Get it Out

Writing a poem


is exactly


like taking a shit.


You’ll just be sitting there,


working or


watching TV,


reading, whatever,


and suddenly,


it takes you over.


It becomes


the most important thing.


It is urgent.


Get it out, or


face the consequences.




Super Fuzz

Me and this guy from work

decided to start a band.

We decided to name it

Super Fuzz,

which I thought was a good name, and

naming the band is really

an important step.

(Otherwise, you may end up with a good band

with a stupid name,

like Foo Fighters or Goo Goo Dolls.)

Alas, it turned out that my co-worker

was more weird than talented.


So I’m still looking to start a band.

The flyer will read:

Super Fuzz seeks like-minded power poppers

to play guitar bass keys drums and harmony,

fill stadiums and/or coffee shops

with songs about love and

other drugs.

Please call or text Tim D. at 867-5309.

Please have your own gear and

your own desperate dreams and

an open mind.

*Must know at least A, E, G and D.


I’ll put this flyer up at Dunn Brothers,

maybe Cheapo or Roadrunner,

post it on Craigslist, too.

At some point,

the phone will ring and

it will be that strange fucker from work.


I will continue to be Super Fuzz

all by myself.






-Copyright Timothy Downs

Polka Everywhere all the Time

It was a skill, a tradition passed on from generation to generation. We did it at special Polka masses at the Polish Catholic church. We did it at every baptism, wedding and even funerals. If there was a  reason for celebrating, there was reason to Polka.

Babcia, babcia polka’d everywhere and all the time. She was so good at polka’ing that she could multi-task as she polka’d. Well as long as the other task involved something Polish, she could multi-task.

She could cook Polish sausage and polka. She could pray Polish prayers and sing Polish hymns while she polka’d. Babcia could play cards, gamble, win every pot and never stop polka’ing. She was such an exquisite polka dancer that she could even drink Polish beer, polka and never spill one drop.

But if she had to do something non-Polish, then she had to stop polka’ing. That to babcia was as much of a sin as running out of Polish beer at a Polish Festival. Northeast Minneapolis definitely isn’t as dedicated or detail orientated as the Poles in Wisconsin. One of the many reasons babcia carried her purse cooler filled with Polish beer.

We polka’d and drank. We partied and prayed…everywhere and all the time!

Copyright: Theresa Dolata

Not a Completely New Concept

It wasn’t a completely new concept. Babcia had been  teaching me how to Polka as soon as I exited my mother’s womb. But once I got to kindergarten, I had less time to Polka. The teachers were always trying to get me to run.

Running was definitely a new concept. The gym teacher kept yelling at me “why are you hopping like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that! Like that! That hopping you are doing? Run! Run!”

When I was young I had a major hearing problem. I thought he said “Hops” and so I replied, “my dad will not let babcia teach me how to micro-brew at home. We have get our beer from the liquor store just like everyone else!”

The teacher grabbed me by the collar. We were marching up to the principle’s office.  Except I apparently didn’t know how to walk either or march. I was hopping back and forth from one foot to the other. I tried to work in a fancy twirl into my Polka moves. Wham! Bam! Ouch!

The principle had started his career in the educational system as a gym teacher. My first head concussion happened right in that moment. My first day of kindergarten and I was out for the count from polka’ing right into that principle. He called my parents as they could get to the school quicker than our volunteer paramedics who hung out at the volunteer firefighters’ station in town. The volunteer fire department station was the only bar open before 10 am on a school day. I can’t blame them . I mean being a volunteer fire fighter was a stressful job. They needed to kick back and relax in between fighting those fires.

I could tell the principle got my dad on the phone.

“No, not hops! I said hopping! Your daughter is hopping,” he yelled.

I instantly thought my dad must have the portable phone with him on the John Deere backhoe.

“What is wrong with hopping! She is supposed to be running not hopping. Who taught her how to hop like that? Is it that baba person she talks about teaching her this?”

“Baba, don’t ever call my babcia a baba! And if you value your life, never call her a stara baba! Nothing pisses off old Polish women like being called an old hag! If you do make that mistake then you better pray she isn’t wearing her plastic babushka. Everyone knows or should know once that plastic rain proof babushka is off a Polish woman’s head, it becomes a weapon. They just put it on your head with the main plastic part covering your face and then tie it tight as can be. You see steam come out of the nostrils for a few seconds but it is just a few seconds then you’re…well you know.”

“Is this baba or babcia woman in the mafia?”

“Mafia? No, she’s in my family. She is just my dad’s very Polish mother. My grandmother. My babcia!”

