Thursday, December 8, 2016

The City Stirs


image from fineartsamerica.com


The City Stirs

“Nature is a petrified magic city.”--Novalis

Sirens awaken me alltissmo & blaring;
perhaps     a meat wagon,   the police,
              or a firetruck--          charging
toward some calamity, deliberate and
              bellicoso.

A canto of pigeons coo on the edge of
the roof, all dolce & delicato--quite the
contrast to my Mickey Mouse alarm
clock blasting its brassy bell aria. I silence
it with a swift colpugno.

              Foghorns in the harbor
              bleat abafando in the
              distance. My tongue tastes metallic as
                             I burp pepperoni pizza, greasy
                             and abbandono.
               Some truck with twin
               stacks bellows & spews
               as it labors through its
                              crunching chorus of gears, before
                              fading con calando.

As I brew coffee,
     needing to consume
         caffeine devoto, I tap
            my fingers to the onerous
                  barbaro beat of a twin jackhammer
                       duet, busily reducing concrete to a
                          acciaccato dust pudding.

Mere blocks from the office, I move adante through
the´cacophony of the crowds crescendo, untouched,
nearly invisible, finding their frowns & epithets capricco,
the white noise within me fully abandono, but only in
the security of the elevator does my heartbeat return
to abattuta.
                          The city awakens
                           con allegrezza, as I

                           grasp joy in fermata.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Beauty Rises


image by glenn buttkus


Beauty Rises

“The future belongs to those who believe in the
beauty of their dreams.”--Eleanor Roosevelt.

Beauty is transcendent, 
                illusionary,
                eternal,
                sadness,
                triumphant,
                momentary, &
                ecstasy.         It can be body art, garish, eclectic
                                tattoos that use flesh as a canvas,
                           a fatal fad, a moment’s folly or love
                      in the rapture of bloom, that may lose
                  its luster as fashion becomes altered
              by cascading, tumultuous decades.

Those people who are born gorgeous as 
             models. stared at by all, once they
                  override their conceits, can come to
                        lament their beauty, often wishing to
                                 merely be an anonymous participant
                                        in the crowded landscape, rather
                                        than something akin to alabaster
                                        on a bronze pedestal;

But it is Nature, in all its guises, whether in a forested glen
swarming with golden & black Monarchs, or atop verdant
foothills at the feet of a fire mountain in early morning, 
while wild strawberry light slides across ermine glaciers,
with Mandarin orange clouds hanging like a general’s 
epaulets on the shoulders of the peak, or at a black beach
during a tropical sunset while the sea’s white caps frost the
smooth tops of infinite rows of waves & frenzied gulls pick
at the stringy pink flesh within yellow crab shells--where we
discover God’s living palette--

and finally, true beauty 
becomes the earnest appreciation
of aging, decay, and oxidation;
midst rotting wood, peeling paint
& rusting metal--where we 
re-evaluate a mature lover’s body,
though no longer hard-muscled,
but still the wondrous encasement
of the loving glow from their eyes,
the tenderness of their touch,
and the undying loyalty, sacrifice,
accommodation & reciprocity that
inhabits every fiber of their essence.

Beauty emerges from
every corner of our life.
resplendent to each. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub



                                 

Monday, December 5, 2016

Charred


image from hd.wallpaperswide.com


Charred

“Only the Charred Council--not angels or demons, could
hold the warring factions at bay.”--from the Darksiders,

When char replaces flesh
and bleaches bone black,
fire scars burn deep--

beyond reconstructive surgery,
beyond recognition,
beyond humanity,

where upon the bark,
protoplasm, pulp and sinew,
sentinel and soul,

are converted to
first bright and
then dark energy--

when
cremation
obliterates

the creation.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Blackthorne--Scene 54


image borrowed from pinterest.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Four

Predicament

“Life is just the predicament that precedes death.”
--Henry James.

