Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Concerto For Time Bandits

image borrowed from bing

Concerto For Time Bandits

“Old Time--his factory is a secret place, his work
is noiseless, & his hands are mute.”--Charles Dickens.

TIME: A non-spatial continuum in which events occur in
apparently irreversible succession from the past through
the present to the future.

The White Rabbit dashes about the Queen’s maze
                             staring at his large pocket watch:
                  I’m late, I’m late
                  for a very important date--
but like a gerbil spinning on his exercise wheel,
                             he went nowhere fast,           in a conflict
                             with inertia, caught forever
                             within the thorny parameters of the Now;
a prisoner,
a victim,                painfully aware that victory does not
                             always go to the swift--
just ask Tom Tortoise. 

Each of us squats comfortably
                              on our very own section of this planet,
                                                 trying valiantly to understand
                                                 latitude, & all those damned
Time Zones.          I reside in the Northwest, my wife is visiting
family in Texas, & as I write this she is two hours ahead of me,
                              while my oldest daughter in Maryland exists
three hours ahead--& so it goes traveling East  
                              ripping through zone after zone
traveling in an unbroken circle
                              until you bump into the butt of your own shadow,
arriving right back where you started; while some bush pilot
                              in Alaska struggles an hour behind me.
            When I traveled to Australia from California,
            dipping deep into the upside down reality of the Southern
            Hemisphere, speeding 8000 miles in 18 hours, I arrived
in Sydney the day before I left, & hey, when I returned, I arrived
            in LA 2 hours before I departed. 

Sometimes I find it to be fun to stop by a Clock Shop,
& stand in the actual moment
completely surrounded by thousands
of clicking, clanking, squeaking, whirring & twitching
springs & wheels housed in hundreds of time pieces--
                each a microcosm unto itself, a mechanical
miniature universe, inhabited by
                a vast population of dust mites, & while
our imagination has been focused so microscopically,
                 we take the opportunity to peer even further
                 within to a sub-atomic world
                 where a grain of sand
would appear to loom as large as Ayers Rock,
                 where Time stands still--

and that doesn’t even scratch the surface
                 of attempting to master or understand 
even while dropping into a whirlpool or worm hole,
                  folding back the edges of dimensional reality,
                  rocketing unimaginable distances
                                  while violating the laws of physics,
without even considering the metaphysical postulates
that beyond the Veil, Time does not,
                                           can not exist--
where Past, Present, & Future cohabit a linear continuum,
       the mysteries
                       of Life all
                                  become beautiful
                                                          pods of clarity.

So, what the hell time is it, you ask?
Well, you are standing in the pivotal center of it,
& it is later than you think,
& earlier than you would like it to be. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Yes, Alice, Poets Do Have Balls

image borrowed from bing

Yes, Alice, Poets Do Have Balls

“A dress makes no sense unless it inspires men
to want to take it off you.”--Francoise Sagan.

Brian came
           as bad boy Banksy, wearing
                              Ray Ban silver goggles, paint-smeared gloves
           with no fingers, with his mohawk
                                                 moussed straight up, with
                                                 red tips like cock Chanticleer;
he had three 10 foot wide canvasses
                               already painted like the sides of buildings,
& he was busy with his paint cans
                                               creating graffiti art
                                               that had Israeli fighter jets
dueling with Hamas rocket launchers,
                    while Obama & other heads of state
                    stood by wrapped in their country’s flags.

Claudia came as Zenobia,
                    the rebel Queen of Tadmor,
                                    paramour to Simon, the son of Barrabas,
                     tall & tanned, shirtless, & on her arm;
her gilded crown was offset
                                    by a large ruby in her navel, accenting
                                    her tight & toned tummy. She held court
over in a corner in front of her easel,
               where she painted watercolor caricatures
                                    of the guests. 

Bjorn came as hero Gideon Sunback, who
                        invented the modern prototype
for the zipper, wearing
                        a very tall felt top hat &
                        a  very tight red leather jump suit
that was covered with 100 multi-colored zippers, whose
              heads tinkled like fairy tunes
                                    as he pranced around giving
out those delicious Marabou Swedish chocolate bars. 

Glenn came as a Thracian gladiator,
           with a wide leather belt barely encasing his bulk,
his bulging waist trussed but still ample, his hairy
            chest properly salted with age, with leather wrist
                                    straps laced up with cat gut,
carrying a small shield on his left shoulder,
                                       & a short rubber-tipped Roman
gladius on his right hip, working
                  the room, saying to everyone--
                  “Hi, I am Spartacus, how you doin’ ?”

Gay sat on plush red & yellow cushions playing her guitar,
                            warbling Joni Mitchell,
                                          Joan Baez &
                                          Carol King tunes, dressed
like a hippy goddess in a bright tie-dyed khafkan 
                             & a long earthen brown flowing skirt,
with fresh flowers in her hair; with a small crowd
                             of admirers gathered at her bare feet. 

Victoria came as Florence Nightgale, with
             the crimson red cross
                             on her starched white nurse’s cap,
perfectly matching the red of 
                             the short velvet cape she wore;
sitting demurely at a red card table,
signing & giving away copies of
                              WINTER HAS PAST &
                              THE SIN OF HIS FATHER.

Laurie was in a beach outfit, wearing
           a wide brimmed straw hat, with
           a golden ribbon as its hat band,
over-sized pink sunglasses,
                         sequined lip gloss, with
a well-worn Texas A&M tank top
                         over her green bikini top
& the shortest shorts one could imagine; sitting
              on a blue couch
                         hob-knobbing with everyone
                         who strolled by; talking all about
how she was fixin’ to publish a new book real soon.

Shanyn was there too, dressed up like Annie Oakley,
                           carrying her Red Ryder air rifle, feeding
her Shetland Palomino pony,
                            carrots & oats out of a chrome bucket, offering
free rides to everyone’s kids, her own laugh
                so infectious, the place erupted with the delectable
bubbly laughter of dozens of children. 

Yeah, I think everyone made an appearance.
          Joe was there dressed up like Jim Bridger, letting
everyone play with his black powder muzzle-loader.
          Mary had her three canine companions,
                                 Basil &
all on jeweled leashes, & they were wagging their butts
as they kiss-licked all the newcomers at the door.
          Tony was in a kilt, wearing a ten gallon cowboy hat.

                         Man, when would this boisterous reverie
ever end?         It has been going on for three days
now--it will probably last
                         362 more days.
                         That’s the rumor,
& I’m sticking to it. 

Glenn Buttkus

Would you like to hear the author read this poetic lark to you?

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Quartet Quandary

Image borrowed from Bing

Quartet  Quandary 

“There are issues of trust, deep trust, in the way the members
of a string quartet learn to interact with one another.”
--Yo-Yo Ma.

“My life has been a dance that has walked a song 
that was spoken”--Maya Angelou

There can be, 
there is poetry in the naked motion
            of sports heroes,
                body builders & dancers;
where gluts flex boldly over
                                    undulating thighs,
                                                     bulging calves
                                                                  & expressive feet;
where Abs stand in rigid rows
                                    like militiamen on parade,
where deltoids partner with 18” biceps,
                                     with triceps as wing men;
where hands stroke their lovers,
                      sculpt faces from granite,
                                paint giant flowers that resemble
                                vaginal vessels of loveliness. 

“If you are a dreamer, come in, sit by my fire, for we have
flax-golden tales to spin.”--Shel Silverstein.

I tell you we must dream about Peace even
               while we wield the weapons of War,
               follow orders,
               take innocent lives;
while we witness others among us
               waving Confederate flags,
                            calling our President
                                             a mongrel nigger monkey,
or standing with oaken billy clubs
                            & preventing black Americans
                                             from voting;
while we suffer the staggering ignorance of
elitist bullies who
         dearly love to keep their boots
                                         on the beautiful necks
                                                                   of white doves;
for Peace is achievable, but it has to be fought for--
     Liberty has never been a mere entitlement;
                        it is reward for our sacrifices.

“The word was born in the blood, grew up in the dark body,
beating, & took flight through the lips & mouth.”
--Pablo Neruda.

And what is the Word--
                          Love, Larceny, Lunacy--
                          Bastard, Brotherhood, Buttock--
                          Equality, Elephant, Evergreen--
                          Hindu, Hate, Horny--
                          Rose, Rhyme, Rigor-mortis--
                          Ferrari, Fellacio, Fire--
                          Cheetah, Callous, Conflict--
                          Breast, Bathroom, or Buick?
And how is the Word communicated best,
               through speech, epithet, prose, or poetry?
And the answer is YES,
               each word a gift, the birth
               of a child, where you are cast as
                                                                Parent, & Pariah
in equal measure.         Yes not No, the sonorous sound of your voice
                               with the breathy hum of your inner harmony.

" A man can get by for 70 years without a piece of ass, but
he will die in a week without a bowel movement.”
--Charles Bukowski.

My grandfather often used to tell me,
                         “ The day will come, my boy, when you would
rather take a good crap than have
                           a terrific piece of ass.”
Though I am not aboard that boat
               yet, I can attest to the fact
               that Cascara Sagrada
can be a gentle friend when life’s conflicts
                                             lead to a bewildering state
                                             of constipation.
We are certainly not fooling our colons,
                for it is keenly aware of when
                                             we are full of shit. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets

Would ou like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Friday, June 27, 2014

Blackthorne--Scene Twenty-Seven

image borrowed from bing


Cinemagenic Twenty-Seven


“An artist should not be conscious of his insights, should not
recognize or detain them--just allow them to transform themselves
into a beautiful work.”--Rainer Maria Rilke.

1(sound cue) slow snare drum baps,
2(medium 2-shot) angle on Buck’s back, weapons lowered, facing
the Sheriff.
--Sheriff: My name’s Joe Hop. I represent the law in this town; set
your bangers down & point those fingers at the sky.
Buck squatted down slowly & gently put the pistol & sawed off on the boardwalk.
3(CU) on Buck, wearing a small smile.
--Buck: Yeah, the barber was just jawing about you when we got
interrupted. (putting his hands up from the elbows only).
4(cut to a medium wide shot) a lath-thin deputy stepped out of the barber shop
5(sound cue) Broken glass popping under his boots, with harmonica huffing.
6--& stood alongside Hop, easily a head taller.
Hop: (keeping his eyes on Buck) Talk to me, Marcus.
--Deputy: Barnes is gut-shot but breathing; I sent Bob for Doc Kellner.
The Sheriff handed his shotgun to his deputy, then bent down & picked up
Buck’s irons. He slipped the pistol into his own belt, & pointed the sawed-off
directly at Buck’s chest. 
7(Switch to a reverse shot) Behind Hop & Marcus, angle on Buck’s angry face.
8(sound cue) elongated soft violin bowing.
9(hold the reverse medium wide shot) The Sheriff pulls out the pistol.
10(Cut to medium CU) The Sheriff inspects the pistol, then sniffs the cylinder.
--Hop: This gun’s been fired recently.
11(reverse shot) Hop’s shoulder, Buck’s face:
--Yup, twice; had a little scuffle over to the CHINA DOLL. Feller named Ramos
gave me no choice in the matter.
12(sound cue) acoustic guitar strumming.
13(close-up) Hop: Did you shoot our barber? Hell, he is the only one we got.
--Buck (VO): I had no call to do that. 
14(cut to a crane shot) pulling back wide, revealing that a crowd of townspeople
was beginning to gather.
--Hop: You got a name?
--Buck: Buck.
--Hop: Just Buck?
--Buck: Rod Buck.
--Hop: Where you from?
--Buck: South.
--Hop: (chuckling) Kind of vague--South.
--Buck: The mountains, Mexico, the big Out There.
--Deputy: You’d better answer the Sheriff’s questions, Hoss--
you’re in a shit pot of trouble.
16(sound cue) Indian Snake Rattle, castanets.
17(medium close up) Buck: I suppose you figure I just shot this fellow
for the hell of it, & then stood calmly out here in the street waiting for
you two to get the drop on me?
18(Cut to a wide shot) Angle on a aproned figure with a wild shock of
white hair pushing his way through the crowd. It was Henry Wallace,
the storekeeper. 
Wallace: He’s innocent, Joe, so climb the deuce off his back.
19(medium wide shot) Wallace standing beside Buck, with Hop & the Deputy
facing them. 
--Hop: Alright, Henry, tell us all what the Sam Hill happened here?
--Buck: I was just fixin’ to tell you that.
20(sound cue) accordion & juice harp.
21(medium CU) Hop: Am I talking to you? You just stand there keeping those
hands in the air.
22(CU) Wallace: Christ, Sheriff, I wasn’t the only one who saw it. God damn it,
a person can get shot right here in the middle of the street, & everyone will just
step over him--like he wasn’t there!
--Hop (VO) Rein up some there, Henry.
--Wallace: So where in the hell were you a while ago when that ruckus broke out
in Bronson’s pig wallow? Probably off somewhere fishing or chasing a lace
petticoat, right?
23(sound cue) low notes on a clarinet, reedy.
24(medium close up) Hop: Why Mr. Wallace, your accusations wound me to the
25(pull back to a wide shot) Two dozen people have gathered around them now.
--Hop: For everyone’s information, I was over to see Judge Jeremy in King City,
& I just came back to town a short while ago--just before all this affair developed, &
my deputy didn’t have time to fill me in on what might have occurred in my absence. 
26( Angle on Wallace)
--Hop (VO): So please tell me now, what did you see?
27(sound cue) French horn low riffs.
28(medium close up) Wallace: Two masked horsemen, riding Bronson Ranch
jugheads, came busting down the street & when they passed the barber shop
they blasted the window out of it; never slowing down, they turned into that
alley & rode like blue blazes out the other end. 
29(pull back to medium wide shot) A stocky farmer, a big Swede, in bibbed
overalls stepped up: Das right--he told it true. I seen the same thing. 
30(medium two-shot) 
--Hop: That’s all?
--Wallace: Pretty much.
--Hop: Where were you when this happened?
--Wallace: I was in front of my store loading supplies on this gentleman’s
horse( to Buck ) What did you say your name was?
31(medium CU) Buck dropped his hands, folded his thick arms across his
massive chest, staring at the Sheriff.
--Hop (VO): Buck, he said it was Rod Buck. 
32(sound cue) Saloon piano & Indian flute.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN  

