Friday, October 24, 2014

Blackthorne : Scene 30

image from 


Cinemagenic Thirty

Whiskey Words

“There is no bad whiskey--there are only some whiskeys that
aren’t as good as others.”--Raymond Chandler.

1(medium wide shot) Interior of the General Store. Inside, surrounded
by mercantile dust & odors, wide shelves of canned goods, calico 
dresses, bolts of bold cottons on fat rolls, barrels of pickles & pigs feet, 
stacks of potted meat, jars of stick candy & chocolate hunks, dried fruit, 
fat pork sausages hanging on long links, with shiny new farm tools 
mounted on rough-hewn beams overhead, & well oiled polished rifles 
resting on brass pegs,
2(medium close-up) Wallace’s face changed, relaxed;
3(two-shot) as he pulled down a dun earthen jug from a dark corner
behind colorful jars of homemade jam,
4(close-up) and he cheerfully poured out sticky-sweet pungent home--
distilled white whiskey into tall tin cups.
5(sound cue) clarinet riff & saloon player piano.
6(medium close-up) Buck accepted a cup & quickly took three big gulps
of the who-hit-John. His eyes bugged out a bit, & his cheeks fluttered, as
he gasped for air, having survived the alcoholic fire in his throat as it
puddled molten in his surprised stomach.
--Buck: Oooowheeew, damn your eyes, this juice could kill ticks!
7(close-up) Wallace smiling, then it faded quickly as he sipped his drink.
--Too bad about Barnes, hope to hell he pulls through.
8(two-shot) The storekeeper got Buck’s attention.
--Wallace: He’s a good man, & a damned good barber. Guess he just
pumped his jaw once too much about Baron Bronson. Barbers have
loose lips, worse than bartenders. Maybe there’s a lesson to be
learned there. 
9(close-up) Buck: No disrespect, Pard, but that’s a full crock of shit.
10(close-up) Wallace raised his eyebrows like two caterpillars with broken
backs, narrowing his eyes.
11(two-shot) after a tense moment,
--Buck: It didn’t gallop in like that.
--Wallace, calmly: My gut tells me those two gunnies ride for Bronson.
--Buck: Yeah, they probably do.
--Wallace: His fucking highness has never been so blatant before; this
is a real shift in his reign of power.
12(sound cue) Harmonica & snare drum.
13(close-up) Buck:
--Those cowardly assholes were not gunning for Barnes.
14(close-up) Wallace:
--What are you muttering about?
15(two-shot) Both men stare at each other while silently sipping
their whiskey
--Buck: Pretty sure they were after me.
--Wallace: Why? Bronson doesn’t know you yet?
--Buck: You heard me talking to the sheriff--I had a row with his
little brother, Paully, over to the pig wallow. It ended with me tossing
his woman-battering butt out a second story window.
--Wallace: Yeah, that might could be, but shit like that happens over
there all the time.
16(medium close-up) Buck:
--I know when lead has my name on it.
17(medium close-up) Wallace:
--You think pretty highly of yourself.
18(sound cue) cello, saxophone & piano.
19(close-up) Buck chuckling:
--Damn, old man, why don’t you tell me what you really think?
--Wallace: My boy, you only been in town a couple of hours & you
already got scorpions in your boots; that is fucked up.
--Buck: Uh-huh, I hear that dog barking.
21(close-up) Wallace:
--I suppose this all means you’ll be riding on.
22(close-up) Buck:
--Too many people would like that. No, think I’ll be sticking
around for a piece. 
23(sound cue) Indian snake rattle & jazz brushing. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN

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Thursday, October 23, 2014

Muscle Rides

image from 

Muscle Rides

“Faster, faster, faster, until the thrill of speed
overcomes the fear of death.”--Hunter S. Thompson.

It is a natural fact
          that I have the mechanical aptitude
                                  of a fruit gnat, and yet,
                                                god damn yet,
as a kid I still had the burning need
                                 to own muscle cars;
pulsate with that American power,
hum with those twin glass packs, 
feel the heat from the wide-assed manifolds,
to be able to rip up beauteous clouds
                                 of rubber smoke, listening
to the banshee screech
                                 of steel belted rear tires  
                                              being torn to pieces, burying
the cars behind me
in a heroic cloud of blue-black raw nearly-inexorable acceleration,
stalwartly serving
my youthful need for speed.

I once owned
a 1934 Plymouth three windowed coupe
with a tilt-out two-piece windshield
                     that my Dad & I dropped
                     a 1947 289 flat-head Six into,   split the manifold,
mounted on twin carbs, then painted it          ice-metallic blue,
                     that a guy at work fell in love with,
& immediately traded me straight across
            for his 1957 Ford Fairlane
            two-door hardtop, with
            a three-speed conversion on the floor,
            two-toned red & white
                      with thick golden stripes 
                      in the middle of the wide side chrome
& that cool flat hood
that popped up backwards, leaving
                      plenty of room to install a tri-power set-up,
                                                  three thirsty two-barrels
                                                  hooked together with progressive
                                                  linkage, a monster
that could burn rubber for a thousand yards
from a dead stop
as I wore out a brand new set
of Firestones, turned them into
baby-butt baldies in one month,
                            with enough power to jerk your head back;

that at some point just scared the shit out of me,
like owning a rogue stallion that only wanted
to gallop, so
                             I traded it to a friend for
                             a 1941 Chev coupe that he
had put a 327 into,
dressing it up with Corvette valve covers
& a wide shiny air cleaner on the
Rochester big-mouth four-barrel
                             that would suck all the air 
                             out of the county when you put your foot
to the floor, bolted up to a
GMC truck transmission that had car gears in it,
but leaving the stock axles.                I popped the clutch one rainy night
                                    while drag-racing,
                                    & blew the shit out of the transmission
                                    & snapped both axles, making me
                                    gush out of my master cylinders
leaving me with no brakes 
as I hit a hydrant to stop myself. 

Later on, before leaving for LA
to become a famous actor (smile),
                  I bought an Aztec Gold
                  1968 SS Impala convertible,
with a factory four-speed,
& a 396 under the hood, & I drove it so hard,
                  getting scratch in third gear,
                                      pegging the speedometer
                                      running north & south on I-5
                   flying by Jaguars & Cadillacs & Lincolns,
that ultimately I fried
the compression & oil rings,
& had to sell it cheap
to a Hispanic neighbor in Hollywood after
                   I ran out of duct tape to patch
                   all the knife slashes on my convertible top
                   inflicted by other Mexicans who disliked
where I chose to park, but

when those gas prices began to soar
& the gas lines grew longer,
& we were all scared enough
to be conditioned into accepting petroleum rape,
                            I traded in my jet-black Mustang fastback,
                            with the 351 Cleveland fuel-guzzling mill
for a fire engine red Nissan 
with a 5-speed transmission
& my first four-banger romance, & I got to tell you
                             that once you start buying Jap cars
                you get totally hooked on them, & soon
        there is this parade of Toyotas, Nissans, Mazdas, 
Suzukis & Isuzus sitting in your driveway,
                              and those sexy muscle cars of my youth 
                              sat in other garages, owned
by silly wonderful old men, who could not
let go of those thrills, looks, sounds
of American muscle.                         I just snap photos of those cars
                                      now, & (happily) pilot my Toyota hybrid Camary,
                            enjoying my 42 mpg sedan comfort,
                  & only once or twice a week
         do I see someone else’s muscle car, hear it
purr by while racking its pipes,
& that old stirring
kicks up hard. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Broken News

image from

Broken News

“I have no time for your fucking negativity.”

Jennifer Lopez’s Abs Game 
              has become Next Level;
She has just completed          a 22-day Vegan diet,
& has been quoted as saying:
              Hey, I really enjoyed it. 
              You never know how good you can feel
                                               until you put healthy food
               into your body.         Well, hell, at 45
years of age she still is holding it all together, 
& getting headlines by flashing her bra & abs. 

Bladerunner, Oscar Pistorius, was sentenced
to five years in prison. He was taken to an overcrowded
                       maximum security facility
                       Kogosi Mampuru II, where
he will be held away 
           from the general population, secondary
                      to his disability & high profile. 
                                He is eligible for parole in ten months,
when he will stay under house arrest for the remainder of 
his term of sentence. 

A Florida sheriff’s deputy is now facing felony charges
after officials         found out        that he accepted
                   oral sex            from a woman
in exchange for not arresting her; imagine that.

Here in WA state,
Gavin Seim, a former congressional candidate
                        flagged down a police officer
who was patrolling in an unmarked car. 
                        In WA, police can only use
                                    unmarked cars for undercover work;
otherwise how can citizens pulled over
                                    by them really know if they are legitimate;
too many thugs out there pulling over women
for robbery, extortion, or rape. 