1(sound cue) banjo & harmonica.
2(medium close up) Johnny Eagle staring at Bronson:
--So what the hell is burrowed up your backside so early?
3(reverse close-up) Cash Bronson:
--Aww, we’re just looking for strays & trouble--
makers. I was told that you were out here somewhere, so 
it’s a piece of luck finding you like this. I think you & 
I have some things to discuss, Johnny.
4(three-shot) angle on Buck: Anyone want some coffee; 
tastes like sawdust, but it’s hot.--tossing the inquiry like a
rock.
5(medium close-up) Bronson turned in the saddle, his dark 
eyes narrowing: So, you would be the mysterious buffalo 
hunter who has stirred up so much shit for me in town?
6(sound cue) slide guitar riff.
7(cut to overhead crane shot) the five riders facing the two 
men.
8(sound cue) Guitar strumming & snare drum baps.
9(two-shot) angle over Bronson’s shoulder, Buck smirking
--Yeah, that would probably be me
10(medium close-up) Bronson, tight-lipped, nodding his 
head:--OK, well I’m Cash Bronson, and one of these days 
we need to palaver over your mistaken notion that you 
actually can rebuild this ramshackle ranch of yours.
11(close-up) Buck, tight-jawed:  Sure, why not? I’d be 
pleased to jaw a bit with the one-eyed jack in these parts.
12(two-shot) Thor sat up tall, stretched & drawled: 
Not today, hombres. Fuck your coffee & fuck you. So 
tell them what we want, big brother.
13(hold the shot) angle over Thor’s shoulder, Bronson, his 
tone approaching a growl--Just sit on that itch, boy; then
returning his gaze to the two men afoot in front of him--My 
brother makes a valid point though. It is possible that this 
is not a friendly visit.
14(medium close-up) the Eagle: Would you call it an 
unfriendly one? as he rolled his throwing knife in his big
hands, an old Colt prominent on his hip.
15(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & branch flute trills.
16(two-shot) angle over Johnny’s shoulder, Bronson:
--It could be--it could be; kind of depends on you fellows.
17(cut to close-up) Buck: Is that a fact, how so?
18(two-shot) angle on Bronson--I don’t know where to
begin with you, big man--so let’s talk to Johnny first.
19(medium close-up) the Eagle: So, let’s get to it.
20(three shot) angle on Bronson: Come to find out
you had a big misunderstanding recently with my
auction manager over some wages?
21(close-up) Johnny: You know that pinche gordo had
it coming--that baboso doesn’t bring you any honor.
22(sound cue) saxophone & guitar.
23(medium close up) Bronson: So you gave it to him?
24(close-up) Johnny: Hell, no--Sheriff Hop showed up
& stopped the dance.
25(two-shot) angle on Bronson: You know, that’s not 
the way I heard it.
26(medium close-up) cut to Buck: That’s the way it was.
27(cut to medium wide shot) over the stiff backs of the 
five riders, with Buck & Johnny facing them.
28(series of jump-cut close-ups) Bronson, the Eagle, 
Thor, Buck, & the three cowhands.
29(sound cue) harmonica, saddles creaking, horses 
shifting hooves, & a dog growling.
30(close-up) bacon burning & smoking in a 
frying pan.
31(medium wide shot) Buck casually bent down, 
keeping Thor in his periphery, then lifted up the
blackened pan out of the low orange flames, & sat it
on a flat rock.
32(reverse the shot) Buck & Johnny with backs to the 
camera; --Bronson: Sorry about your vittles--straightening
up in the saddle, & folding his arms. Truth be told, 
Graff is a minor problem, & I choose to let you slide--
because when it comes to horse busting, I like your style; 
but get this clear, if you want wages from me, You will have 
to find a way to get along with Graff.
33(sound cue) guitar strumming.
34(two-shot) angle on Johnny, his features stoic, not respon-
ding.--Bronson: That brings us to a more serious problem--
that we need to deal with today; right now.
35( medium close-up) Buck: And what might that be?
--Bronson: I think that you boys need to know that you’re on 
my land.

36(sound cue) castanets & coronet.


Glenn Buttkus

OK, buckaroos, this is the last of the Review; from here on the episodes
will be new. Thanks to all the patient readers who trudged through all
54 scenes--and to the dozens of you who called for this review--you
are welcome. I am going on a three week road trip to TX starting next
week, so the saga continues after Thanksgiving. Hugs.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Wallspeak


image by glenn buttkus


Wallspeak

Even paradise could become a prison if one had
enough time to take notice of the walls.”
--Morgan Rhodes.

There are a few of us left,
     deep in the inner cities--walls
           on ancient buildings, walls of brick,
                     that back in the 20’s & 30’s were 
           decorated with billboard art, hand
     painted advertisements, many 
over the top of others, now
resembling a decopasge,
or several layers of peeling
wallpaper, just
                           part of a musty past that did not
                  have the media options to boost sales
          & public exposure. I’m still shocked to hear 
  that most people spend 12 bucks to see a single
movie and then have to sit through a tedious myriad
of television commercials on the sainted silver screen

                        while suffering the indignation of having
                        a third of the audience playing with their
                        smart phones throughout the feature.

I am the north wall of the exalted Pythian Temple, 
crumbling bravely on Broadway in the theater district in
Tacoma. I face a parking lot, where once a department store
stood shoulder to shoulder with me. My aching bricks are
festooned with fading overlapping ads for cigars, jewelry, a
painless dentist, Turkish cigarettes, & the New York &
Washington Outfitting Co, where “a dollar a week will dress you”, 
sad smile, or at least it would in 1924.

