Donkeyland--Sketches! of a Shoeshine boy [Cayuga Street Gang-50s & 60s]

Donkeyland—Sketches!
Of a Shoeshine Boy

[& The Cayuga Street Gang—50s & 60s]


Advance [description of Donkeyland, the family in 1958]. We moved there in 1958, when I first saw it, the house my grandfather purchased for $7000. Dollars, it looked big from the outside, and was bigger even more so in the inside; an old Victorian home built around the turn of the century, old man Beck had died, and we were moving in. When I say we, I mean, my brother Mike, me Dennis, my mother Elsie, and my grandfather Tony, or Anton. Grandpa was an old Russian, from the Baltic area, born in 1891, came over to America in 1916, fought in WWI, and married, had eight children, my mother being the second to the oldest, Ann.
There are about thirty characters I will be talking about in these sketches, all are real, their last names somewhat changed, altered for legal purposes, but like it or not, it was as it was back then, as I say it.

Cayuga street absorbed two streets, and then it ran into Mississippi Street, it ran East and west. Mississippi Street, ran North and South, on the other end of Cayuga, was Jackson Street, and across the street was the long, very long Cemetery, Oakland Cemetery.
Beside us was a large empty lot, perhaps the space of five homes at one time, and a hill, we all called Indians Hill. On the other side of the empty lot was where my mothers boyfriend lived, they both worked at Swift’s Meat Packing Plant, in South St. Paul, his name was Earnest Brandt.
Behind our house was old Rice School, and down the block from Rice School, was the old Jew’s grocery store, small, but most were small back then; a legacy now gone.
To the side of our houses, on the embankment, for the empty lot was what you might call the valley, or plateau, were old Man Stanley’s house, and his wife [both retired; the old man [born around 1893] would die in 1960, and the woman [born around the turn of the century], would at 93-years old, in the 1990s].
In the years to follow, in the mid 60s, they started building a bridge over Mississippi, in the process, under the bridge, where the railroad was, its trains, yard and tracks, was now a large mud hole, our swimming hole.
Across the street on Cayuga from our house was where Roger and his family lived, in back of him was a foundry called Structural Steel, the whole neighborhood would work three at one time or anther, as each person turned 18-years old. Behind and to the south of Rogers house was the train yard, where they’d come in, and hook up with other trains and then deliver their load.
Alongside Mr. Stanley’s house was Lormer’s house, and up the block, on the second part of Cayuga Street, was where the Lund’s lived. In back of our house, on the block there was where Steve [Reno] lived. And down a few blocks, towards Mississippi, on a hill was were Sid lived. Jack Tashney, and his brother lived all the way down Jackson Street, at the end of the Cemetery.



Index of Sketches:

Advance: details of the Environment of Donkeyland

1—Shoeshine Boy [1959]
2—First Kiss [1960]
3—Milwaukee Bound [1967]
4—A Night with Tequila [1959]
5—A Drunken Voice from Beyond [1960’83]
6—To an Old Dead Friend Reno [1960s]
7—John L. vs. Chick [Fight by Indian’s 1963]
8—First Knockout: Chick and Snipes [1960]
9—Street Fight: Larry and the Big Guy [1964]
10—Vacant House [Notre Dame de Paris] 1959
11—First Poem: Longfellow’s Window [1959]


The Sketches


A Map of Donkeyland [the Neighborhood; 1950s & 60s]

1




Shoeshine Boy
[1959]


Christopher Wright was walking home one evening; he was 12 ½ years old, a strong looking lad, reddish hair, determined if anything to make a few bucks. He had already made $4.35-cents; he charged .15 to .25 cents per shoeshine, depending on the bars he’d go into, and the composition. Yes, even at thirteen, or almost being thirteen, he was using psychology to make a living, or better put, to at least figure out if he could outsell his opponents, for there were other shoeshine boys on the beat. If he saw one, the shoeshine was automatically .15 cents, for he knew there were between .25 to .35 cents. Plus, when he charged .15 cents, he always got a tip, making it .25 cents anyway. The end result, it was a busy evening, and he had to get home by 11:00 O’clock, or his mother would surely be fuming thereafter [wondering and worrying], and so he made his last bar, leaned against the building next to the arc light, and started counting his pocket full of change.
—Not looking about, just counting, counting and recounting, with a smile on his face, it all came to $4.35 each time, thus, he was satisfied with the tally. Dust had crept in, as his blue-green eyes looked at the coins in his hand, and sensitive ears heard a voice, a demand,
“Hay boy,” it said, “hand it over…” the stern voice unrelenting.
When he looked up, holding two hands full of change, it was a tall thin white boy, about sixteen or seventeen years old, possible too tall for his weight; --Chris being about 5’5” at the time, and this kid close to six-feet he simply looked up, and straight into his eyes, not saying a word.
“I said boy, hand it over, or I’ll beat your head against the brick wall.”
Chris hesitated, somewhat in disbelief, then as he adjusted to the surroundings, taking in a deep breath, as if he had but a second to deliberate and spit it, a yes or no, he said,
“No-pp!” and the boy stepped two feet in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him against the brick wall. Now things were seemingly becoming a little gloomier.
“I said boy…hand it over or…!” another voice came from behind this tall white robber, it was a heavy voice this time—a strident voice, it had kind of an accent to it, and when Chris looked around the thin kid’s lower part of his right shoulder, he saw even a taller person than the white lad, a big tall black man: the scene became a bit dubious (was he going to rob the tall white boy after he rob me, Chris was thinking? Inasmuch as that was one thought, it was not his only; but often times when such things happen like this, one swears—hours pass by, when in essence it is but a few seconds if not minutes, yes, time for Chris was lost somewhere in-between. Before Chris could run and escape, or come up with something magic, something peculiar happened.
“Leave the boy alone… [pause],” said the rustic voice of the black man—as the pandemonium thickened the ghostly scene of the evening; Chris looked, at the taller black man’s eyes, eldritch-black, they had opened up wide, like umbrellas, big and broad and strong, real burly looking. The white boy didn’t pay too much attention to the voice behind him at first: only giving a morbid twitch with his mouth and eye [or at least that is what Chris observed], and then the voice said in a more gaudy way, a second time—more macabre than ever:
“You just can’t hear, can you, I said NOW!” and as the huge black man was about to grab the white lad, the white chap turned about, his eyes opened up as wide as White Castle Hamburgers, for they were right across the street from one of those cafés. With one hand the black man pushed the tall white lad away from Chris like a twig: making everything a ting more haunter,
“You want to make something of this,” he asked the white boy, adding, “If so, let’s get to it, if not, and get going before I flatten you on the cement.”
And the white lad was gone, just like that. The black man then turned to Chris [whom at this time was more concerned about getting home than a punch in the face],
“You best be getting on home, you’re lucky tonight,” he added with a grin and smile as if to say, ‘…can’t believe a black man stood up for you, --haw?’ Had he been reading Chris’ mind, for that did occur to him for a millisecond.
—Chris, up to this moment in time, never really knew a black person. But this deed or call it act of kindness or even endeavor on behalf of him was imprinting for the most part, his first encounter with a black person would stick thick with him the rest of his life. If anything, as he would progress in life, he would see the character of a person vs. the color before he made his future judgments, and not even know why; that is to say, he didn’t know why, until he was much older in life, when most people examine the ‘whys,’ and ‘ifs,’ of life. If anything, racism would be a foolish noun to him, not fully comprehensible, not fully accommodating, yet in life despairing moments would prop this noun up, here-and-there; it would not have the impact it had on others for him, it would not dominate his life, nor alter his sleep like others. One might oversimplify it, as he did, by scarcely looking at it, yet observing it he did, but such perfect simplicity would mean being somewhat naive, and if anything that may have been his worse sin in a world he was about to enter, for it was the being of the 60’s.



2


First Kiss
[1960]


If thirteen is not the year you grow up 40%, from being a simple kid to being a un- mystified, perplexed, bemused kid, I don’t know what year to pick out then. But it was for Chris, in many ways. His first everything it seemed; kiss, drink, cigarette, and sex, and I hate to think any deeper into this area in fear I may come up with a load of other adjectives, this was the year of what might be labeled: year of the mongoose: like a snake eater, he ate everything life had to offer.
Said Rodger with a little reluctance in the tone of his voice, yet wanting to impress the guys, and Chris, whom had never kissed a girl, thus, he was willing to share a kiss from his girlfriend, who now after ten-minutes of trying to get Chris into the mood to kiss her, was willing, as was now more than ever his girlfriend, so Rodger said:
“What do you think Chris, she’s ready to give you a big kiss, you ready?” said Rodger,
“No, I don’t know, I’ve never kissed a girl before,” Chris answered with hesitation, but more than willing to give it try now that he had time to let it settle in his mind, in the back of his mind, or so he was trying to convince himself.
“Does she agree without you making her?”
“Yes! She said ok, but the offer is not going to last forever. If you’re afraid just pass it up, it’s your loss: Sherry is waiting with warm lips, make up your mind.”
“No, I’m not afraid:” Chris took a deep breath, looked at Sherry, the other guys, her beautiful blond, silk-like hair, long shapely legs, dark blue eyes: her thin waist was more than eye-catching, rather very attractive to gaze at and now he was as if he was granted a poppers-rights. He was thirteen-years old, she was seventeen, and Rodger was nineteen. He always got the good looking babe’s, thought Chris, as several of the neighborhood kids were standing about waiting for the event to take place, which started as a practical joke when they found out Chris had never kissed a girl.
The gang was watching impatiently, making gestures to one another as if to say: let’s get this on the road, or forget it, it’s getting old news: their attention span was not concussive for another era they were born in the right place at the right time, as free as birds, and as strange as lions.
Chris decided at that moment as the gestures were being thrown back and forth, he’d make his move, to make the most of it, glancing at Rodger,
“Ok, I’m ready!” he confidently said with a heroic smile.
--Rodger was one of the main members of the unofficial neighborhood gang [what the police called: Donkeyland], or if you will, group-members, otherwise known as the ‘The Cayuga Street-Donkeyland Gang,’ so nick-named by a police officer that patrolled the area, and for the most part was partial to the kids. He had said once, and Chris overheard it,
“You guys down here, live in Donkeyland, and are a bunch of hard-headed kids.” I guess when he went to the St. Paul; Police Station where he worked it was well known as such; again, referring to the location of Cayuga Street by Oakland Cemetery, as Donkeyland. As a result, Chris did pick up on it and it never left his character [as it is now written here].
As Sherry approached Chris, standing at one time several feet to his side by Rodger, now stood next to him, making him a bit nervous, she was within two feet of his face, that is to say—both looking, staring—almost gazing with a glimmer, right into each others eyes (it was a magical moment for Chris). His heart was beating, pulse rapid, and his bowls he could feel in his stomach, in the form of cramps, he actually wanted to grab her for a moment, but did not. She smiled that soft, reserved smile he had often seen her give Rodger, then put her hand on his shoulders: “You ready, Chris?” she asked with a sincere, cheerful voice.
“Yup,” he commented, now breathing hard, and for a moment, not breathing at all. And then she touched his lips gently with hers, softly positioning them both (that was when he stopped breathing), as if to fill all the space available she had room for on his lip with hers; not wanting to slid off and catch the side of his mouth, but wanting a perfect kiss, and a little harder she pushed; she had already moved into, and onto his lips completely, within a foot of him now she moved the other foot closer as the kiss extended into a long minute, and her body was touching his, and the kiss became long and wet. Then slowly, and carefully, she withdrew from the process, from him. Rodger was a bit startled, and couldn’t help from staring like a hawk ready to devour someone or something, should someone say the wrong thing: he was by all regards somewhat surprised she seemingly enjoyed it; everyone looking at Chris for a response. But if anything, everyone was moved by Sherry’s performance, as was Sherry herself.
“Well,” Rodger said, “Did you like it?” Sherry still looking with a smile at Chris,
“I want another, another one, a second kiss…I mean, if it’s ok with you and her…?” said Chris with his eyebrows almost touching the top of his forehead, opening up his eyes wider as if to absorb every little piece of warmth the kiss gave. Everyone started laughing, that is, everyone but Sherry, she remained reserve and together, and simply displayed a smile: --that is to say, everyone but Rodger, who said immediately

[Frank and to the point]: “I shared enough; you’ve got to get your own girlfriend.” For Chris the kiss would last a long, long time. Sherry seemed willing to go for seconds but for the sake of preventing a war, she remained silent, as the several members stood in Lormer’s yard, two houses away from Chris’ taking in the moment, said very little, the magical moment, and entertainment had passed; -- Lormer’s house was where many of the kids went to play pool in his basement. Or as in this case, hang around the backyard and until his parents told everyone to scoot. His father was a top chef, and he was related to Frankie Yank Vic. Chris and he were best of friends, Lormer being a year older, a few inches taller, had a hook for a nose which the guys made fun of, sometimes calling him, “Eagle Beak,” but then everyone had a nick name back then it seemed.
He had a professional pool table in his basement, and his mother and daughter played the piano often, and when possible preached the Jehovah Witness’s Gospel to whoever would listen. Lormer had several brothers, all older; one who had just got out of prison one that hung occasionally around with the gang, and one that was older and was hardly ever seen. The daughter was but seven years old during this time, and was as spoiled as spoiled a child could be, and everyone made fun of it; she was as spoiled as, as a cat with five dead mice, wanting more.
The yard was huge; they not only had a front yard, but three sections to the back. At times, it was hard for either of Lormer’s parents to see what was happening in their backyard. Chris’ yard was also long in the back, with his house being on a hill, and the garage being below it, a little land in front of it, and an empty lot next to it, it became a turn-around for the gang’s cars on Cayuga Street, especially when they went dragging.
The summer was warm, and by the looks of things many other things were in store for Chris, not just this first kiss, but it was the catalyst to a long run play in life. He would measure all kisses according to this one possibly. Sherry’s father was the Cemetery Custodian, and lived with her family in the Cemetery, she would never be forgotten; her charm, beauty, and her kind approach
I guess we observe more than what we think we do, growing up, and this would be one moment that would migrate into Chris’ fibers. Another one being: a black family had moved into the neighborhood, and Chris’ grandfather, Tony, had befriended the male person, or only black man of a family in that neighborhood. As the gang within the neighborhood structure asked about him, and why his grandfather had taken a liking to him, Chris simply explained (now being older than that shoeshine boy),
“He walks and talks with my grandpa, what’s the problem, I suppose they must get off the same bus, or meet at the bus stop or something on the way back from work,” trying not to make much of it.
Chris got thinking, no one really knew where he lived, that was how important it was yesterday, but today, for some reason, they were wondering, the why of it had not come to surface yet; and this black-man had moved into the area about six months ago to Chris’ best guess. Oh sure there was talk about him, but no one ever seen him after dark, or when the whole gang was around. And the few that did see him, may have insulted him with a few bad remarks, but they were not laud ones, and he may not have even heard them. But surely he got some stares now and then. Therefore, at this point and time, he was more of a ghost than a picture on a wall you might say, no daily contemplations on this matter, that could have possible turn into an issue.
Chris had noticed his grandfather had walked with the black-man on several occasions. But for some reason, the gang of about twenty-two white-members, never fooled around with family or the friends of family members, kind of an unwritten code, and Chris knew this, and simply added to his statement,
“My grandpa doesn’t speak to many people, everyone knows that, I’m surprised he spoke to the black-man, he must be out of the ordinary.” That was the last anyone ever said anything on the matter. It was his grandfather’s friend, and the gang respected that. Had he said anything other than that, who knows what? At the time Chris didn’t know it, but this second impression of sticking up for a black-man was stamped on his soul also, as was the first, as a shoeshine boy.




3


Milwaukee Bound
- 1967 [Fall]


Chris didn’t know it, but the following decade would be one of intolerance: and some growing pains. They lived in the same old neighborhood both Jerry Hines and Chris Wright, only two blocks west and down a block on Jackson Street from one another—this was Jerry’s and Betty’s house, just a hop-skip-and-jump one might say to each other’s abode. Across the street from Jerry’s house was Oakland Cemetery. Chris was twenty-years old and Jerry about twenty-nine—back then. Jerry being several years older than Chris Wright was available and usable in the sense of travel—something that was stronger than most anything else in his life for some peculiar reason, something that would stay with him all his life most variably; and so in the summer of l967, Jerry got into a dividing-harsh fight with his girlfriend Betty. Having told Chris about this, they both decided to go to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And this is where the story begins.
—Chris had a l960-Plymouth-Valiant [white], it didn’t run all that good but they, He and Jerry figured it would make it to Milwaukee, and so in the middle of the summer of ‘67, hot as a volcano, they loaded his car, when Betty was gone [Betty being his live-in girlfriend at the time], each grabbed what money they had, Chris having about $125.00 and Jerry about $250, and off they went.
As the miles went by on their way to Milwaukee, one right after the other, they kept drinking cans of beer, smoking cigarettes—chain smoking for the most part, as the Valiant strolled along the black asphalt interstate [s], making stops along the roadside to go to the bathroom, buying more beer at the nearest gas station, or roadside stop, drinking more beer, making more stops to take a leak: kind of a circular motion to these ongoing events. Matter of fact, they were making so many stops, they both got tired of stopping and started pissing into cans, and whomever was not driving would throw the cans out of window into the fields along the thruway; sometimes just barley missing cars if a good upper wind got hold of it. It was party time all the way, and for the most part, all the time for them two.
Now with loose conversations, the heat coming through the windshield, the breeze hitting their hands as they flopped out the window going down the highway, a bird wasn’t any freer. They lit cigarette after cigarette, talked, laughed, drank and sang. They didn’t do a lot of planning, but enough, --barely enough, but enough, their plan was: they’d sleep in the car until they found an apartment, then get a job, and stay in Milwaukee for a few months, then they could figure on what to do next—not a big plan or even an elaborate one by any means, but then the world and life was simply for them, and again I say, at least they had a shred of a plan, like a slice from a piece of pie. Their quest, their goal, if you could call it that, was to chum around, that’s what they’d do, and just chum around is what they were doing. Life’s responsibilities or demands were irrelevant, if not cumbersome, and if ever one was caught in a vortex of remoteness, Jerry was, he had enough for the moment of everything in life, yes, and in a way he was running away, as Chris was not. Chris was simply running to escape a city he saw too much of, he got the travel bug early in life; he was running to run. No one really knowing where they’d end up, at the end of it all to be exact, and no one putting anymore thought into it past the planning I had already explained: Chris again, was simply available, usable, along with willing, and had an ardent desire to see how far he could go, travel, and the farther the better.
Milwaukee

[The beginning of fall] It was a chilled night, as black as dark-ink, the moon was one-quarter lit, and if there was such things as ghosts, they seem to have been running back and forth across the moon’s light with a grayish robe of a mist. It was a little past midnight when they caught a glimpse of the highway sign that read:
Milwaukee to the Right, ‘…turn-off 2-miles,”’ and so Jerry, whom was driving did just that, took the turned-off where the arrow was pointing, whereby, we were on a one-way that lead us directly to the downtown area of Milwaukee. Chris’ face flashed with undeniable excitement, it was as if he was being reborn, his blood was regenerated, there was no logic or reason to it, it was a high: a desire filled, a craving to the top, like an empty cigarette package replenish, akin to getting drunk, a destination-high, a quest, all that and more: save for the fact that the boredom from driving helped turn the moment into a rage of excitement.
“Oh boy, I get to see the city,” he said with anxiety of not being there at that very moment. Jerry gave Chris a more mature chuckle to the fact they had made it. Specifically, about to make it into the city limits their destination.
“Just hang on, we’ll be there in a moment,” said Jerry, turning the wheel a bit to the left, as he was turning onto the entrance to the city: then straightening them out to go directly ahead you could not see lights appearing in the distance, an illumination of dotted-lights. They both smiled, they had almost or nearly gotten to their destination—it was getting closer by the second. Just down and around a bridge or two now.
The one thing they did not take into consideration was the times: it was the 60’s, and neither Chris nor Jerry, could bridge, or even conceive the white and black dilemma that was sweeping the country; for the most part, they were isolated from it. Oh yes it was on TV all the time, but until you are in the mouth of the whale, one never can conceive the depth of the situation, or should I say, the depth of the stomach of the whale. There had been some café, store, and tenant-building damage in the black areas of the City of St. Paul, but not much, not in comparison to the rest of the country. Back in those days, every city had its riots, its racial issues. It was like a plague; but St. Paul, being the conservative city of the Midwest, the City of Culture as it has been called, was almost naive to it. They also lived in a neighborhood that didn’t read books or newspapers all that much or watch the news, it wasn’t a big deal for or to them, only one black family lived in the neighborhood someplace—no one even knew when he had moved in but a few years back might be adequate: the black man had befriended Chris’ grandfather, and therefore was left alone. But no one ever saw a black man in the neighborhood before this, much less deal with riots.
No one came to the Cayuga Street area—or walked through the area without good reason, unless they lived there for there was a gang of some twenty-two guys and gals that hung out on the church steps. It wasn’t called Donkeyland for nothing; for at one time it was the highest crime related area in St. Paul, and they boasted of that, and the police even tried to avoid them [them being, the whole area—the gang of sorts]; matter of fact, they nick-named it Donkeyland because there were so many hard-heads there: and yes, it suited them. They beat the police up if they chased them up Indians Hill, which was in the middle of Cayuga Street, right next to Chris’ house. But as I was about to say, as they rode down the turnoff, and on-into the city center, a white, a huge white car was following them. Chris first noticed it—a ting after they entered the outer rim of the center.
“Something wrong Chris?” said sleepy-eyed Jerry, driving.
Chris turned about for the third time to examine the white car, again seeing the car following them…then all of a sudden said Chris with a crisis voice, a voice trembling, a decadence to his face:
“Oh shit, look, look at what they just pushed out the damn car window, the white car—they’re…” almost along side of them now,
“…looks—J-j-Jerry, a damn shot gun…”
Jerry looked quickly, “What is going on?”
Then out of another window of the car, came a voice from a loud speaker coming right from the white car, you couldn’t make out what exactly was being said though—so they continued on, Jerry driving closer to the center of the downtown area now, looking at a gathering of people on two differed corners—in a four or five square block area; if anything, it looked like a protest, if not some combat zone; --the voice over the speaker now, indubitably said—[even louder than before]:
“Move out of the city’s area, immediately, or we’ll shoot!”
Chris looked at Jerry, “Where’s the way out Chris,” asked Jerry [the word shoot sticking in both their minds like a spider to a fly caught in a web,
“To the right, to the right, over there man…” Chris pointing toward a half lit up bridge: without hesitation, and responsive to his tone of voice, Jerry immediately turned the car southwest, and out they went as fast as that six-cylinder car would go.
In short, both Jerry and Chris’ temperamentally was shock, disbelief, and spellbound, but somehow they must had caught a sign that said, Madison, Wisconsin, for that is where they headed; and sometime down the highway they had stopped to check the map, and talk about Madison to see if both agreed of the new destination, prior to this stop it would seem they were both ill-balanced.
When they both arrived in Madison, not being able to find a job, they both would end up in Omaha, Nebraska, whereupon, just across the boarder was Counsel Bluffs, where Chris would find a job working for Howard Johnson’s as a dishwasher, and three weeks later Jerry’s girlfriend would show up, and that would be the end of the adventure. She’d stay until the end of the month, and they’d all return back together to Minnesota. It was for Chris the first of many adventures—antiquarian pursuits, and the first real racial confrontation.




