Tuesday, September 27, 2016


image by Emily Blincoe over at http://www.emilyblincoe.com


“Personality begins where comparisons leave off.”
--Shannon L. Alder

Pessimism bitch slaps optimism.
The earth & its moon tend to hide their dark side.
Comparisons are inevitable,
night and day,
yin & yang,
monochrome images juxtaposed to color ones,
perfect smiles vs. broken teeth,
athletes competing with the crippled,
molotov cocktails vs. tiger tanks,
men from Mars--women from Venus;
gods of war vs. nymphs of love,
bare knuckles compared to boxing gloves,
50’s shoe skates vs. roller blades,
dusky moths fluttering beside Monarch butterflies,
a 1949 Packard alongside a Nisson Leaf,
a garden spade vs. a steam shovel,
bare hands vs. an industrial crane,
a wheel barrow competing with a box car,
mountains towering over foothills,
a mud puddle in sight of the sea,
a sperm whale swimming with sardines,
& the Donald pretending to debate Hillary.

Art is so vast, it
surrounds & inspires us to
interpret its face.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, September 26, 2016


image by petapixel.com


“God is dead, & we killed him--but his
shadow still looms.”--Friedrich Nietsche.

Can anyone
take a stroll
after midnight.
even in a well-lit
city, without fearing
what lurks in the
shadows--                            that netherworld of
                                             scurrilous foes that
                                             live to hunt.
                                                       defile &
                                              we who walk in the light?

I doubt it.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Blackthorne--Review IX--Ep: 50-51

image from mbaldwinfineart.blogspot.com


Cinemagenics 50-51

Review  Part IX

“The couple of these reviews only garnered like a half
dozen comments. I understand, but it is disheartening
to work so hard on catching the readership up on the
story so far, only to witness little interest. Of course,
the reviews are lengthy, & most folks don’t want to
read more than one page; there it is--and now to

Fifty: Deception--Buck & Johnny built a holding corral in
a small alcove in a cliff. They staked out three unbroken 
mares in it. From ten feet or further, the tall sage that was
cut & stacked against the railings hid the corral--it just
looked like an open passage between two large boulders.
Above them, the Appaloosa & his herd stopped to
investigate. The stallion & the mares conversed. The breeze
blew from behind him. He did not smell the hidden men. 
Several of the mustangs were restless in the herd. The
Appaloosa silenced them. The stallion trotted down the
hill & stood at the opening. The tethered mares urged him
to come to them. After a few minutes of alacrity, he came
into the corral, and began nuzzling the mare. The sound of
the first pole slipping across the opening spooked him. He
whirled around & bolted toward the pole, but rapid fire a
second, third, & fourth pole slid into place blocking him--
& there were two men with ropes behind the poles.

Fifty-One: Capture--The Appaloosa raced around the 
holding pen, as the mare screamed & strained against
their lariats. He jumped, bucked, & kicked out hind legs,
then rose up on them, wild-eyed & punching at the dusty
air. Johnny & Buck stood quietly, their faces flushed with
excitement. The Eagle said, “God’s heuvos, that’s one
damn magnificent horse! Buck said, “Hey, brother. it
worked--Chatawa is ours!!” Johnny responded, “No, my 
Buck, he is all yours, jumping right out of the clouds for
you, folding back his wings, the mist still steaming off 
his spotted rump. He has great medicine & a warrior’s 
heart. One day soon he will be pleased to carry your
big bones.”  Buck, “Well, he’s not mine yet, for he has
run wild for a time, & only the arroyo wind has been his
rider.”  Johnny, “With him at stud, you will build the
finest rancho in the territory. Bronson will shit himself
with envy.” Johnny slipped through the poles, & stood
up, his yellow lariat in one hand--then he said, “Do 
you see his split ear? You luck holds, hombre, for he
is Nez Pierce trained. Appaloosas like him have 
already been tamed & ridden, but their spirit has not
been broken. Now he is calm, & he waits for a new
Master.” Buck sprouted a huge smile. The stallion
stood in front of the mares. Johnny, “Sure, I know,
hellfire stud, these now are your women. We are not
here to hurt them or you. No, no, we will give you 
love. Do you remember love, Chatawa.”  The stallion
held the Indian’s scent in his quivering nostrils, &
upon hearing his Indian name, he calmed down. 
The Eagle continued, “Yes, I’m talking to you, brave
boy--with the ass like thunderclouds. Do you remember
gentle hands, the smell of buffalo?”  Johnny pointed
to Buck, “There is a buffalo , right there. You & he will
be compadres. You two prairie giants have seen
plenty of those big humps crashing to earth, huh?”
He moved closer to the Appaloosa, his rope looped
now. “”Chatawa, do you see this rope?” He tossed 
the rope loop on the ground near the horses hooves.
“That’s right, it’s just an old rope, not a snake, harmless.
It smells of horses, mesquite, buffalo crap, sweat, & me.”
He gathered up the rope & stepped closer. The dappled
stud lunged at him, but Johnny side-stepped, & flicked
the wide lariat loop over the horse’s head, then quickly
swing-wrapped it around a breaking post. The horse
stopped & stood tall. “You see, it’s alright, you are not
hurt.” The Indian bent down & plucked out a handful
of sweet bunch grass, & tossed it near the stallion.
Chatawa accepted the offering, & began to munch it.
Johnny unwrapped his end of the rope, & dropped it
into the red dust. Johnny & Buck leaned against the
railings, just smiling & enjoying the company. Johnny
said, “It grows late, boss. Let’s unstake the mares &
let them all calm down over night. We will continue
this in the morning. I tell you he has a great spirit--I
have never seen greater.” Buck said, “Yes, and he has
known love. That will be our key with him--his heart.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Passionate Plumage

image from fancyfeathers.com

Passionate Plumage

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches
in the soul.”--Emily Dickinson.