Would you like the author to read this Cinemagenic poem to you?

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Epithetic Elephant Erasers

image borrowed from bing

Epithetic Elephant Erasers

“All the world’s religions are just the mirror
of the One Face.”--Dada JP Vaswani.

Never give a pink goose      a nickel-plated .45,
                             for you need paper-mache 
rhino skin to survive
                     all those impregnated voyages
                             of discovery,
                             or deeper yet, dropping below
                     the sagittal crust.

Words can be
           sung, or
no matter whose foul gums they have been between,
            but certainly before
                                 as you spew their spawn
            like dancing dew bubbles dangling lustily
all along the dazzling ditches
                                 of spider web blue highways,
watch the five crows flying
                                 on gossamer bat wings
                                 into the dusky jeweled colon
of the nearly noxious night. 

Truth is, can be,
         as gritty as alkaline dust
         clinging to the calculus
between your malicious molars, because
         everyone already knows,
                         but chooses to ignore the fact
that Morality dissipates quickly
                         after the angry guns
                         are drawn,
because God & Jesus don’t ride Mopeds, man,
                         and the Beasts can easily outrun you. 
If you do shoot a grizzly
                         in your pajamas,
how in hell did he get them on?

So conflictingly droll to see God daily
                         using public transport,
mantled China Red in bloody robes,
                                               like a mad monk,
              postulating that Music is
              the Gospel Silence
              between the black lines,
                             below the bars,
                             adjacent to,
                             over the naughty notes,
because elitist demi-gods ride the hot rails
              preferring first class,
                              thrusting invisible wisdom
              into brown sausage skins
                              beyond our pitiful grasp,
worshipping manic mimicry
             over any form of original thought. 

Contrary to media blitzes, Plato
                   was so much more than
                   a randy cross-dressing putz
                                running roughshod
over his nubile harem of young boys, so
if your female doctor
                    asks you to stop masturbating,
                                 perhaps even with her wet lips
                                 pursed, she only wants
to listen to your heart, being
                    dismayed at hearing the half-beats
of loneliness, realizing that you have neglected
                     to connect
to that counterpoint companion
                     that still might complete you. 

We do adore our heroes
            until they machete off their
            girlfriend’s head, disregarding
that only Monarch butterflies
            fully understand the transience of Beauty,
while rejecting longevity, 
burning brightly, never missing a chance
                           to appear at a Town Hall Meeting,
                           or to flutter naked in
a Butthole Surfers rock video. 

Is all Art just
        shredded reconstituted
        plagiarism, of do we come
into this world astride a bilious bubble
              of cosmic dew,
already cognizant that Sartre
              ate horse shit sandwiches,
already understanding that Paul & John
were not popes, God forbid, no
              they were Beatled revolutionaries
                               leading us blithely to the government
ghettos of Dystopian Depths
                               or Utopian Heights,
as city planners enjoy the developer’s dole,
           greedily suckling the neon tits of Graft. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this Dada poem to you?