4





A Night with Tequila
[Post, San Francisco: -- l969]



I was in-between going into the Army, which would bring me to Augsburg, Germany, and then on to Vietnam, and leaving San Francisco, where I had lived for a year, and practiced karate with the famous Gosei Yamaguchi, and worked for the famous cloth designing company, Lilli Ann. Thus, leaving San Francisco, I had went down to Southern California to meet with my brother, he and I then ventured down to Mexico for a day where I bought a bottle of tequila, with the worm in it. This would prove to be an adventure in itself, with an unforgettable night, linger in the future; notwithstanding, I will leave out the trouble that took place in Mexico, and be thankful we got out in one piece, and with my bottle of Tequila: and leave it at that, but let me add, the beer was heavy, and we almost got in a fight with several Mexican Soma -type looking wrestlers. In any event, we did make it out alive, as you are reading this, and therefore I must have.
And then on to [bask to that is] St. Paul, Minnesota our home city and state --my brother, myself, his wife and two-kids went by car, and yes I carried my bottle of Tequila, all the way. I had never drunk the stuff before, and figured I’d save it for a special occasion, hoping it would come soon. Plus, it would be a new experience for me when I did drink it, that is to say, showing everyone that damn famous worm, everyone talks about. When you moved the bottle of Tequila about–you could actually see the worm floating every which way.
We spent a day in Salt Lake City, Utah, as we had found a cheap, small motel close to the inner city; my brother’s wife got chased back to the motel for being out past 10:00 PM without her husband, as she was trying to buy some groceries.

I think we had a good laugh on that, that evening.

I didn’t see much of the city, although I did look for a few bars, I guess everything was either underground, or they had some secret black market where they hid the booze, but there was no chance for a nice cold beer, I figured that out quick. In any case, the night came quick, and we all slept well; the morning came quick also.
We took turns—that is, my brother and I took turns driving his car over the long dusty roads, but the weather was pleasing, a bit warm yet it made driving comfortable.
When we arrived in St. Paul, it was but a few weeks before my brother decided to head on up to North Dakota, Grand Forks, to help put in a cement platform, for a garage in, helping out his father-in-law. I told him I’d go along and help if he didn’t mind, and it all seemed quite productive, for the most part. And when the day arrived to leave’ --yes again, I carried my bottle of Tequila all the way to the Dakota’s with me: almost as if it was a gift from the god’s.

٭

As we arrived in Grand Forks, we all stayed at my brother’s father-in-law’s house, the very house we were to do the construction work at, in the back yard. The hot weather was starting to leave the Midwest, and the cooler air was coming down from Canada, as September crept in slowly. It was a good time to work the construction part, that is, without sweating to death. The Midwest was extremes, hot in the summer and cold in the winter. In fall, it was perfect, especially for construction.
As I got to meet the rest of my sister-in-law’s family, I think I must have been saving this bottle of Tequila for this occasion, for I had a sense it was not going to make it back home. I had hid the bottle in my brother’s car, and drank beer the first night I was there with the rest of the relatives. His wife had several bothers and we all sat around getting drunk, --talking about how we were going to go about building the wooden frame of the foundation, to pour the cement for the garage: that is, the ground work was already done, leveled and the wooden frame needed to be made, this could be done quickly in the morning with long two-by-four boards, thereafter, we’d do the cement work, and then we’d stay an extra day and have a get together, kind of celebration. It all sounded grand.
During this time I had met Paula, a friend of the family. I was twenty years old, and she was seventeen, we both seemed somewhat attracted to one another—time would tell.

٭

As we worked all day the following day on the cement, digging a foundation, putting up sides-boards to pour the cement, and measuring, along with putting in other sources of support like, stones etc., we finally did pour the cement, and it turned out better than what I had hoped for. We really did not need professionals, only a good thought out plan, effort, and a gathering of the willing.
Now it was party time. Paula told me to skip the get together with the family at my brother’s wife’s house, for the time being, and head on to her friend’s house, and join their party this evening, and we’d come back to join the family workers later, for they also would be having a party. It all sounded reasonable to me.
As we got to the party [7:00 PM] Paula introduced me to several of her young friends, and I pulled out from underneath my jacket the bottle of Tequila I had purchased in Mexico, the one with the worm in it.

Paula said, “What is that thing in the bottle?” As she was reading the label that said ‘Tequila,’ on it, she added, “I heard of this stuff, it’s pretty strong, isn’t it?”
[A rhetorical question at best] “It’s a genuine worm alright,” I clarified, adding, “…that is what indicates it’s the original Mexican thing.” I really didn’t know what I was talking about—for the most part—but whatever the ‘thing [worm], meant,’ nonetheless, made for good conversation.
As we sat on the sofa in the living room of her friend’s house I checked Paula out, I liked her, she looked a little French-Canadian, that is to say, she had a natural tan to her skin, almost olive. She had short black hair, a shapely body, to include a pear like base [or underneath --about 5’ 3” inches tall, stunning looks, a real beauty.
We both had a few of the beers the folks at the party offered, and then I opened up the Tequila.
She asked me [pleadingly-with a touch of humor] “Should I try to drink the worm when it surfaces out of the bottle or see if it comes out of the bottle while I pour it into my glass, and then drink it?”
“Forget the glass, take a swig right out of the spout, and if you get the worm, swallow it. That’s the best way to do it. Let’s see who gets to it first.” We both smiled at one another, and down the ‘hatch’ we drank our first, longgggg-shot. I drank about three shots at once, --along with taking some salt at the same time putting it on my hand and licking it; someone had told me to do it, it was actually a little more agreeable with the salt, the Tequila that is. And then Paula did the same. No one got the worm; we again looked at one another and laughed.
“Ham m,” we both hummed at each other.
“Let’s try again,” I said contentedly...
As the night went on, a few of the folks from my brother’s wife’s family, along with my brother came over to the party to check on Paula and me. They saw we were drinking away like two silly kids. I was now 21-years old, I could legally drink, but Paula wasn’t, --I think they were more worried about Paula, being 17, and I suppose I may have looked a little dangerous to my sister-in-law, being with her younger sister.
They sat by us and had a few drinks of the Tequila, and then feeling all was well and under control left us to ourselves. They were only up the block about four houses in any case, meaning, if they needed to run to her rescue, they could. I think they were afraid I’d steal her away and run to Minnesota with her, --or her with me. We were just having a good ol’-time, no more, no less.
At 11:00 PM, Paula asked if we should call it a night, we were both getting pretty drunk.
“No, no,” I said, “Let’s finish the whole bottle and whoever ends up with the worm is the winner.” [Although the winner only got the worm.]

