Fight of the Century - by Klecko

As the son of a drunkard - I had to be patient
Since intentions and whiskey don't mix

On Fridays in April - My father would call me
It was always late in the evening

He'd promise adventures - We'd go to the circus
Everything would be first class

But, the pinball machines - and slurring background
Made me wonder if it would turn out like last year

By the time I was 7 - I couldn't pick him out of a police line up
He left L.A. before I turned 2

He got bored rather easily - And married 5 times
Each wife bore him a daughter

I was the only son - from his first betrothed
We eventually relocated in the Midwest

Then on one day - The date was March 8th
He decided it was time to catch up

A lout in an Impala - Pulled into our driveway
The guy who got out looked like Jackie Gleason

Our homecoming was surreal - when he lifted up his fists
While asking "Boy do you like to scrap?"

I didn't answer the question - so he pulled out 2 tickets
We were going to the fight of the century

My mother was tentitive - But, eventually released her grip
You could see the nail marks on my bicep

Somehow her distrust - would find a reprieve
Ali was attempting to reclaim the crown

I kissed her goodbye - And, went off with this stranger
Who was advised to give me no soda

The bout was in New York - At Madison Square Garden
Remember this predates HBO

So we went to the Met - To watch the closed circut broadcast
It was our cities only satellite venue

Tickets were sparse - Admission was coveted
I ran to be the first in a line

We marched straight to consessions - My father grinned large
"Sir, wouls you please give my son a Coke?"

Then we entered the auditorium - There were 1 million men
And, I was the only boy

The guys with gray hair - The type who wore pin stripes
Greeted me like neighbors from the cabin

"Who do you like kid?" - I answered Muhammad Ali"
To the applause of row 117

But, even in Nirvana - theres always one flaw
Ours sported a plaid coat and sat in the row just behind

He bragged that Joe Fraizer - was 26 and 0
And, 23 of these came via the knockout

The imcumbant from Philly - Wasn't a draft dodger
Like my dads hero who was barred durring his prime

When the man in the plaid coat - harped on this fact
My old man told him to shut the fuck up

For the briefest of moments - I waited for conflict
But, the oafs were both told to pipe down

I sat there in silence - Kinda digging the tension
The show was about to start

The screen was gigantic - Bigger than in the movies
Then along came another Coke

When the lights faded down - The cheers rang out loud
While I nesteled into a cloud of blue cigar smoke

Don Dumphy did commentary - He was the play by play announcer
And, was joined by boxing champion Archie Moore

Burt Lancaster did color - He had never tried announcing
I loved the Birdman from Alcatraz

Leroy Neiman painted the moment - Woody Allen was himself
While Sinatra took photos for LIFE magizine

But, thats how it worked - You did what was needed
If you wanted to witness history first hand

The fight exceeded expectations - It went the full distance
But, Muhammad got knocked down in the final round

The world went silent - And, I wanted to cry
For a hero I didn't know earlier that day

He popped up real quick though - to offer us hope
But, his jaw was swollen grotesquely

After the bell rang - Smoking Joes glove was raised
Ali had suffered his first loss

Besides a small fraction - the crowd seemed so sullen
But, my old man refused to abandon his smile

While everyone filed out - We stayed in our seats
For unknown reasons he didn't want to leave

And, before he stood up - He shared a confession
As if we both possesed identical understanding

"Listen to me kid - One day you're gonna get older
And, I'm guessing you might be upset

You'll probably figure out - I'm a pretty shitty father
But, if it's any consolation...................

I only had 2 tickets to the fight of the century - And, I wanted to take you."

Ink -- by Kim Ode

When Johnny Cash died

They published memorials,

Ragged columns of ink

Reprising his life.

Kids still pick at his songs

Caressing frets with their fingers

While squinting at chords –

Ball-point dots of his strife.

Ink flows from pens.

Ink flows from needles.

Ink asks if we’re certain

Then winks when we nod.

Monks labored in abbeys

Illuminating the Word.

Shakespeare’s quill dipped and scratched

Soliliquies for the crowd.

Treaties and grocery lists,

Lyrics and lies.

Ink’s fluid nature

Both confirms and denies.

Tattoos are stories

Absorbed by our pores.

Injections of chapters

On biceps and calves.

Epiphanies, tributes,

Drunken stabs at eternity –

Ink walks the line

Lending all a blue beauty.

Silently, surely

The hand-drawn script letters

Deliver a message

As honest as dogs.

Ink flows from pens.

Ink flows from needles.

Ink asks if we’re certain

Then winks when we nod.

Polish Mystic Saint of Bread and Dogs by Tracie Morrell

Polish Mystic Saint of Bread and Dogs

Her last taste of broken

bread was in the Pradnik Sanatorium

Chapel.  That day was long

before they called her Saint. As Sister Mary Faustina

of the Blessed Sacrament coughed, the bread

speckled red with traces of consumption.

The day of her arrival was when the dogs

began to congregate.  In the chapel, kitchen

hands laid the bread of Christ, this time made

with gouda and stout, on a make-shift alter made of saw

horses and a broken mahogany door covered

with woven gold threads.  First, there was

an Owczarek Podhalanski, it was a very dirty

animal, but it could translate prayers.  Shortly, more

came, sometimes, by the dozens, and all different

breeds.  The Hounds of Hell came much later,

after there were already hundreds

there to hear a dying nun’s visions.

It was the arrival of beasts that told the men,

who owned the word, that she had been

touched.  Those men did not know that truth

never has the same meaning, especially when told

with lies.  But the day of speckled

bread, the dogs knelt before a Nun

carried to alter by Christ himself, as all the men

watched in horror.

 

i

 

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