The Temple used to house over a hundred members, rich
businessmen (all fat white cats--no Jews or ethnic minor
-ities), the Donalds of their day, rivaling the Masons &
Kiwanis. There are less than twenty members at present, old
men in moldy double-breasted suits, huddled in dark corners
smoking pungent cigars--while hybrid & electric cars
back into me, smashing my ankles, graffiti swaths cover a
section of me by the alley, drunks urinate on me after dark,
& most folks just pass by hurriedly without greeting or
acknowledging me. Such is the plight of most century old
walls.

I realize that I have a fateful date with a behemoth
wrecking ball soon. There’s a rumor that following
my unceremonious demolishment the pesky parking
lot adjacent to me will double in size; terrific--then
folks who work downtown can cough up 20 bucks
a day to park their jalopies on my proud bones. Yes.
progress can be both trollop & succubus.

Pioneer buildings
are rarely saved by those who

need a place to park. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Dystopia Now


image borrowed from thisiscolossal.com


Dystopia Now

“Hate looks like everybody else, until
it smiles.”--Tahereh Mafi.

It is so damn hard not to keck--
      (reeettcchh&rallphh) or visualize a wreck--
(screech--bam--splotch), contemp(silver)plating
a probable fascist malversation          within a jingo
                                                        oval (orifice),
                                               over blood(y) roses,
                                           without a garden or a
                                slender shred of hope;

all the while suffering from
       susurrous message overload
             bomBard-ing our census for 18
                   minutes of every media hour we partake.
             Never have we had to face such          
       an imbroglio, akin to a Korean          
battle axe lodged in Lady Liberty’s        
             bronze brain.                           For Christ’s sake,
                                                    even Dick Tracy would  
                                                 never have attempted to
                                   view BEN HUR on his wrist watch,    
                               and brave Buck Rogers might have
                        balked at riding in a driverless Uber Taxi,     
                  opting to utilize the manual override.                 
  
Yes, it still angers me that ten year old children have leg(ull)
ac(kk)cess(pool) to porn on public library computers, but
then obviously objectivity suffers paralysis when beautiful
breasts fill the screen, pious priests parlay for pernicious
pedephillia, demanding alter boy harems, while
                          
                          ISIS  dispatches hundreds of suicide
                          bombers to Mosul, whistling banzai ballads
                          & hatching kamikaze daydreams--
                                    where the zealous brainwashed
                                     disregard for life garrotes any 
                          thoughts of a future, a family, or any
                          kind of world where cerulean blue skies
                                      swarm with white doves--
                                  paralleling the terrible hope--
                               lessness prevalent in ethnic
                           youth incased in our inner cities,
                     who prefer gang fellowship to
                 formal education, handguns to
              hockey, & drug money to
           poverty.

Futurists re-read I, ROBOT, praying that imminent
sentient technology will not emulate TERMINATOR

projections, or the lethal MATRIX WARS, and I tell
you sadly that nuclear annihilation is absolutely still

a viable carcinogen hungry to inhabit humanity, and
I fear insane hands hovering over apocalyptic launch

codes and flashing blood-red buttons, while hoping to
grope more women, initiate ethnic cleansing, construct

concentration camps & generate genocide, revitalizing all
my childhood nightmares of atomic bombs, Russian
paratroopers & macabre alien anal probes.


Regardless, I still
soldier on, struggling toward the

light of peace and love.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Kall Me Kokopelli


images borrowed from rationalobserver.com


Kall Me Kokopelli

“The flute is a heart song, like a
sweet prayer.”--Kokopelli.

Not far from Four Corners monument,
     I crossed into Colorado and drove up a
           steep winding road for miles, emerging out
     onto a pine tree forest on a high plateau
called Mesa Verde--named by Spanish
explorers in 1776, while America struggled
to become a country in the east.

                               This National Park was created in
                          1906 by Theodore Roosevelt, who was
                      the father of our park system. Indians lived
                 there in 7500 BCE, up to 22,000 of them, finally
             abandoning the area in 1250 AD after years of
      drought, warfare, & even cannibalism.

The park is huge, with over 600 cliff dwellings
       preserved there. with names like Fire Temple,
                                                            the Palace,
My young wife was able to climb        Spruce Tree House,
up & down the very steep stone         Square Tower,
steps so she could get close               Oak Tree House, &
to the sandstone villages, but              Sun Temple
I had to skirt along the jagged
edges of the cliffs, watching her with powerful binoculars.

This gave me more time to study all the petroglyphs. I
fell in love with the rock art star who appeared countless
times--the hunchbacked insect-like flute player called
Kokopelli, a god of agriculture, a fertility deity with
feathers or antenna protruding from his head, a spirit
of music, & a trickster god.

Ancient man always
adapted--carving homes out
of sandstone rock cliffs.





Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub