Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Lunar Lovely


image borrowed from faemagazine.com


Lunar Lovely

“I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky,
and the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.”
--Muhammad Iqbal.

For me, she has always been Luna, not Larry,
a pale pock-marked sexy Mediterranean lass
who likes to hide from me habitually behind
black-bottomed marine layers & mountain
cast--off cumulus, but near midnight for a
moment, or just before fiery bad boy, sunny
Jim, begins to peek over Cascade peaks, her
lithe luminescence filters sinuously through
the mists, clouds, & haze--and I can actually
see her sultry shape, like a temptress draped
naked in a very sheer nightgown with bright
light behind her, so that her tresses, breasts,
and long legs strike a scrumptious silhouette. 

I get a little light-headed & weak in the knees if
I stare at her for too long--get to feeling looney
& floaty, disconnected from terra firma, but alas,
our “romance” remains platonic, my ardor is
never delivered, for she giggles as she flees
the sky, ducking coyly under the cerulean
horizon, just as I am fully smitten, ready to
reach for her. I don’t think that she actually is frigid.
but she does come off as a real cold bitch.

If one is in love
with Miss Luna, like me, they
face embraces of ice.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub



Thursday, August 25, 2016

Blackthorne--Review VII--41-45


image from wetpistol.blogspot.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenics 41-45

Review--Part VII

“Alright, the two month hiatus secondary to road trips, time 
off & vacations is over, so before many of you lose interest
it is definitely time to return to my review of past episodes.”
--Glenn

Forty-One: Salutations--The sheriff to the stranger, “I thought
you had already slapped leather, big man.” Buck said, “Nope,
I didn’t want to miss the show.” Johnny seemed to recognize
Buck. Suddenly a golden eagle landed on the peak of a
nearby barn with a rattlesnake in its beak. Buck held out the
silver--Ey, muy hombre, I think these belong to you.”
Johnny said, “You make it too easy for this pinche gordo to
wriggle free.” Buck plunked the three silver dollars into 
Johnny’s hand--I doubt he will crawl very far. We can cut off
his tail another day.” Graff to Buck, “And who in the bloody
hell are you?” The sheriff spoke up, “Calls himself Rod Buck.
Some fellas tried to kill him today, & the barber got wounded.
You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Graff?”
Johnny & Buck grinned. Graff, “Well, Christ no--why would 
I know anything about that? There’s gunplay in this town all
the time, Hop.” He turned to the tall hunter. “Buck, you say?
I just want to get all the facts straight for my report to Mr.
Bronson.” The sheriff said, sarcastically, “So, Mr. Graff, do
you have all the facts straight?”  There was a peal of
laughter. Graff pushed his way through the crowd, suffering
the jeers, & made his way to his office, behind the corral. A
wrangler walked up to Johnny & handed him his wide belt
with the two big knives on it. Sheriff to the Eagle, “There 
will be no more trouble, right?”  Johnny nodded yes. The
crows dispersed. Soon Buck & the Eagle stood alone in the
dusty street facing each other.

Forty-Two: Sauntering--Buck said, “Have a drink with me,
Fiero.”  The Eagle nodded. They unwrapped their horses’
reins. Johnny, “Do you belong in Negro-Espina?” Buck,
I suppose. I was born here.” Johnny, “Then you are the
one”. Buck, “Who?” Johnny, “The one Bill Buck used to tell
us about--you know, the absent son, run off angry to hunt
buffalo.” Buck, “Then, you knew my father too?”  Johnny,
I buried him.” As they walked they talked about their
horses, El Blanco & Jesus, & Buck’s huge black dog,
Cheewa, “black puma”. Buck turned toward THE CHINA
DOLL, but Johnny stopped him, “I take money from
Bronson, but I try not to give it back to him. I only drink
whiskey at Pedro’s--do you know it?” They wrap reined in
front of the Cantina. The Eagle looked around,” They 
watch us.”  Buck, “Fuck ‘em”. Johnny, “Good, yes, Red
Face will run to Bronson, but it is of no matter. Come,
meet Mateo.”

Forty-Three: Toque--They entered the cantina, a small
space with a half bar, no railing, no stools. The bartender
was short & husky, with a rope burn scar on his neck. His 
long dark hair was tied back, & his smile was decorated
with bad teeth. Johnny, “Mateo, today is whiskey. I have
money from Graff.” Mateo, “Graff, se, one gordo bendejo.”
Johnny, “Yes, one very sad pinche hijo de puta.” The ten
tables were peopled by charros & mestizo peasant farmers.
A young vaquero played a guitar, & sang softly to a saloon
girl. A bead curtain parted loudly & a pretty buxom saloon
seƱorita made a beeline to Johnny, just as Mateo delivered
a bottle of whiskey & three glasses. “That’ll be four-bits for
the burn.” Johnny introduced Buck. Mateo, “Ay, carumba.
So he has come home at last. Good, good--just in time.”
Johnny, “And what do you need, Lisetta, my pretty bird?”
Lisa smiled, “First your cock, then your pesos.” Johnny,
You really tempt me, your sweetness swells my heart--
but please fly away--I must speak with this silent buffalo
across the table.”

Forty-Four: Patriarch--As the saloon cutie left, Buck asked,
Tell me, old caballo, what’s the story here?”  Johnny
replied calmly, “Nothing. I am your man. There can be no
one else.” Buck, “Two weeks ago I decided to return here,
yet somehow, it seems many folks were expecting me, How
does that cinch up?”  The Eagle, “Because your father loved
you.” A ten year old Rod buck stood in a smoky
saloon staring at his father’s back, who was drinking at the
bar. The bartender let Bill know his son was behind him. The
old man whirled around & snarled, “What? What!!” The boy
began to weep silently. His father said, “Get out of here!
What the fuck is wrong with you? What do you want from
me?” The boy just stood there. “God damn it, Roddy, get the
fuck out of here. Go back to the ranch. Maybe the squaw will
share her tit with you “. Buck, “My
father was a mean drunken asshole.” After a moment, 
Johnny said, “Your father is dead, but you are very much alive
--and now you are the Buck. That’s all there is--simple.” Buck,
Sorry, I still don’t savvy.” Johnny, “You wrote a few letters to
him, right. He read them to some of us.” Buck, “He was a 
damn fool.”  The Eagle, “He became a drunk, yes, & he died 
hard, alone, but he was not a fool.” Buck was silent, then said,
I’m just bone-busted tired. Everything I once knew is dead,
turned to blow-sand ghosts & scorpions in my boots.” Johnny,
Your father had a dream.” Buck,”When I saw him last, he was
fresh out of dreams.”

Forty-Five: Pact--Johnny, “Deep sadness, yes, but beneath
that bitter bark there is still a son who will breathe life back
into the ruins of the ranch, who will put magnificent horses
back into the high meadows at Antlered Buck.”  Buck, 
You’re telling my my father dreamed of horses?”  Johnny,
“Yes, he dreamed it so hard, he died with hoof prints on
his face.” Buck’s eyes became moist. Johnny, “But do not
think too much of the past. You are alive, & all alone now,
--just like me.” Buck, “Will you work for me?”  The thick
knife from the Eagle’s left hip suddenly bit deep into the
table next to Buck’s hand. In the same instant, Buck came
out of his chair with his Colt cocked in his right hand. The
Indian held the hunter’s gaze as he moved up to him,
pushing the Thunderer out of the way before thrusting out
his calloused brown hand. They shook hands firmly. Johnny,
I will proudly stand with you, fight others with you, watch
your back & be your companero.”  The Colt was re-holstered.
The Bowie knife was re-sheathed. Then they noticed all the
charros in the cantina re-holstering their weapons. Mateo,
“Hey, you hombres play rough.” The place erupted in
applause & laughter; the music resumed. Johnny, “You are
rattlesnake quick for a big man.”  Buck, “As you are for an
old one.”  They sat down. Buck, “It won’t be a Sunday picnic
working for me, Bronson has a fucking army.”  Johnny
smiled, “You know, sometimes I think I can hear my death
song on the winds of dawn--but just the melody, no words.”
Buck, “Yeah, me too, Pard.” 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Linda Lee


image borrowed from Bing.


Linda Lee

“I loved you like a man loves a woman he never
touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs 
of.”--Charles Bukowski.

Yeah,         I was the one the lasted the longest,
         almost twenty years. 
                  He gave up the sluts, skanks, & barflies
         after he hooked up with me. 
Hell, I buried him.
                
 It was ironic that I used to run a health food
       restaurant, where we had our first date, because
           it turned out I could outdrink him, out swear him, &
                outrun him when his temper flared, all the time loving
           him like a crazy woman. Life with Hank was steamy,
       profane, & existential bliss, all wine, cats, poetry, and
the track--damn he loved the horses. 
He always liked to sit in the same seat
at Santa Anita--they would reserve it for
him; had a sign draped on it, RESERVED
FOR BUKOWSKI.