We heard a thunderous roar. Then saw the lightening strikes in the sky through the windows. Rain started pouring down and pounding the roof and those same windows we were staring out as we waiting for my dad. The principle started sweating. The sweat poured down his forehead, his face to the same pace of the sweet smelling yet fierce rain.

I saw my dad’s brown dodge cab and half truck pull up to the round about driveway. I could see my babcia in the passenger side.

As my dad slowly opened the main entry door to the school, I turned to the principle. “You’re lucky this morning she got her hair done. She isn’t going to risk getting it wet to deal with the likes of you.”

Babcia waved to the two of us staring out the school window. In her one hand we could clearly see her plastic babushka. In her other hand was her colt 45. Stain marks from the sweat now drenching him were so visible in the armpit area of his fancy late 1970’s dress shirt. I didn’t want to know where the other stains in his clothes were. Although guessing by the smell in the principle’s office….his shit did stink.

Copyright: Theresa Dolata

My First Polish Words

Pocałuj mnie w dupę i babcia cię kocha!

My grandfather taught me the first part “pocałuj mnie w dupę”. The first time I caught him cheating at cards. I was five and the game was 31. I had lost a lot of nickels and I finally realized why. Grandpa was keeping 4 cards in his hand instead of 3. I called him on it. And those were his words to me. I asked my mom in my sweet innocent little 5 year old kindergarten voice, “did Grandpa just tell me to kiss his ass?”

“Tak! Yes!  And get him another Polish beer!”

I got up and got him another Polish beer. Babcia had sat out the last few games to make supper for all of us. I learned the “babcia cię kocha” from her. My grandmother…My babcia…I knew she loved me no matter what language it was in.

However, the languages I would hear things like this from her were going to be either English or Polish. Mostly Polish, as it was her default language. Babcia was making something that was not meant to be translated into English. Czarnina was not meant to be translated into English especially to a 5 year old prior to Halloween.

Ah, what the hell! I will translate it for you. Czarnina is Blood Soup. First step Babcia would say is and this is in her own words…

“You chase the duck or goose around the yard and then when you have the prime opportunity to swing that axe with all your strength. Polish people are strong hard working, faithful people, Theresa. Then one swing of the axe and that duck or goose is bleeding. Now you have to be quick to gather and draw the blood from it. We need it all for the soup. Okay?”

“Are we vampires babcia?”

“No! Where would you get an idea like that from? Those German Lutherans in your kindergarten class spreading rumors about us Poles! I knew it. Bringing in a German Chocolate cake to celebrate you and that little German Lutheran boy’s birthday. They probably poisoned your piece.”

“No German Lutherans told me anything about us Poles! I saw it in a Halloween movie where these vampires suck blood out of their victims.”

“Oh Well, we don’t suck the blood! We harvest the blood and boil in a pot with of other things!” Babcia muttered under breath as she turned to walk away, “vampires, vampires! I am keeping an eye on those German Lutherans. They ain’t going to poison my favorite grandchild. No poisoning her mind, her spirit or her body!”

Babcia was sure the German Lutherans had already infiltrated my body. She was sure that was why I didn’t eat any Czarnina for supper. But I didn’t eat blood sausage either or blood pudding or anything that translated into blood and some kind of food! I didn’t want the kids at my school to call me vampire girl for the rest of my educational experience at Castle Rock Elementary K-8th grade school.

Babcia cię kocha! Yes, she did love me. Of course when I was five, I had no idea that we were going end up being like the live Polish version of the movie “Thelma and Louise!”

Copyright Theresa Dolata

Her Silk Scarf

Her silk scarf fluttered in the breeze as she walked the old ghost of a farm that was once her parents back in the little Polish community of Pulaski, Wisconsin. The scarf tied around her head, like a babushka, had detailed etching of the Polish Eagle Emblem on it. She walked remembering the days of that farm. The Polish Hens, the horses, the corn and wheat fields, and the fresh smell of manure from the cows had infiltrated her nares. She used to gather the eggs with her six older sisters. Her six older brothers worked hard in the fields. She was like the bakers dozen because she was really too little to do anything anyway. They just let her think she was working like everyone else. Everyone on Sunday though, after bathing, was equally dressed up in their Sunday’s best attire for mass at Saint Stanislaw’s Catholic Church. The mass was not in Latin but in Polish from beginning to end so all the people of the community could understand. The Polish community clung tightly to the language of their people. Only teaching Polish in the schools and having only Polish spoken at church and in the homes, the community preserved its culture and thrived. They were the Old Country in the New Country clinging tight to who they were. Proud of their Polish Heritage as am I.

Copyright Theresa Dolata