Wednesday, October 16, 2019

Blackthorne Episode 103




image from pulpcovers.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 103

Bulletspeak

“Thoughts are the gun, words are the bullets,
the bullseye is heaven.”--Douglas Horton.

1(sound cue) French horn and kettle drum.
2(tight one-shot) Buck fired both pistols at once.
3(cut to overhead wide drone shot) and both
brigands went down like twin tin ducks.
4(two shot) one was dead, shot through the
temple, the other was wounded just above
the kidneys. He rolled over and fired back at
Buck.
5(sound cue) two loud simultaneous shots.
6(tight one shot) Before Buck saw the gunman’s
smoke, the Thunderer had thrown a bullet at him.
7(close-up) a sledge hammer hit Buck on the 
side of his head.
8(sound cue) Coronet, one loud long note.
9( cut to overhead crane shot) both men 
lurched forward, thudding to the dirt.
10(medium one-shot) When Johnny saw Buck fall,
he raised up, his shoulder open to the bone,
his forearm numb, his left knee cap crushed,
his rifle pointing at nothing.
11(close-up) Johnny: BUCK !!
12(one-shot) the Eagle felt his guts explode
as a rifle slug tore apart his abs. Johnny
clenched his teeth, dropped his Winchester,
sinking to his knees. Both hands went to his
screaming bowels, holding them in, keeping
them from rolling out into the dust.
13(medium wide shot) The firing stopped. 
Johnny could hear the chickens, the windmill
creaking over the ranch well, and the sound
of the bunkhouse front door opening.
     The gunman from the bunkhouse walked out
slowly onto the porch, his rifle cradled over his
left arm, and a pistol in his right hand. 
14(sound cue) guitar.
15(medium close up) He was a big man, with a
dirty face and a shapeless hat.
16(medium wide shot) He took a few steps into
the yard, his eyes riveted on Johnny, waiting for
the Eagle to reach for the gun at his elbow; but
Johnny just sat there, his eyes to the ground,
holding his guts in. The brigand raised his pistol.
17(sound cue) three shots, fanned almost as one,
blasted across the yard.
18(one-shot) one bullet hit him in the throat, piercing
a hunk of chewing tobacco--one slug struck him
near his heart; blood splattered into the air. The third
hunk of angry lead hit him in the left eye. His body
leaped backwards, like someone had jerked him
with a rope. He pirouetted to the ground like he had
been run over by a stagecoach, dead in the dive.
19(cut to one-shot) Buck stood in the corral, blood
running from the gash in his temple, down over the
side of his face, the Thunderer and the Navy Colt
puffing faint blue smoke.
20(sound cue) piano and harmonica.
21(close-up) the sweat and blood stung in the 
corner of his eyes, and he couldn’t focus on
anything. He shook his head violently. It didn’t
help. He stumbled over to the corral rails, and
leaned against them. He holstered the 
Thunderer, returning it to its cage. He tossed the
Navy Colt into the dirt. The left side of his face
stung as the heat from the flaming ranch house
danced across it. 
22(wide shot) He stared at the house. The flames 
sprang hundreds of feet into a poppy red sky, as
the hungry fire consumed the barn and the house.
23(two-shot) the palomino carriage horse, his
gentle eyes on Buck, sat with his legs under him,
still harnessed to his dead companion.
      Buck struggled over to Johnny. The Eagle did
not look up, kept staring at the ground holding his
stomach. Buck knelt down, wiping the blood from
his eyes, shaking his head as more rolled in from  
the wound. The fires raged behind them.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at  dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Purple Majesty




image from amazon.com


Purple Majesty

“If there actually is majestic poetry in my book about
the sea, it’s simply because no one can write
truthfully about the sea, and leave out the poetry.”
--Rachel Carson.

There can be
a majesty
in so very many things--
mountains do top my list, 
living as I do in
the Pacific Ring Of Fire
volcanos.

Kings, Queens and royalty
occupy the bottom of my list,
for they are merely
just iconic shadow memories
as they cling to tradition
with their fingernails.
Their fabulous wealth and status
are ludicrous and ridiculous,
even silly.

If I were King of the World,
I would disband
all the royal families;
they would scurry from me
as the aristocrats did during
the French & Russian Revolutions.
I would return their wealth and property
back to the people.

Asshat Trump would love
to be called Your Majesty,
instead of    Your Miserableness,
                    Your Malfunctionalness,
                    Your Mafianess,
                     Your Misinthropicness, and
                     Your Minimalness.
                      
Trump is leaving a shit stain
on the future pages of history
that will never be able to be
spun or beautified.

There is so much more out here
that can be labeled as majestic;
a person’s kindness,
                  love
                  loyalty,
                  faithfulness,
                  devotion
                  heart,
                  talent,
                  creativity,
                  imagination,
and as Eliza Farnham said,
the majestic mistress, the soul.

To me,
my incredible wife
has a majestic soul.
She is our family’s Matriarch,
and completely my soul mate.
She lights up a room
when she enters it,
and she floods our hearts
with an unmatched love.

A buzzard is not
majestic, but still it has
an important role.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, October 14, 2019

Good Indians




image from fineartamerica.com


Good Indians

“It almost seems that nobody can hate America
more than Native Americans. America needs new
immigrants to love and cherish it.
--Eric Hoffer.

Columbus Day--BFD. Most of us know that
Columbus did not discover America. He never
set foot on it. He made four voyages across the
Atlantic, and he made landfall in the Caribbean,
Central America, and South America. He was 
searching for a trade route to the East Indies;
that’s why he named the indigenous people he
encountered Indios. The Mongols had cut off
access to the Silk Road.

The American tragedy was not a new one.
Throughout the entire globe, as conquerors,
and colonists discovered the indigenous
populations, they murdered, abused, robbed,
raped and enslaved them. Indigenous tribes
were called many things, Natives, Aboriginals,
Originals, and First People. Several thousand
years of residency meant nothing to the new-
comers and outlanders. In Seattle today we
celebrate Indigenous Peoples Day--fuck
Columbus.

Working for the VA for decades, I found out that
working with Native American Vets took special
skills. Annually they send some employees to
attend a week long Native American Sensitivity 
Training. I attended a session in 1997. It was held
at Camp Chaparral, on the Yakima Reservation, on
the east side of Mt. Adams.

We gathered daily to hear Vets testimonials regarding,
alcoholism, education, wife battering, drugs and
suicide. I entered a sweat lodge and passed out during
hour two. I found my niche in the Artist’s Hogan. I 
made sketches and drawings of Pow Wow dancers and
gave them away as gifts. One of them is still framed
and hanging on their Wall of Respect. I became an 
honorary member of the Yakima tribe. I made several
good friends. We stayed in touch for a couple of 
years, but then we let the bond slip away, quietly at 
night on a warm Spring breeze. I could hear the 
haunting flutter of a branch flute as it departed.

Eagles nested in
a tree outside my window;
I gave them good names. 



Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, October 10, 2019

Beautiful




image from amazon.com


Beautiful

“When’s the last time an actor has assassinated a
President? It’s been a while--perhaps it’s time.”
--Johnny Depp.

The career and persona of
   John Christopher Depp III has
      fascinated me. From his stint on the
              series 21 JUMP STREET, when he
      became a teen idol, to his 40 year
    career playing geeks and misfits,
he still found time for straight
dramatic parts in PLATOON,
                            FINDING NEVERLAND, 
                            DONNIE BRASCO and
                            DEADMAN.

The camera loves him, with his dark
handsome features, pouty lips and
chick magnet eyes. Women sense
what they think is his vulnerability,
sad lost soul, and bad boy posture.
Beautiful men are branded as very
effeminate by most other men.

                              Born in Kentucky, he
                     claimed a Native American
             heritage, It’s probably Cherokee
     several generations ago.
This caused
the Cherokee Nation to challenge his claim,
as they had done with Johnny Cash, Elvis
and Burt Reynolds.

I used to feel the same
way. My family claimed I had a great great
grandmother who was Cherokee. Recently
I had my DNA checked, and the only
        aboriginal blood I have belongs to the
                Inuit of Eastern Asia. Johnny luck-
                       out when a female fan, who is
                               Comanche, adopted him.

His career has been quirky and completely
unorthodox, but regardless, he became a
huge success. He is the third highest paid
actor in the world. He has been
nominated for 10 Golden Globes,
and has won one.
He has been nominated
for 3 Academy Awards.
His movies have grossed
more than 14 billion dollars.

His love life has be a whirlpool,
with several wives,
and dozens of girlfriends.
He has been accused of
battering many of them.
He admits to spending
40K a month on drugs & booze,
which doesn’t faze him, since
he’s worth 75 million.

He is a talented musician as well.
He formed a rock band, which
he at first called TONTO’S GIANT NUTS.
Today the band is called
                           THE HOLLYWOOD VAMPIRES.


Undoubtedly, he is one of the most
unique, bizarre, and mysterious
artists alive. I can dig it.



Glenn Buttkus

Ekphrasis

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, October 8, 2019

Pop




My grandfather.


Pop

“More and more, when I single out the person who
most inspired me, I go back to my grandfather.”
--James Earl Jones.

Earl Melbourne Carpenter was born in Colville, WA.
in 1897. He grew up on a farm, raising apples and
watermelons. Twice a week, his Dad would load up
a wagon with fruit, drive it ten miles to town to sell 
the produce. Earl was the only son, so he always 
accompanied his father, eager to see the elephant, 
and get a candy cane. Colville swarmed with farmers,
ranchers, miners, and lumberjacks; all jobs that
young Earl would later try on for size.

There was no middle name on his birth certificate,
so when he was 18, he gave himself the name
“Melbourne”. He had read about Australia, and
dreamed about going there some day, and doing
some homesteading. He never made it there, but
he kept the dream alive.

I made my appearance in 1944, and he became a
grandfather at 47. Before I was born, he moved the
family from Spokane to Seattle, driving a Model T
Ford, pulling a trailer. In 400 miles it broke down a
dozen times. He always called this his Steinbeck
period, “It was pure Grapes of Wrath time.”

During the Depression, midst soup lines, erratic
unemployment, and fist fights with cops and thugs
while on picket lines...he became a progressive,
joining the Communist Party. This haunted him
later during the McCarthy witch hunts.

He made a living as a house and bridge painter,
joining the union. Heights never bothered him.
He thought he could make a fine steeplejack.
In his spare time, he was an artist, painting
Western landscapes in the style of Charlie Russell.
In his life he painted hundreds of these, getting
a modest reputation.

When I was about ten, one day I took stock of him,
becoming more aware of who he was in the world.
He had always been a laborer, and had muscular
arms and shoulders. He was six feet tall, combed 
his hair straight back (always smelling of Rose hair
oil), always wore glasses, had false teeth, and wore
a thin mustache in the style of the 30’s movie stars.
He had piercing hazel eyes. He had big powerful
hands. It was fascinating to watch him working on
an oil painting, as those big hands delicately held
thin camel hair brushes.

He was always more like a father to me than just a
grandparent. He was very aware that I had no idea
who my biological father was. My mother had passed
away by the time I was in the Navy. It was my
grandfather who wrote me twice a week. After he died,
I was surprised that he had kept all my letters, for I
had kept all of his letters to me as well. Today, all of
our letters are mixed together by date, and are stored
in a metal brief case that he had kept his oil paints in.