                                           We met in 1976. I attended one of his
                                           poetry readings at The Troubadour in
                           Hollywood--a rowdy affair--he and the
                           audience would interact, yelling
                   obscenities at each other. Turns out
                   he hated giving readings, didn’t like
         “performing”--but he needed the money.
         Afterward, at the book signing, he gave
me a scrap of paper with his phone number
on it. I gave him mine impulsively.
         He called me two days later. “Is Linda Lee
         there?”--always liked to call me Linda Lee.
                     We decided to meet at my restaurant,
                     but I guess he was nervous because
                               I saw him drive by twice in his blue VW;
                               claimed he got lost, but really he stopped
                                                at a nearby bar--had to get drunk
                                                first.

It is hard to describe the man
in mere words. He lived by words,
but he was a force of nature, he
dwarfed language. I adored him,
but at times wanted to strangle him, he used to say,
          “What matters most is how well you walk through
           the fire.”--and yeah, a woman had to be
           a firewalker to survive within his molten aura.
    
I guess he was a tough character. He could get belligerent
& mean, but so could I. He was moody, sure, but he had a
calm center as solid as a mountain. He hated all religions,
but he was one of the most spiritual persons I ever knew.

When he wrote, he went upstairs to his little room, took a
couple jugs of wine, would sit down at his old typewriter, &
play classical music--he loved Shostakovich & Sibelius. He
didn’t really dig rock music--but Sean Penn became his pal,
& he got introduced to Bono. We went to a U2 concert at
Dodger Stadium. Harry Dean Stanton was with us. They
all loved Hank. Bono dedicated the concert to “Charles
& Linda Lee Bukowski”. I screamed with joy, & peed my
pants with surprise.

He used to give readings at punk rocker hangouts like
The Cuckoo’s Nest and The Golden Bear. The punkers
really were attracted to his “Outlaw Writer” persona. He
hated the Beat Poets, felt they were fakers & fags.

He always said that we were a good match because we
had the Moxy--the ability to endure what life tossed at us
--to fully discover & savor what truth is, what love is--
through the mirror of your mate.

Great poetry can
emerge from wine, angst, cats and
transgressive fiction.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, August 22, 2016

Cirrus in Cyon


image from ecopsychoanalysis.blogspot.com


Cirrus in Cyon

“There are no rules of architecture for a castle
in the clouds.”--Gilbert K. Chesterton.

There is an actual Big Sky in Montana, east of the Rockies,
& when you lie upon your back and study the clouds, the
first thing you notice is the vaporous sculptures--dragons,
eagles, bison, ghost riders, castle towers, herds of elk,
herds of wild horses, & big horn sheep--all cavorting within
cirrus in cyon on high, stratus in cobalt mid-sky, & cumulus
in neon electric low over the horizon.

Angels dwell in sky
panoramas, fueling your
imagination.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Baby Blue Cuff Links


image from abstractartpictureswallpaper.blogs


Baby Blue Cuff Links

“Whales, that mew & caw in ultramarine jazz--
oceanic rhapsody in blue, are hunted to the
edge of silence.”--Jay Griffiths.

I just perched myself on a slate blue metal folding
        chair adjacent to a Greek fruit stand
        in Seattle’s Public Market, & decided,
                  as a lark, to identify the dozens of blues
                  that I could see from that vantage point.

         A shapely redhead wiggled by in a pair
         of stonewashed faded blue jeans, torn
artfully at the knees & thighs, sporting little palatine--
blue heart tattoos on her knees. She looked
     over at me with her iridescent iceberg-blue eyes,
         as the sun shone on her ginger-blond hair, & she
             smiled a sultry greeting through perfect white teeth.
         She wore a short tattered tee shirt that was tie-dyed
      periwinkle & spindrift purple, slashed with Cambridge
teal sinuous lines, with a bare midriff
and no bra, a cobalt blue & red scarf
pinned into her long curly tresses, a
topaz barrette clipped in one side.

                            Across the aisle was a retro-record shop.
                            decorated with bluish album covers:
            Joni Mitchell Blue,
            Weezer’s The Blue Album,
            Blue Trane,
            a couple Blue Man’s Group,
            Massive Attack’s Blue Lines,
            Lou Reed’s The Blue Mask,
            Electric President’s The Violent Blue,
            Hooverphone’s Blue Wonder Power Milk,
            & Hats’ Blue Nile.

                              Across the street there was an Armed
                              Services Recruitment Center, festooned
                          with Air Force, Navy, Army, & Coast Guard
                          blue banners, flapping a blue streak in the
                     Mariner’s blue town breeze, with red-white-&
                     blue posters of Naval vessels cruising through
              gray-blue ocean waves, blue steel fighter jets flying
              in electric-blue skies, with orange & white Coast 
Guard cutters anchored in azure blue
tropical bays, over several mannequins
at attention, costumed in dress blue
starched uniforms, with Columbia blue
stripes on the legs, & gold brocade lapels--
one wearing a blue-chrome ceremonial
saber.

I don’t have the blues;
not today, at least, but then
tomorrow’s not here.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

                      

Monday, August 8, 2016

Practice Wife


image borrowed from thebrooklynscribbler.blogspot.com


Practice Wife.

“If God lived on earth, people would break
his windows.”--Jewish proverb.

It was 1979. I was 35--she was 21, and gorgeous. We worked 
in the same office in Los Angeles. She was Jewish--I was not.
We dated for a year. Our physical relationship was off the 
chart. She seemed to enjoy all the things I was interested in--
hiking, road trips, reading, & movies. We were married
by a Captain of a ship docked in San Pedro--honeymooned at
Catalina. Her parents did not attend the wedding, since I
was so goy. 

I tried very hard to bridge the ethnic gap--studied Hebrew, 
spoke Yiddish, studied the torah & rabbinical essays,
& attended temple. After a year, they did, begrudgingly
accept me, which was about the same time Renea announced
she did not really like sex, except for procreation, & hated
hiking, road trips, & films. Her mother had instructed her,
& her sisters, in “how to catch a husband”--just pretend to
share his interest in all things, be hot in the sack, make him
believe he is the center of the universe. So I spent four
miserable years inhabiting a loveless illusion before I
insisted upon a no-fault divorce. We had no children--
thank God.

On the high desert
of the Antelope Valley,
love refused to bloom.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub


Thursday, August 4, 2016

Hidden Dominion


image borrowed from 1wallpaperhd.com


Hidden Dominion

“You can have no dominion greater or less than
that over yourself.”--Leonard da Vinci.

Is there now, or has there ever been,
as we search within & without,
a wondrous land
       where pure Love resides--
       where fairies frolic and fly,
                  competing for flower nectar with honey bees,
       where most birds give free taxi rides,
                  from sparrows to eagles,
       where the rocks all sport faces
                  swathed with the widest of grins,
       where stuffed animals are sentient,
                  ready for hug therapy or family counseling,
       where stones & pebbles are heart-shaped,
                  & multicolored--some polished, most not,
       where fish are often amphibian,
                  traveling across wide beaches & hot sand bars,
                  ridden proudly by orange sea horses who are
                  off to see wizards & kings.
       where every child is perfectly safe,
                  tucked in for naps & slumber--
       where nightmares are banned,

       where every parent, sibling, stranger & group
                  have their arms intertwined, cuddling & caressing
                  dispensing glorious affection
with each breath,
with each heartbeat,
at the dawn of each day over doughnuts,
at midday over tuna salads, and
at evening’s bedside
          where the soft shadows 
                     are at their tallest, mingling mirthfully
                     with tender twilight, in preparation for
                     the delicious darkness & sweet dreams;

after which in a painful awakening, this world, this jack-
booted, greed-fueled, murderous, intolerant, angry,
dangerous, malevolent, humorless, loveless reality
re-emerges--allowing our leaden-eyed gray pallor to
return to our cheeks as we re-enter our ruts.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Here is the original poem:

Beloved Dominion

Is there now, or has there ever been
a Land where Love resides;
where fairies frolic and fly,
where birds give free taxi rides,
where most of the rocks sport faces
swathed with the widest of grins,
where the stuffed animals are sentient,
where the stones and pebbles 
are heart-shaped,
where fish are often amphibian, 
ridden proudly
by orange and gold sea horses,
where every child is perfectly safe
tucked within hugs within kisses 
within hugs,
where every parent, sibling, stranger, 
and group have their arms intertwined, 
cuddling, caressing, dispensing
affection first, with each breath, 
with each heartbeat
at the dawn of each day over doughnuts,
at midday over bologna sandwiches,
at evening’s bedside when the soft shadows
are at their tallest, mingling mirthfully 
with twilight
in preparation for darkness and dreams,
when this world, this jack-booted 
greed-fueled angry dangerous 
malevolent humorless loveless reality
re-emerges?


Glenn Buttkus August 2009