As I prepare for my next colonoscopy,
                     I read where Andrew Walls, 32, claims
that Delaware surgeons dressed him
                        in sexy pink women’s panties
                        while he was under anesthetic.
The doctors claimed it was simply
                                            an outrageous prank perpetrated
by some of his own unsavory colleagues; regardless,
                        he is suing for extreme emotional distress.
I guess they left out the pantie liner. 

Marion Williams,
a bachelor living in a rural area
            of Northern CA,            suffered a heart attack,
while outside, & died. Shortly after that, his corpse
was dragged off into the woods
           & eaten by a black bear; who stripped
him of his clothes
& feasted on his corpse for several days,
eating 85% of his body;
           Relatives are considering suing
the U.S. Forest Service for gross negligence. 

Jillian Michaels, a weight trainer
          for the TV show BIGGEST LOSER,
says that she is uncomfortable
                                     discussing her 
                                     lesbian lifestyle, 

Breaking News--Famous artist Banksy
                           was not arrested yesterday
at 3 in the morning, supposedly
                           apprehended by the
24 Hour Anti-Graffiti Task Force,
& his name is definitely not
                                      Paul Horner. 
                                      Thank God
it all turned out to be a silly hoax.

Daniela Poggiali,
a critical care nurse in Italy
was arrested for murdering
                      38 of her patients
over a five year period, who simply
                      Annoyed her. 

This is Glenn Buttkus, thank you for joining me this afternoon,
& letting me share the pertinent news of the day.

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Thursday, October 16, 2014


image from archives


“A man should exchange bread for flowers of the narcissus,
because the bread feeds only the body, but the flower feeds
the soul.”--Muhammed.

Turn a window sill into a riot of blossoms, or
Tattoo a Paperwhite Narcissus, the bulb like a
Turnip, on the tender backside of your
Thigh, allowing this beautiful, hardy and
Tenacious tubor to become your organic
Totem, emulating the qualities of it, that I’m
Told will grow immediately, even without soil.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Song of the Scribe

painting by brian simons.


“Some days there won’t be a song in your heart.
Sing anyway.”--Emory Austin.

You know anything that moves 
                               or emits noise
                               can be/is an instrument,  & I really dig
the perpetual music that surrounds us;
      the beats,
      the wailings,
      the chords, sharps, flats,
the slides, the octave shifts, the riffs, bellowing, braying,
      & sweet lullabies.

                                 Urban Rock

The heavy clank of gears, misaligned
                           or otherwise engaged,
the wet whoosh of steam venting,       hammering,
                                          exploding & crushing;
radial tires on rain-soaked pavement,
                       windshield wipers,
                                 defrosting fans,
                                            heaters radiating,
brakes & rats squealing,
damn doors slamming, solo, or in tandem,
call & response at dinnertime,
garbage truck piston-driven refuse compressing,
hard leather heels clacking,
                        children laughing on playgrounds,
                        stray cats growling & hissing & kung fu fighting,
                        women screaming, young boys yelling staccato
old fashioned metal garbage can lids banging, 
                                               man hole cover boulder ballads,
                        twenty dogs barking,
                        rivet & nail gun chattering,
table & hand & chain saw blades ripping,
lawn mowers coughing,
hedge clippers snipping,          church bells regaling,
                                                 though too often pre-recorded,
heavy horns honking, street light changes clicking,
                        power lines passionately pulsating,
                        rod iron gates squeaking on rusted hinges,
pigeons flapping ten thousand wings,
cooing like doves,
crapping like bats, busy fingers texting, computers whining,
Beatles ringtones,
gunfire & sirens. 

