Paul Dlouhy, whose last name is a near-rhyme for “allow me,” allowed me permission to do this page with this texted proviso: “Yeah, sure. Just as long as you’re not profiting on my name, or fame. Because you know people our lining up to get in on that. haha!” Though he might not have the fame a fair world ought to grant him, he has the chops. He’s a terrific performer, whether he reads from his journal or puts on a mask with a weird mouthhole and uses a voice that partakes of the macabre DNA of both Peter Lorre and Vincent Price. (The audience was blown away by that one. There may have been some nightmares that night.)
He also plays harmonica, and the “Have Harp, Will Improvise” on this page refers especially to his spot-on, unrehearsed accompaniment to one of my own performances, when he didn’t know a word of the poem I was doing and only had the threadbare instruction “Start with a sort of walking-blues vibe and then just react to what I say…” He helped alchemize my rather leaden, monotonous-voiced recitation into entertainment gold (judging by the enthusiastic crowd response). Paul not only saved my bacon, he put a fluffy omelet next to it. He is a man of gentle Greatness.
Paul Michael Dlouhy
Protest with Music and well-spoken word
Add a disguise and let Oddness unfurl
Upgrade a shtick with a voice from a zoo
Undermine Hatred with Humor très fou
Loosing a harp with æthereal reach
Leaps into Kindliness teaching Unpreachy
This is my approximation of Patrick Hare, a mordant and acerbic Valley poet who uses his poetry to skewer cultural wrongdoers who interfere with his enjoyment of daily life. His harangue on the grocery-counter ambusher-cashiers who hit you up for a worthy-cause donation when you just want to pay for your stuff and get out is howlingly hilarious, but dark as can be and not for the squeamish. He says out loud what many of us dare not even think. But he’s a real sweetheart offstage, so I tried to say so in my acrostic:
One with Clay, Image and Text 