As much as most of us love birds,
    appreciate birdsong & colorful plumage,
        we must not forget, as my grandfather used 
    to say, “they are just snakes with wings.”
True that--for feathers evolved from
the types of scales on reptiles and
dinosaurs; they developed much
like hair follicles, & are considered
to be the most complex structure in
all vertebrates.

                                  Feathers of all kinds do fascinate
                         those who do not possess them. I can
                       never pass up the inspection of a fallen
                    feather on the beach or in my yard. Eagle
                 & hawk feathers are sacred to the Native
               Americans. In South America they cherish
         Condor feathers, & in India it is the plumage
of the Peacock that they value most.

Although feathers facilitate flight for most birds, we
must not forget that bats, squirrels & insects just use
tissue to catch the air for their form of flight, & they 
seem to fly just fine without feathers.

Personally, I’ve never written with a quill, made mostly 
from goose feathers, but I’ve seen people use them and
I adore the delicious scratching sound it makes when in
contact with paper. Pen comes from the Latin word, penna,
which means feathers. The French word, plume, which can
mean either pen or feather.

Who has not wanted
to soar like a bird, floating
high on hot thermals?

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, September 15, 2016

Clara Hewe Quartet

image from fineartamerica.com

Clara Hewe Quartet

“ The art of Biography
is different from Geography.
Geography is about maps.
but Biography is about chaps.”
--Edmund Clerihew Bentley.

Rogue candidate Donald J. Trump
would love to give America a hump.
He hides more than he ever reveals,
the truth squirming like a bag of eels.


There was a good time when I felt the Bern
as Sanders got screwed at every turn.
Oh how I miss his wishful thinking and
proletarian candor,
and his beauteous Populist banter.

Trump should have picked Ms. Wingnut, Sarah Palin
as running mate--to further sink his candidacy 
thats certainly ailing,
but he decided instead to go with Pence,
who probably is much less dense.


Now sometimes maligned & ridiculed, Al Gore
beat W by a ton, still Bush Jr. managed
to snare more
electoral votes in Florida, helped by his brother
& hanging chads blessed by his mother.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

New Men's Meat Market

image by Glenn Buttkus

New Men’s Meat Market

“The company’s good and the mornings are quiet, which
is a good time to write.”--Landlord of a Bordello.

When I was 13
                 I was on a road trip 
                      with my grandfather & uncle
                             in the eastern side of the panhandle
                                    of Idaho. It was 1957, and I was big for
                             my age. Sitting around the campfire
                       one morning, my uncle got a twinkle
                   in his eyes & he said, “I’m  going to
            take Butch into town. It’s time that
      he got bred.”
My grandfather chuckled
and went fishing.

The town was Wallace,
famous for silver mines in the late 1800’s,
tucked into a narrow valley,
surrounded by the Rockies,
straddling the Coeur d’Alene River,
a stone’s throw from the Montana border.

                                     My Uncle was a long haul truck driver,
and he was very familiar with one of
                                     the unique features of the town--it had
five whore houses. He walked me up
                  to the front door of one of
                  his favorites--The New Men’s Meat Market.
                  I was both excited & terrified.

We entered the establishment and
       strutted up to a shiny old fashioned bar.
             There were a dozen prostitutes sitting around
                    in black underwear on red velveteen chairs & 
love seats. It was ten o’clock in the mo(u)rning.

The wrinkled Madam, with a bright red beehive hair-do, 
served Dick a beer, & in a voice that sounded like a bull frog,
said, “Hey, Slick, you realize we don’t do children.”

My randy uncle smiled, shrugged, & handed me his wallet, 
before rushing upstairs with a tall blond who had huge 
hooters. I sat awkwardly on a soft overstuffed chair that stank
of cologne. Several of the girls made kissing noises, and/or
whispered to one another, holding up their pinky finger &
staring right at me. I felt a blush boiling up in my cheeks.

                                    Uncle Dick came downstairs in just
                           under fifteen minutes. He pulled up at his
                 britches, finished his tepid beverage, saluted the 
            gathering of naughty ladies & pushed me ahead of
him out of the place. He took on
a serious tone as he remarked,
“It’s probably just as well. You
are a tad young to have your
ashes hauled anyways.” 

This summer, my wife and I visited Wallace, more than sixty
years after that incident. The last cat house had closed down
in 1989. While I strolled around town snapping pics of 
pioneer structures, my wife took a bordello museum tour.
Later, as she recounted the particulars, my grin was wider
than usual.

As hormones rage, most
boys struggle to become men,
and women just smile.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub


Monday, September 12, 2016


image from sheilawolk.com


“The highest revelation is that God 
is in every man.”--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

When we perform
looking deep within,
supposedly to discover
some answers,
what we open
is a version            of Pandora’s box;
                    trillions of pieces
          of the cosmic puzzle,
where we witness
our aura
mantled in rainbows.

provides no answers for our
metaphysical search.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at