                        Rural Sonata

John Deere combines thrashing,
as the deep diesel throat chanting soars,
           horses hooves on barn floors,
           sheep shoulders rubbing wire fences,
a pitchfork stabbing hay, 
a two-handed scythe cutting off wheat stalks,
melons being thumped, 
                       oil being pumped,
                       apples being stroked, 
                       wasp nests being poked,
a farm forklift hefting bales,
cows kicking pails, loons laughing at sunset,
         a soft breeze across a small pond,
         amorous trees rubbing trunks together,
branches snapping, stags trampling thistles,
insects buzzing,
dragon flies hunting,          
                    wind symphonies in alder forests,
                    or whipping down steep canyons,
                    or capping peaks & citadels; 
rainbow leaves shimmering, shaking, dying, & falling,
                    leather chaps, saddles, bridles, 
                    jackets, straps, belts & latches
                    creaking seductively;
big tractor pistons popping while digging
                                           ditches or post holes;
birdsong in backyards & on barn beams,
owls in haylofts, black birds bickering over dead rabbits,
rolling raucous thunder in the distance
just before the terrible crackling
                  of chain lightning
as it strikes the hundred year old oak alone in the field,
splitting it in two, rain pelting
tin roofs, then rushing
out of downspouts as a torrent, 
various herbivore herds shuffling,
            horned heads butting
accompanying the dry lethal rattle of antler combat,
far off cougar cries
           that sound just like a baby wailing,
wolf’s sorrowful moon ballads, while
           coyotes & foxes yip
           & bad-assed badgers grunt
                                along with bumblebee wing throbs
                                & flocks of butterfly flutters
as the hawk romps the thermals,
screeing it’s joyful but determined challenge.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Thursday, October 9, 2014

Searching for Debbie

cowboy cubism borrowed from bing

Searching for Debbie

“I don’t believe in surrenders, nope. I still got my saber, &
I didn’t beat it into plowshares neither.” --John Wayne

Duke done wrong as right snake-bit fast,
heroic ignorance,
monuments all stone witness defensive carnage,
horses becoming carousel prancers,
forever circles Sufi twirling skirts demon-safe,
turbans--fucking scimitar bleeding Jayne Mansfield’s
headless tits bone buttons
drugstore starch snap pockets roll-your-owns
morning coffee white hat stains brass cartridges
bull rider buckles ray-bans broken rib bird cages,
sky weeping ghost riders with barbed wire smiles,
twin heads at both ends black & white hackamores 
as head dice, head lice, heads of rice, never nice roll
tumbleweed trash plays silver spur ballads only the
angry eyes showing murderous Syrian mask scarves
posting slaughterhouse rules bucket labels Christ’s
spikes complexity of conflicts gods wrestling
some with eight arms lightning bolts raining locusts
buried in hundred foot waves gone fishing
playing chess smoking Turkish cigarettes
on one lung cancer the shadow cancer the victor
golden chalice never claimed within
crusades that never end. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Trinity Tales

image borrowed from bing

Trinity Tales

“Pessimism, distrust, & irony are the holy trinity of
my personal religion; irony in particular.”--Brando Skyhorse. 

I stood downtown
            in front of a department store window
                        that was being busily decorated
                        for Halloween;           ghosts,
                                              gnarly green giants;
            pumpkin princes,
            pirate’s parrots,
            pernicious pariahs,
            puzzling palindromes;
donut mushrooms, &
death defying ducks--              & I was barely aware
                       of the other people busily
                       crowding around me;                babbling,
                       buzzing, agitated, frightened, not seeing
the young woman lying on her back
                       on the pavement,
turning blue,
limbs twitching in
full seizure,
eyes rolled back,
with coffee-colored foam            covering red lips,
                        staining her yellow silk blouse. 

Leaving the Art theater
              with a female friend,
                        right after viewing a revival
                                         of Bergman’s PERSONA,
my arms sawing the air,
my excited words rising & falling
                  in the evening’s chill,
                  trying to explain, what I perceived as
                                              the psychological existential symbolism
within the classic Swedish film,
the commonly encountered nature
                       of those who are too easily
                       other-directed, & the too human
                                               need for some to follow (blindly)
                                               & others to lead (arrogantly),
carefully drawing a fascinating parallel
                       to the topical reality of young malcontents
                       being too easily recruited, trained, & turned
                                               into home-grown terrorists;
then suddenly
        finding our path blocked
        by two men in black hoodies, just as
I saw the muzzle of the Glock;
       We’ll be taking your wallets & watches, mother fuckers,
                        the shorter one said. 

For delicious decades,
we have lived in a house
                        rife with portals, humming
                        with metaphysical psychic meditative imagery,
and often, too often
                 according to my three daughters,
                 we all detect movement & presence
in our periphery--
          people & pets             who are not there,
                                             but were there
          for a few fleeting moments.

We call them the Visitors, and for the most part
         they have always been gregarious,
         as they stroll & slice through
                      several dimensional veils, even
         the ones who actually materialize
for a minute, or an elongated part of one,
visiting with us in plain sight.             My wife & I
         have always been receptive to
                      and in tune with
these visits;
& that’s made all the difference. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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