“Ok, Ok,” she atheistically said, at first glance.
1:00 PM
[Halfheartedly I told Paula.] “It looks like my turn to drink.” Yet, I could hardly find the bottle, let alone see the worm. At great length I put my hand out to grab the bottle:
“Ok, here it is,” I took a big drink, “…the worm is still in there Chick,”
Paula commented. I looked I couldn’t see it, “I must of drank it,” I replied, no answer.
Morning
Paula [who has risen] “Who got the worm?” she asked, no answer. She moved about, trying to stretch, laying on the floor next me, where she had passed out, and I on the sofa had passed out right along with her [a pause].
“I think I got it,” I grabbed the bottle on the floor with the Tequila label on it, it was empty, and the worm was gone.
“I think I ate it, or swallowed it, and then I must have passed out,” I explained to her [a little stiffly].
“No,” she replied, “I think you tried to get the worm out, and couldn’t, and there was a little substance left, and I had the next try, and got it out.” We looked at each other [wearily] struggling to up on a smile and started laughing. Whoever got the worm we would never know for sure? But one of us did.
“I think Paula,” I commented, “…we both ate the worm, I got half and you got half. If I recall right, I got the worm out safe and sound, and poured the rest of the Tequila in a glass, and cut the worm in half, and we both had the last drink together each getting half the worm.”
“Really,” she said, [after listening for a moment].
“Absolutely,” I wasn’t sure of anything, but I dreamt it or for some reason it came out naturally. Who knows after you drink a fifth of Tequila what happened to the worm, maybe it walked away. Whatever the case, Paula was a little more agreeable with that ending to the worm.



Written, 2003 [revised 2005]


5


A Drunken Voice from Beyond


There was those days, I farted my brains out after a good drunk
I thought I’d never live to see twenty-five, at twenty and a half—;
The clock never stopped for me to rest. I just coughed up slim
Each morning from my chest, smoking those damn cigarettes—.
Ah yes, indeed: bad breath: farting, and coughing, was my image.

Sleeping with the holes and whores, or whatever came around:
I shall not accuse anyone of dirty socks: back then, at that time,
For I was the worse of the lot, by far: not innocent, no trophies.
My skin pale, a limp dick at times: red, pink blotches, swollen,
I looked at times, as if was dead: amazing to be writing this.

“Who was I?” I’ll never know for sure, I’m not that same guy:
Tight I was, wireless, no roots, a drifter, and half a brain low—:
Spidery unsafe fucking whites, Negroes, Mexicans: everything!
I had few smiles to give, no real goals, and a worried mother:
The drunken road had no end: drinking, sneezing like smelly fish,
Yet tenderly my mother took me in, nourish me, and I lived…
To tell about this endless trip, my lizard-like hell: pitiful squid!


#1367 6/4/2006

Note: anyone who has sobered up after 22-years of drinking I take my hat off to them; I started drinking at 13-years old, and stopped at 35-years old; it is a hard balancing act, in a world that is off balance from the start. Therefore if you are recovering, good, if you want to try, good, if you want to die, and you feel alcohol is better than life, so be it; have it your own way, but perhaps you can leave the rest of us alone in the process, so we can enjoy life.



6

To an Old Dead Friend Reno[From Donkeyland-USA]


In the heydays of the early-sixties car-loads of us neighborhood-bums ignorant and arrogant dreamers came crashing through the streets, funny we all remained alive, free-spirited Christian infidels, with stray spirits, many never find the way out, too good to be true.

Often I used to loiter past the old church steps to the Mount Airy Bar, time after time like you, waiting for something…. There in that neighborhood we got hooked, like two bears to honey, someone, somewhere praying for our souls, “Where is God, take me from this booze.”

Now I stand outside the consecrated ground remembering your high school smile, You lost, but like one who’d won… I gave it all up, long pursuit of God’s demon, man-slayers with drugs and booze, those transitory imps, fell off you lice back into the neighborhood, like friendly mice, when you died, in your early fifties, still covered, confused, and drugged, true to your boyish wariness in high school.

Old friend, I see your wife burdened, living a single life, on whatever she can, under your hand, she was nothing worn, waiting for you to come home, broken-hearted lioness, hands of stone waiting—then you hung yourself in prison.

#1374 6/25/06


7


John L. Vs. Chick, Fight by Indian's Hill
[Part III Donkeyland; Cayuga Street Gang; 1963]


I didn’t know John L. all that much, not until 1964 anyway, I was all of sixteen years old, when we got into a fight. It kind of was provoked, night of us wanted to fight; John was a bit drunk, and we were in what the neighborhood called, ‘the turn around,’ which was next to my grandfather’s house where we lived, an empty lot, kind of, space between the park, and our garage, and the kid’s cars would turn around here to go back up the street.
That is where John L. was this one summer evening in 1963, and where I was, it was perhaps 9:30 PM, a dark 9:30 PM, and Larry (a relative of John’s) was egging him and me on to fight; there also was Ace (also known as the Big Bopper: Jerry S. was his real name, I had dated his sister once, she went to the same High School I did ((Washington High), and was a twin); anyhow, here we were, about seven of us, and Larry was egging John on to fight me, telling him he couldn’t lose (and when I heard that whisper: Larry to John, I made a decision there and then); I liked Larry, but he was much older than I, and we didn’t hang out together then, we were only distant friends.
“Come on let’s fight,” said John to me, looking at Larry for confidence and assurance. And I looked about, and heard everyone push for the fight to start, so I ran into the weeds, and out into the baseball field, Indian’s Hill behind me, and John ran after me, and then I stopped, and John froze somewhat: he didn’t expect me to stop and face him right on, know what to do was on his mind: so he went to throw a punch, and he missed, and I grabbed him and threw him on the ground, and started to punch away, punch his lights out, and he said: “Stop, stop, please, I give up!” And I let him up, and he said, “You got to go back there and tell them all I won, if not, Larry and the guys will beat the shit out of you.”
And so I agreed with that, knowing now they were related and that to keep peace: so we walked back, and they all stood looking at John and I, we didn’t act like two fellows just finishing a fight, a voice said: ’…who won?’ and I said, “John got me on the ground and I gave up, and so I guess he won.” My pride was hurt, but I survived the neighborhood, and in the long run, that is what mattered. But John and I turned out to be best of friends in time, and there are a few more stories to that. We even traveled to California together in 1967.


8


First Knockout: Chick and Snipes
[Donkeyland; Cayuga Street Gang; 1960]


I really couldn’t say, myself, but what I remember was we all stopped playing the baseball game and walked over to the new kid standing somewhat in the way of the players; he had moved in by Brandt’s house, called Snipes. He had a gray tea shirt on (muscle man shirt on), looked pressed even, clean. We were all dirty, and he looked too clean for us.
“Anytime anyone of you guys want to fight me, I’m ready,” he said, I noticed a smirk on his face, and he looked ready, but he looked as if he was going to walk away, so everyone walked over to him and started saying: ‘…me, me, let me, meee…have him…!”
Jack, my close friend wanted to fight him bad, and he was always hyper, and he was real comfortable with the idea at first. The train of guys (or so it seemed), all were standing in that empty lot around him now, Indian’s Hill in the background of us: everyone was gambling for the right to beat his ass now.
Jack said, “Let me kick his fucken ass (Jack swore a lot),” and the kid put up his fists and was ready to go, they only stopped because one of the other guys wanted him. Doug, and Roger, Larry (the tough guy of the neighborhood) and a few others and me all wanted him, but Larry was to big for the guy, and much older, and would have killed him, so he knew he couldn’t afford to tangle with him.
Now there was a circle around him, and he stood quietly, stone still, as everyone wagered for the right to fight him, punch him out, every body wanted the right to punch him out, and I looked, just stared at him. I had been weight lifting, had several fights before, but was no tough guy, not like Larry anyhow, but was getting a reputation—somewhat.
“Can’t I have him,” I said, and everyone looked at me, I mean everyone, and they looked at one another, and Snipes looked at me, and he shook his head ok, as if it was ok for me to fight him, and when he did, I grabbed him and threw him on the ground, and I never stopped punching his face-in until someone grabbed me off of him (I think Jack): lest I make him hamburger. I suppose I was waiting to show the boys what I was made out of; this was a chance, perchance I was thinking that, I don’t know; they’ll tell me later how I was, I told myself. But I had lost control somehow, a light went off in my head, I didn’t like that, it was dull youth telling me to fight I suppose, but I had won the fight, light on or off it didn’t matter, to win was the main thing. But was it unfair? I mean I jumped the gun; didn’t give him a chance. But I didn’t look at the Golden Glove Rules, none of us did, I just punched, grabbed, and I didn’t squander any time in the process.
It was a few weeks later Snipes came to my house, asked me if I wanted to fight him again, since I did not give him a chance. I said I’d care to fight him, but I really didn’t care not to either, I wasn’t mad (and I knew I had to be mad, or take a few punches to get me made first, then I could fight). He said in his own way: I’m not afraid of you; not sure if I can beat you, your pretty strong, but I’m fast with my fists, and didn’t get a chance to use them, but if you’d rather leave it alone, I can but I need an apology for taking advantage of the moment. I said, sure, I’m sorry, but that’s the way I fight I suppose. Evidently he needed prep time; I needed to get mad time. I got to liking Snipes, but he suggested we stay a distance away from each other, lest someone get mad, and he didn’t want his family to provoke anything if I went around his house. I accommodated him, why not, it saved his pride, and who knows, I might have lost the second fight.



9

Street-Fight: Larry and the Big Guy
(Donkeyland; Cayuga Street Gang; 1964)


[1964] With the corner of his eye he saw Larry, he carried a light coat, it was early summer, he looked as if he came from a baseball game, there were several of them that came down the stairs to the basement party, uninvited, to invade the party. Larry had punched out a wise guy earlier at the party and now he wanted his friends to get revenge for him. John saw them all coming down the stairs, and the big guy, the heavy one, asked, “Where is Larry?” but had saw Larry from the corner of his eye anyway, he knew him by instinct. Larry was half drunk, fumbling about, and he remarked, across the dance floor, softly, watching the man sidle past a few guys to get to him. John looked like he was ready to pass out but watched what was about to unfold closely, as I did, and was flinging his hands about. The party members were swaying with the music, flashing lights; the basement party was cramped, eager.
“I’ve seen what you’ve done to my nephew (whom was brushed badly, beaten like hamburger),” said the big man about two inches taller than Larry, who was perhaps six-foot one inch tall, and the big man perhaps forty pounds heavier than Larry, whom was all of 190-pounds himself. Most of the kids at the party were part of the Cayuga Street, unofficial gang, part of what the Police called; “ Donkeyland.”
“I’m Larry,” said Larry to the big guy. A punch came from the big guy’s right hand, it stunned Larry—then he grabbed Larry like a wrestler and hit him again, but then Larry checked him, and with speed, a jerk here and there, he hit the guy four times, but the big guy absorbed the punches, and Larry could not dance and box like he wanted. Everything was too cramped, too hot, Larry was too drunk; as a result, the man hit Larry again, and his head jerked back. I had never seen Larry beaten in a fight before, and this was looking like a defeat in the makings.
I was at this time 16-years old, in three months, I’d be all of 17, and my friend John, the same age, a relative of Larry’s joined in on the fight, with one of the friends of the big guy, and got slaughtered in the corner of the basement: a puffy face to boot. A few others got involved with the fight, then Larry who had fell to his knees, got back up, his lightening punches did not put the man out only punish him to the point of using his bruit force to push him down again, but he was puffing like a train, losing his breath; but he anticipated, Larry anticipated this I think, said, “Let’s go outside and fight, I got more room there.” And everyone, perhaps twenty kids, everyone from fourteen to twenty-five, went outside in the backyard, University Avenue was close by, a busy street, and behind that was the house were an alley divided the house and a bar.
Now outside, Larry waved the guy on to fight, and he started to and Larry got into his dance, like Clay, and the man before throwing a punch, trying to lift those heavy arms, received two from Larry; thus, Larry was now the aggressor, on longer on the protective side of the fight; hence, the big guy quickly picked up his coat from where he threw it on the ground, threw it over his shoulder, jumped in a car that had pulled up, jumped on the seat quick, as Larry picked up a long board, and chased the car, smashing the sides of it several times, but it got away.
The fight was over, Larry leaned back, caught his breath, “Let’s go back to the neighborhood,” and we all left to get drunk down in Donkeyland, on what was called: Indian’s Hill; as usual.
Written 6/3/06 [Part One: Donkeyland; the Cayuga Street Gang of the 60s]




10

Vacant Houses
(Donkeyland—1959))
& Notre Dame—de Paris]))



There was a two year period in my life, between eleven and twelve years of age when I’d go with my friend, Mike Reassert, searching into vacant houses that were about to be torn down by the state, in Downtown, St. Paul, Minnesota, for building bridges, and new fancy government buildings. These were all residential homes, and apartments complexes at one time. The year was 1959; it was summer, and a weekend, Saturday, if I recall right. The particular building we went into this forenoon was behind the police station, which was on 10th Street by Cedar; a bakery was nearby, and Jackson Street parallel. Often times the doors were left open in these soon to be smashed and shattered residences, and tramps, bums would sleep in the hallways, they never bothered us boys much, and if one moved too quick we’d hightail it out of there like two wasps. Today we didn’t see any, and so we moved from the first floor to the second floor of this four-plex apartment building.
It was near noon, as we rummaged through the hallways into the littered apartment, litter everywhere in it, its windows gazed upon the street outside, its curtains half torn off their reels. An old elm tree was ripped out of the ground, its thick old roots naked in the sunlight, the light of the sun entered through the window so as to shoot a ray through the dirty glass, all the way to the ceiling, showing the gray old spider webs in the corners of the rooms; it was a one bedroom apartment, the bathroom dingy as gray lace. The once white walls were drab except for the ones where the pictures hung (I didn’t know then, what I know now, we live out our childhood in dreams, somewhere down the adult road of life, in stages).

(The closet.) Light barely passed through the window into the closet as I opened it, the light seemed to have had a tail, as it moved past the chairs of the kitchen, and a reflection of the light in the living room, shinned on the sofa chair as I looked through the archway in back of me now—both lights somewhat helpful; the closet had sawdust in it, perhaps rats or mice were chewing holes in the walls, every so often I’d hear one in a room, they gnawed on everything that had a shape. Then I saw a frame, a picture in it, I pulled it foreword, shook it a bit, to take the dust and particles off it, wiped the glass somewhat clean with my shirt and elbow, it was of an old church in Europe. I looked closer; it was of Notre Dame de Paris. “Hummm…” I wondered.
“Leave it be,” said Mike, “its too hard to carry back and lug all-round all day.”
“No,” I said, not sure why, it simply caught my eye.
As time would tell, I’d go to Europe, and from the first time in Europe, in 1970, to my last time in Europe, 2002 (perhaps a dozen times in Europe all together, and some five years total time spent there), I’d see many Cathedrals from Spain, to Germany, to Istanbul, to London and Paris, and Notre Dame, I’d see four times, and perhaps each of those times in Paris, I’d go to Notre Dame, every day, thus, going into the Cathedral thirty times or more—complete. Going right up to its bell tower once, and climbing along its top ridge, looking and examining its gargoyles —and the rest of Paris.


Written 7/25/2006; El Parquetito, Café, Lima Peru


11

First Poem:
Longfellow’s Window
[1959; in Donkeyland]

It was perhaps May, the year was 1959; I was sitting on the top level of the attic steps, somewhat motionless, looking out the window into the backyard, we had a long hilly backyard, very green in the summer, grandpa cared for it like it was a treasure, proud, he even fenced it in after a number of years, after people trampled through it, as if it was a highway. The sunlight hit my face, it was a weekend and mother was downstairs doing something, perhaps housework, she was always busy. I had found some paper in a drawer and I slowly went to write, drawing my pen to paper, a word came forth, then writing again, a few more words, without looking at the paper my thoughts flowed through my mind, and my body was full of emotions. I slid the paper in front of my pen again, and noticed I had a stanza of some kind, then heard Grandpa’s old black mantel clock strike twice, it was 2:00 PM, next I went back into my silence, more like scratching with my pen now, words and syllables, rime and accents, trying to dance and sing with the pen, as words flowed onto the paper.
I re-read my first stanza, it would be, or become my first poem. I had listened to an old record [78] my mother had given me, by Jimmy Boyd, and so I came up with the name, “Who.” I think the song was named that, and it was a simple poem that needed a simple name, like the song. I had no idea of course I’d study poetry in the future, write 1400-poems, produce nine poetry books, and so forth and on. But that was the beginning, as all things must have a beginning, that is, all things must have its first step.
I found a second sheet of paper and copied the poem, and made the corrections I needed, it was now 4:00 PM, and dinnertime. (I had folded the poem, and put it into my pocket, asked my mother in her bedroom later if I could read it for her, and I did, and she liked it—of course, and then back into my pocket it went).
Next I went upstairs to the attic bedroom, where my brother and I slept, him on one side of the attic, myself on the other, a window in-between, this was on the opposite side of where the steps were, and the reason being the beds were there, was because the chimney stretched from the basement all the way through the attic, through the roof: too close to the window to put beds.
For the following week, I’d look out that window and figure poem two would have to be coming soon, and it would have to come out of that window, and it did. I was consumed, to realize I could express my emotions this way, instead of being crushed with them, holding them inside like excessive water.

It would be years later I’d venture out to see Henry W. Longfellow’s House, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and gaze through his window; then after that, I’d purchase an expense signature of his (original), singed “Yours Truly Henry W. Longfellow…. 1877” a great poet indeed.

Written 7/25/2006; El Parquetito, Café, Lima Peru




End Poem



Train to Newport (1962)

I was but fifteen-years old, when
Tom and I snuck into the freight yard,
To catch a train going to Chicago.
I was surprised at my stupidity—!
It stopped in Newport, Minnesota,
Seven-miles from home, and we
And we both (Tom and I) kicked stones,
Walking those dark miles back home.

Note: The author did many things when he was young,
but he never hopped a train again, it was his first and
last time. #1241 2/23/06




¨


Reviews of the
Author Dennis L. Siluk



2006


From the Counsel General of Peru: Efrain Saavedra: “How beautiful the poem (‘The Ice Maiden’),” as he read it in his Chicago Office, on 2/14/06 (Valentine’s Day).

Dennis received two columnist awards in the past three years. In addition, in 2005 he was awarded Poet Laureate, of San Jeronimo, Peru. He has met and discussed his forth book of Peruvian Poems, with the Ex First Lady of Peru, now High Senator, Keiko Fujimori; and is friends with the Consul General of Peru, in Chicago, Efrain Saavedra.

—Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


[June 2006] Dennis was number #1 Poet (out of 131), and number #1 author for Arts and Entertainment (out of 704), for an international magazine, Ezinearticles [Annual Readership: 12-million]. He presently lives in Peru, and Minnesota, with his wife Rosa. This is his 34th Book; he has a worldwide audience.

Dennis’ works comprise over 2200-writtings: 500-articles; 250-short stories; 33-books (to include novels of fiction and nonfiction; alcoholism, suspense, drama, plays and a horror); 15-chapbooks; 1400-poems.

SMS.ac, International mobile phone services, has now picked up Dennis’ writings, with over 50-million users. [June 2006]





∆
2005



From the author and poet, E.J. Soltermann, commented on Dennis' poem in his new book, "Last Autumn and Winter,” called "Night Poem, In the Minnesota Cold," he said: "That is Poetry." I know that is not a lot of works per se, but a powerful statement it is, coming from someone who can judge poetry for its worth; as Dennis once said, “Only a poet is suitable to critique a poet’s poetry.” Rosa Peñaloza



By Rosa Peñaloza,

I have in the past written many comments about Dennis’ work, and today I want to share with you some of his reviews and comments other people have had. He has a variety of literature out there, from short stories (over 225 now), to articles (over 850), to poems (over 1400), to chapbooks (he has done about 13-chapbooks) —and of course his 34-books, and he is working on four other books. Of these poems perhaps 400 to 500 are in books, the rest he has not published for one reason or another. Yet still out of this figure, about 250-poems are on the Internet, not in books.

For the most part, I think Dennis is best know for his travels and poetry; he has traveled the world over, now it is almost 28-times around the world, or as he said: 694,000-air miles; not to include all the travels he has done cross-countries, on the road, etc., he did when he was young, going to: San Francisco, Omaha, along with Seattle, and the Dakotas; he lived in all those places in the 60s; in the 70s he traveled throughout Europe for four years, during this time he went to Vietnam, in 1971, and came back to Europe thereafter. Now he has spent, or taken eight trips to South America, where he has his second home, and where he loves the Mountains by Huancayo.

Here are some of his reviews:


Note 1: Recent interview on Radio Programas del Perú, concerning his two publications: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”; reaching five countries, and three continents; over 15-million people; by Milagros Valverde, 11/15/2005, 11:00 PM. (Milagros read poems from both of Mr. Siluk’s books: “Spell of the Andes” and “The Ice Maiden”.)
Note 2: “Spell of the Andes,” recommended by the Cultural Agency in Lima- Peru; located in Alfredo Benavides # 605 - Apartment 201, phone number 2428942

Note 3: Interviewed by JP Magazine, interviewer Jose Luis Pantoja Ventocilla, who had very positive comments and appreciation for Dennis’ Poetic Peruvian Traditions and Contemporary way of Life; 10/26/2005.

Note 4: Mayor of San Jeronimo, Peru, Jesus Vargas Párraga, “All mayors should recognize Dennis’ work (on his Poetic Traditions of Peru; and favorable articles for the Mantaro Valley Region) and publicize it.... (paraphrased: we should not hide his work)”

Note 5: 91.7 Radio “Super Latina”, 10/19/2005, interviewer Joseito Arrieta, reaching 1.2 million people in the Mantaro Valley Region about the book “Spell of the Andes” (paraphrased): the Municipality and the Cultural House from Huancayo should give an acknowledgement for the work you did on The Mantaro Valley.

Note 6: Channel #5 “Panamericana” 10/16/2005, “Good Morning Huancayo” (in Huancayo, Peru ((population 325,000)); interviewed by reporter: Vladimir Bendezú, on Mr. Siluk’s two books: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”: also on, Mr. Siluk’s biography.

