Clark L. Burton

Clark L. Burton, 71, of Phoenix, peacefully cashed in the last of his "nine lives" on April 25, 2026. After a 26-year health battle that he fought with the stubbornness of a mule and the wit of a comedian, he finally decided it was time to rest.

Born on September 21, 1954, in Syracuse, NY, to the late Laura J. (Hurd) and Wayne M. Burton, Sr., Clark was a proud graduate of the J.C. Birdlebough High School Class of 1972.

Clark was greeted on the other side by his parents; his brothers, Wayne Jr., Cecil, and Fred; his sister, Janet; and his faithful old lap dog, Kenzer, who is surely happy to have her favorite person back.

Clark leaves behind a cast of characters who will miss his tall tales. Deborah McKenzie, his dear domestic partner of over 40 years. She was his rock, his co-pilot, and the woman who stood by him through every unbelievable chapter of his life. Deborah’s children, Jamie (Tara) Difulio, Carl (Desirae) Richardson, and Aricka (Clay) Jones, and their children. His brothers Jon and Richard (Cindy) Burton.

In true Clark fashion—keeping things low-key and on his own terms—funeral services will be held privately. However, for those who knew him, a Celebration of Life will be announced at a later date. In the meantime have a White Russian in his honor.

As a lifelong outdoorsman and former secretary of the Phoenix Rod and Gun Club, Clark would have loved nothing more than to see his favorite organization supported. Those wishing to honor his memory may consider making a contribution there in his name in lieu of flowers.

Clark L. Burton was a cool cat with nine lives—though, honestly, he probably went through twelve or thirteen. He stared death in the face so many times that death eventually just started waving him through. We are talking about a man who had entire cars dropped on him (twice!) and whose family once reached the point of "pulling the plug," only for Clark to wake up and decide he had another 26 years of mischief left in him.

Clark will be remembered most for his long, elaborate, and—if we’re being honest—highly "enhanced" stories. He had a tale for every occasion, and a few that were wildly inappropriate for the occasion. If he didn't have a story to tell, he’d subject you to a bad joke instead. Like the time he smoked back stage with Jerry Garcia. Or became good friends with Carlo Gambino’s daughter. Who probably still owes him a favor to this day.

Beyond the tall tales, Clark had a legendary green thumb. He grew the absolute best tomato plants in town, a fact well-known to anyone who ever sat at his kitchen table. Those table-side visits often morphed into late-night songwriting sessions, birthing the lyrics that became Flatface and the Shempdells classics. His best friends—Bob, Gweemer, and Don—were the regulars at that table, likely there for the tomato plants but staying for the music and the man.

He was one of a kind, and while his stories might have been embellished, the love we had for him never needed to be.

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