klecko's Cafe

Judas told Hitler - wouldn't it be fun
To hop in a hotrod
I call shotgun
Drive down some old roads - and see what we've done
It couldn't have gone down any other way

The scale of justice - produced such a scare
The balance was shifting
But God pressed the tare
The people cried out - they just weren't aware
We're serving forgivness at Klecko's Cafe

On the birthday of Jesus -  respects will be paid
All people bring gifts
They'll all be homemade
And, they'll sit at a table - long as a parade
But, the baker won't go - he'll just stay

While most of the children - vie for the right
To sit in the heavens
Where stars shine so bright
Klecko says please God - let me bake tonight
I'll see you at Klecko's Cafe

Being Lutheran -- by Kim Ode

Being Lutheran in our small town

Was like being cold in Iceland,

A natural state of being --

Not that we ever wondered.

Wednesday night was church night

Reserved for confirmation,

Choir practice, Advent readings,

Lenten guilt and Lord knows what.

The beauty part was that no teacher

Dared to crank on homework.

The Lutherans’ lock on Wednesdays

Brought even coaches to their knees.

This is most certainly true.

I learned my catechism with its “Thou shalts”

Only to watch our pastor pander,

Wrenching the lyrics of “American Pie”

Into a even thornier crown.

In time, I walked up the center aisle

Leaning on an old familiar arm

Exchanging it for one with muscle

That led me away from the family farm

We settled in the dense Northeast

Where I learned with Midwestern shock

That my great Lutheran denomination

Was in fact the parable’s mere speck.

Outnumbered by the Catholics,

Episcopalians and Jews.

Martin may have had 95 pet peeves

But only Swensons in the pews.

Bakers talk about percentages

And the importance of proportion.

My religious life was front-loaded,

With hopes of a lifelong fermentation.

Yet I am no longer there,

My church experience a memory

Of lefse, pie and brief sweet wine

Of hearty hymns sang well.

The joy joy joy still is down in my heart

Down in my heart, down in my heart.

But I wonder now how warm it is

In Iceland.

The Vodka Diary by Klecko

Under a canopy of foreign toungues
I cast my manna down
Break tradition
Raise suspicion
On to the next town

To get results you work alone
Can't use a safety net
Like a mouse in a lions den
You'll never pose a threat

Defecting missles - defusing bombs
Might be a noble art
My mind is simple - hands are worn
But, now it's time to start

I pull the thread
Tangled up in red

I was walking in northern Siberia
Along the diamond mines
A French restaurant
With a debutant
Who drank a little too much wine

She pleaded to see miracles
Preformed the American way
I baked brioche - and made some toast
But, then I had to get away

Describing things she'll never see
Really isnt fair
Defining rules - is for fools
You should have seen that stare

Filled with dread
Tangled up with red

I was standing in front of the Kremlin
With Potato Girl
Sipping cokes
Exchanging notes
We were going to change the world

She wanted to bring Jesus
To the Motherland
Filling souls - instead of bowls
Will leave an eternal brand

Empty stomachs
Empty minds
Are quick to gather dust

Holy bibles
And, prayer cards
Mean nothing without trust

So I made bread
Tangled up in red

I was drinking vodka in a Ukrainian bar
Staring out at the Black Sea
An "Americone"
Who sat alone
Until Victor noticed me

He called me to his table
Under the ceiling fan
The English he spoke was impeccable
He learned it in Japan

Shot glass dry
Say good bye
Another comrade

Victor said
When you go home
Tell them we're not so bad

My scales were shed
Tangled up in red

So now I want another scope
I got to get to them somehow
All the people dear to me
Are working in Moscow

Some are running ovens
Some are at HQ
I'm pretty sure they'll all stay put
Until the funds fall through

And, me I guess
I'll be content
To know that I am blessed

It's not that it's much better there
Just different from the West
Enough said
Tangled up in red