*Note 7: Cesar Hildebrandt, International Journalist and Commentator, for Channel #2, in Lima, Peru, on October 7, 2005, introduced Mr. Siluk’s book, “Peruvian Poems,” to the world, saying: “…Peruvian Poems, is a most interesting book, and important….” (Population of Lima, eight million, and all of Peru: twenty-five million)) plus a number of other Latin American countries: reaching about sixty-three million inhabitants, in addition, his program reaches Spain)).

Note 8: More than 240,000-visit Mr. Siluk’s web site a year: see his travels and books…!

Note 9: Mr. Siluk received a signed personal picture with compliments from the Dalai Lama, 11/05, after sending him his book with a letter, “The Last Trumpet…” on eschatology.

Note 10: Ezine Articles [Internet Magazine] 11/2005, recognized by the Magazine Team, as one of 250-top writers, out of 14,700. Christopher Knight, Editor; annual readership: twelve-million (or one million per month). Dennis has about 10,000 readers of his articles, poems and stories, alone on this site per month.

Note 11: Dennis L. Siluk Columnist of the Year, on the International Internet Magazine, Useless-knowledge; December 5, 2005 (Annual Readership: 1.5 million).

Note 12: Dennis L. Siluk was made Special Author, status, for the site www.Freearticles.com

Note 13: Mr. Siluk’s works are on over 400-web sites worldwide as of (early 2005)



☼

More Reviews:


Benjamin Szumskyj: Editor of SSWFT Magazine Australia

“In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows”

"The Macabre Poems: and other selected Poems,"

“…Siluk’s Atlantean poems are also well crafted, from the surreal…to the majestic…and convivial…” and the reviewer adds: “All up, Siluk is a fine poet…His choice of topic and theme are compelling and he does not hold back in injecting his own personal thoughts and feelings directly into his prose, lyrics, odes and verse…” (September 2005)


“…I liked your poem [‘The Bear-men of Qolqepunku’] very much. It is a very poignant piece.”

Aalia Wayfare
Researcher on the Practices
Of the Ukukus


“I just received your book ‘Spell of the Andes,’ and I like it a lot.’

—Luis Guillermo Guedes, Director
Of the Ricardo Palma Museum-House
In Lima, Peru [July, 2005]


“The Original title of the book Dennis L. Siluk presents is ‘Spell of the Andes’ which poems and stories were inspired by various places of our region and can be read in English and Spanish. The book separated in two parts presents the poems that evoked the Mantaro Valley, La Laguna de Paca…Miraflores, among other places. The book is dedicated to ‘the beautiful city of Huancayo’…”

By: Marissa Cardenas, Correo Newspaper,
Huancayo, Peru [7/9/05]
Translated into English by Rosa Peñaloza.



Mr. Siluk’s writings, in particular the book: ‘Islam, in Search of Satan’s Rib,’ induced a letter from Arial Sharon, Prime Minister of Israel, along with a signed picture. [2004]


“You’re a Master of the written world.” [Reference to the book: ‘Death on Demand’]

—Benjamin Szumskyj,
Editor of SSWFT-magazine out of Australia [2005]


A poetic Children’s tale “The Tale of Willy, the Humpback Whale” 1982 Pulitzer Prize entry, with favorable comments sent back by the committee.



“Dennis is a prolific and passionate writer.”

—Matt James,
Editor of ‘useless-knowledge,’ Magazine [2005]



“The Other Door,”…by Dennis L. Siluk…This is a collection of some 45 poems written…over a 20-year period in many parts of the world. Siluk has traveled widely in this country and Europe and some of the poems reflect his impressions of places he has visited. All of them have a philosophical turn. Scattered through the poems—some long, some only three lines—are lyrical lines and interesting descriptions. Siluk illustrated the book with his own pen and ink drawings.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press [1981)



“Your stories are wonderful little vignettes of immigrant life….

“… (The Little Russian Twins) it is affecting….”

—Sibyl-Child (a women’s art and culture journal) by Nancy Protun, Hyattsville, Md.; published by the Little Peoples’ Press, 1983



“The Other Door, by Dennis L. Siluk-62pp. $5….both stirring and mystical….”

—C.S.P. World News [1983]



“For those who enjoy poetry…The Other Door, offers an illustrated collection…Reflecting upon memories of his youth, Siluk depicts his old neighborhood of the 1960’s…Siluk…reflects upon his travels in poems like: ‘Bavaria’s Harvest’ (Augsburg, Germany and ‘Venice in April.’’’

—Evergreen Press
St. Paul, Minnesota [1982]



“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”

—The Sunday Forum
Fargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]



“Dennis Siluk, a St. Paul native…is the author of a recently released book of poetry called The Other Door….The 34-year old outspoken poet was born and reared in St. Paul. The Other Door has received positive reaction from the public and various publications. One of the poems included in his book, ‘Donkeyland-(A side Street Saga)’, is a reflection of Siluk’s memories…in what was once one of the highest crime areas in St. Paul.” [1983]

—Monitor
St. Paul, Minnesota



“This entertaining and heart-warming story …teaches a lesson, has all the necessary ingredients needed to make a warm, charming, refreshing children’s animated television movie or special.” [1983]

—Form: Producers
Report by Creative
Entertainment Systems;
West Hollywood, CA
Evaluation Editor



The book: ‘The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,’ writes Pastor Naason Mulâtre, from the Church of Christ, Haiti, WI; “…I received…four books [The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon…]. My friend it’s wonderful, we are pleased of them. We are planning to do a study of them twice a month. With them we can have the capacity to learn about the Antichrist. I have read all the chapters. I have…new knowledge about how to resist and fight against this enemy. I understand how [the] devil is universal in his work against [the] church of Jesus-Christ. Thanks a lot for your effort to write a so good book or Christians around the world.” [2002]



☼


Additional (mixed) Notes and Reviews:


Mr. Siluk was the winner of the magazine competition by “The Eldritch Dark”; for most favored writer [contributor] for 2004 [with readership of some 2.2-million].


And received a letter of gratitude from President Bush for his many articles he published in the internet Magazine, “Useless-knowledge.com,” during his campaign for President, 2004 [1.2-million readership].


Still some of his work can be seen in the Internet Ezine Magazine, with a readership of some three-million. [2005, some 350 articles, poems and short stories]


Siluk’s poetic stories and poetry in general have been recently published by the Huancayo, Peru newspaper, Correo; and “Leaves,” an international literary magazine out of India. With favorable responses by the Editor


Mr. Siluk has been to all the locations [or thereabouts] within his stories and poetry he writes; some 683,000-miles throughout the world.


His most recent book is, “The Spell of the Andes,” to be presented at the Ricardo Palma Museum-House in October 2005, and recently reviewed in Peru and the United States.


From the book, “Death on Demand,” by Mr. Siluk, says author:

E.J. Soltermann
Author of Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War:

“The Dead Vault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better.” (Feb. 2004)


♥

Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]


She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.


—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03


Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com www.swft/writings.html www.abe.com www.alibris.com www.freearticles.com and many more


Books by the Author



Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1980]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1981]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants


Tales of the Tiamat [not released]
Can be purchased individually [trilogy]

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III


Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib


The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety,
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery


Autobiographical-fiction

A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV

Romance:

Perhaps it’s Love
Cold Kindness

The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]

The Mumbler [psychological]

After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]


Poetry:

Sirens
[Poems-Volume II, 2003]

The Macabre Poems [2004]

Spell of the Andes [2005]

Peruvian Poems [2005]

Last autumn and Winter [2006]
[Poems out of Minnesota]

Poetic Images out of Peru
[And other poem, 2006]

Orion’s Orchards
Selected New Poems
[And other Poems, 2006]