As an actor, I
travelled to Australia for
work; he just loved it.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, October 7, 2019

Liar in Chief




image from grandamericanstore.com


Liar in Chief

“Things come apart so easily when they are held
together with lies.”--Dorothy Allison.

We have
a presidency
set in lies.

I’d like to set
my time machine
for December 2020,
and discover who
has been set in office.

I’ll tell you what,
my mind is pre-set...
Vote Blue,
No matter Who.
we just have to
Dump Trump.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, October 2, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 102




image from pulpcovers.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 102

Pistoleros

“A shootout is not a gunfight of honor, it is the 
work of backshooters.”--Jessica Savitch.

1(overhead drone shot) wide shot, Johnny behind 
the tree, Buck behind the carriage; silence between
gunfire.
2(sound cue) guitar strumming over Voice Over:
Buck: Are you still with me, old one?
Muffled horse cries.
3(cut to medium close-up) Johnny: I am shot to
hell, but they cannot kill me.
4(jump cut) a ranch cat screeched and hissed as
it bolted out of the bunkhouse.
5(sound cue) fiddle and Indian branch flute.
6(roving overhead crane shot) Neither man spoke
for a long moment. The barn roared and crackled
with flames. The horses were silent. The ranch
house began to blow out windows. Bullet casings
clicked as they were shoved into cylinders and
rifle breeches. 
7(close-up) Buck: Sonofabitch--you were too right!
8(medium close-up) Johnny, clenching his teeth,
reloading his Winchester, but saying nothing.
His wounds were beginning to stiffen up. The
front of his shirt was blood-soaked.
9(sound cue) snare drum and banjo.
10(medium one-shot) Buck: Cover me! He began
running, crouching as he ran toward the house.
Firing resumed suddenly from many directions.
11(cut back to roving crane shot) the wrangler
in the woodshed attempted to pin Johnny down,
while the three in the bunkhouse sprinkled shots
all around Buck as he now sprinted; no sign of
life from under the front porch.
     Buck made it to the north side of the house.
Angry slugs split the siding as he ducked behind
it. The gunman in the woodshed appeared, and
squatted behind a tall chopping block, hoping to 
get a better shot at Buck. The Eagle delivered
30-30 lead to his stomach as he crouched. He
stood up. Johnny shot him in the throat. He
fell over the chopping block, and crumpled
into a heap, as his rifle barrel was crammed
into the hot dirt.
12(sound cue) it went quiet again, just the
sound of the wind, and grumpy chickens.
13(wide shot) Buck worked his way along
the west side of the house. He paused at
the south corner. The intense heat from
inside the house penetrated the walls. 
Buck bobbed his way out from the corner, 
both guns cocked and leveled at the front
porch. No one was there. 
14(cut to the burning barn) the barn’s roof
caved in, crashing down, as the greedy
flames leaped higher. 
15(medium wide shot) a gunman, the one
from under the porch, was crawling on his
hands and knees across the corral, holding
his side where Buck had wounded him.
Buck snapped off a pistol shot, and it hit
the man in the butt, knocking him flat into
the horse shit. The man struggled to get
back up to his knees.
16(sound cue) snare drum bap & coronet bleat.
Using both hands, Buck held the Thunderer’s bead
on the man’s head.  Hey, asshole! The slinger
turned his head and a Colt .41 slug made a new
hole between his eyes. 
Are you still alright, Johnny?
The Eagle waved a Yes. 
17(one-shot) Buck quickly vaulted over the corral
rails, then snaked his way over to the body. 
18(one-shot) Johnny fired into the bunkhouse, and gunfire 
was returned.
19(sound cue) castanets & Indian seed rattle.
20(medium close-up) Buck picked up a pistol,
a Navy Colt, off the dead brigand. He continued
across the corral on his belly, with a gun in each
hand.
21(cut to a wide shot) Two men rushed out of the
back door of the bunkhouse. They ran fast & low.
A third man, still inside, kept Johnny pinned
down with rapid gun shots.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN