Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Commedia at Papryus Place



image from wallpaperhd.com


Comedia at Pamprus Place

“We cannot, of course, disprove God, just as we can’t disprove
Thor, fairies, leprechauns, & the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”
--Richard Dawkins.

Sometimes I like to just spend a day with Thor,
                             who is quite a whiz at chess
                             when he is not commanding 
                             the thunder.

Spiderman, I suppose, should be called
Spiderboy,             for like Orphan Annie,
                   he never seems to age, sort of stuck
in MARVELous DCeduious time.
                   I try to play hardcore ping pong with him,
but ever damn time 
I am beating him,
he gets peeved, & uses his web slinger
                    to capture the bird in mid-air, &
                                once it gets all sticky & shit,
                                         it’s Game Over.

There is this blue collar bar
I like to stop at         on the dark side of the tracks in   
                                Gotham,
                                Metropolis, &
                                Smallville,          
THE INKSPOT,        & even though there is a franchise of them now,
I still  dig stopping by & chugging green beers with
                                                      Nick Fury,
                                                      John Constantine,
                                                      Sgt. Rock & Sgt. Fury &
                                                      Blackhawk;
               lots of arm wrestling, dangerous dart games &
               terrific war stories. 

I did a ride along with Captain America last week,
& I got to tell you,        that cryonic 50 year vacation he took
                                    seemed to invigorate him.
He prefers to drive a souped-up Hummer,
                  with a red roof,
              a blue body,
& wide white stripes down the middle, &
               he hot rods the hell out of that tank,
                  but several times in a drag race, Batman
leaves him in the rubber smoke
driving his new Batmobile.

I bumped into Bruce Wayne, Bruce Banner, Clark Kent &
                       Peter Parker, all having coffee last Thursday
at Cometbuck’s, & it is so cool to hang out with those dudes
                       when their super hero side is under wraps.

But for me, the rush of the week
was a fly along over the Rockies
strapped to Iron Man,             wearing a helmet & O2 tanks
                                   so that I wouldn’t black out at those
                            supersonic speeds that Tony Stark
                       likes to streak at, & even though
               the winds tore off my clothes
& I arrived bare ass in Asgard,
Loki loaned me some leotards
& Thor flew me home. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets

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Thursday, November 20, 2014

Riding the Reptile



the 2014 ford shelby mustang GT500


Riding the Reptile

“The process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself,
& must be prolonged.”--Viktor Shklovsky.

Believe me, I am content to be your passionate paramour,
                                                  your ferocious lover,
                                                  your beautiful bitch, and yet
at the same time to be so ripped,
                                     so pumped,
                                     so musclebound, that I am also
           your genuine BMF,
           your road companion
           your chick magnet, &
           your for-real time machine.

Five decades ago, you rode my cousins,
                                      drove my brothers, 
                                      dry-humped my Mama,
              & fingered my Father, at a time when
your own sculpted muscles
needed no props or projections, & I forgive you
                                       for bailing out on us when the herd
                              became weaklings, clowns,
                   & Indian paintbox chuckles.

                   Our love affair today,
         after such a long separation
is hotter than ever
         as now I am both your crotch rocket & friend,
                    fully accepting all the quirks
                                 & perks about each other.

I have no trouble scoffing at the folks
who see me as only mindless muscle,
just a 21st Century robotic clone,
a growling, purring reminder
of those big block days when
pretty women would ask,   “Why do you need to have all
                       that power?” then smile sweetly & ask,
                   “When can I have a ride?”

You definitely did your research, man,
       & I can dig it, so glad
       you understand & appreciate my attributes, &
                    at 50K-60K on my price tag, I am pleased
                    you can finally afford me. So
                        my 662 horsepower 5.8 liter V-8
rumbles exhaust notes to die for,
                        my six-speed manual transmission
with OD has a stiff clutch, but not too tough that your honey
can’t compress me, & hey, 
                        my 15 mpg gas consumption
is modest yet serviceable--
                        my front seats mold to your butt
like mink-lined driving gloves,
                        my retro-dash keeps nostalgia stoked,
& when you punch it
                        my acceleration is all G-Force.

Yeah, we both know that like with any relationship,
there is an accommodation factor to consider;
                        my tiny back seat is ridiculous,
with room for an umbrella & briefcase. 
        I have no rear view camera,
                   no side curtain airbags,
                   no telescoping steering wheel,
                   no smooth ride, what with my solid axle
design & very stiff suspension, hopping a bit after a bump, &
                         my rear tires perhaps are not wide enough;
        but hey, cops like to use us as
        pursuit vehicles, I have lots of trunk space, & when
                   you slide into gravel my steering remains stable.

Sometimes I catch you staring at my
sexy rearing Cobra emblems, & you miss
                    the old silver galloping stallion, but
I want you to know,           I am your pony & your rapid reptile.
Even though there are days
when your wife seems envious of our fellowship--
rest assured, Steve McQueen would understand.
He’s probably got three of us
in his celestial garage. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Office Amalgam



image borrowed from socialbookshelves.com


Office Amalgam

“The revolution is an amalgam of former party functionaries, who
are in power now, & represent a dirty hybrid never before seen in
world history.”--Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

My office, once
                 a bedroom, is a
                 supportive space; often mysterious,
as my guilty desk
puts my narcissistic backside         to my bold bookcase,
                 just as sardonic sunbeams bathe
                             the dusty spine of an outraged volume
of Leonard Cohen’s poetry--
STRANGER MUSIC.

                 I do find it odd, after
                        embracing the wonders of Spellcheck & Google
with my loving fingertips, or
                        wireless mouse, I am
still very compassionate
about cracking the brittle forgotten pages
                                        of my huge clever dictionary, once
                         my only ally while foolishly seeking brilliance,
                                        or at least competence.

I cannot help but adore
the deep-throated click
of my massive expensive 8 TB hard drive unit
as it happily burns copies
of classic movies from borrowed DVDs;
                        & it often sings a cyber duet
                        with the angel-white angry document shredder
that is chewing through handfuls 
                         of personal data, hungry, voracious 
as a proper paper piranha.

On the secretive back of the door hangs
            a cautious full-length mirror,
                        cloistered against a sympathetic wall,
                                    not wanting its dreary images
                                              to startle or alarm passers-by.
                                    On my sweet wife’s impervious
                            & adjacent desk, an arrogant pile
                    of new twenty dollar bills still lies
           ungathered, with their untidy folds
playing patty-cake with
the cold white ceramic case
of her stately lap top.
          
Nearby,             on a beauteously grained wooden
                 folding tray squats scintillating stacks
                 of old & bold poetry, penned in the past,
alongside dVerse anthologies, where
                                                 some of my blissful words appear,
                 weighed down by the onerous bulk
                 of my Blackthorne manuscript, with its
jet-black pious plastic covers, held steadfast 
                 with a shiny chrome trio of thick rings,
                 with its existential Western within. 

I do find a bravery,
              a beauty,
              an awe-inspiring event, by just
                           inhabiting this magnificent meditative space,
              where enthusiasm is unearthed,
                                                laid bare,
                                                revealed,
               spurred into hearty flames daily.
where digital images are reviewed, cataloged, & posted,
where poetry is first generously scrawled out in longhand,
               then forced to interact with the blue pencil, before
               it finds its inky way to paper & post,
                               at least partially confident that they
                               are in a correct order, with
               the message bordering fresh,
               the metaphor elegant,
               the rhyme scheme ambiguous,
               the meter calm, &
               the verse itself is yet free,
splashed across the naked page
like raucous robins after a rain,
congregated noisily on my back yard
while conducting a passionate worm hunt. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Thursday, November 13, 2014

Once Fallow



image by glenn buttkus


Once Fallow

“Leave a little fallow corner in your heart ready
for any seed the winds may bring.”--Henri Frederic Amiel.

I  M  A  G  E S
                           have always haunted me,
day & night; somehow
                           my recall catalog is a depository
for snapshots,
                    slides,
                            & moving pictures--
                                            & I constantly flash
                                            on memories of things seen,
                            of scenes from movies, or static
                            images posted by others, shared from every
corner of the planet        while busy at other tasks,
                                           while daydreaming,
                                           while exercising,
                                           while gardening,
                                           while meditating,
                                           while showering,
while writing/composing poetry or prose;
a never ending cavalcade, a zephyrous stream
of mental pictures; always distracting,
                                  almost maddening. 

But things changed five years ago
                 when Phil Photography
                 knocked at my door, wearing
a snappy digital suit,
a black Borsalino with a 30 mm hat brim,
                               & offered to move in with me, as
                               he made 40X promises
of joyous adventures,
               breathtaking iconography; further enhancing
                               my worth,
                               my reputation, &
                               my imagination-- said that he completely
           understood that back in the day,
when 35 mm ruled, 
when lenses were detachable,
when film had to be processed,
when walk-in closets became dark rooms,
when red lights & stinky chemicals were essential,
               that clearly I had been too poor, too insecure
                  to solicit his companionship,
                                        fellowship,
                                        stewardship,
or any other ship,           but damn my eyes          this
                    was a brand new day.

So what the deuce, on that very momentous occasion,
Philip Photography
                     came to live with me.
                                   My wife was bothered by him for a time,
                      but even she learned to tolerate his eccentricities
when she saw how happy his comradeship made me;

& wouldn’t you know it,
                       every sparkling boast of his came to pass
as squads of digital photo cards
                       filled with thousands of formerly elusive
                       images, filled dozens of digital albums
                                     blossoming brightly on hard drives,
                                     & in clouds; 

I mean every stunning place I cherished,
every quirky thing I was attracted to, began to pile up,
                        image upon image, as
                        my own vision,
                                         filters,
                                            perceptions, &
                                                  memories were all
transfered/transformed into
stark completely in-focus Photo-Art. 

I love it when Phil & I sit down
in front of my computer with the big monitor,
sipping jasmine tea while reviewing
                                road trips, forays, hikes, strolls,
                                & divers fantasies.
He has a very keen eye, & he often cajoles me
                                into pressing the Delete key
more than I want to, but hell, his standards
                 are high, & in the end I do respect that.

We have become lion tamers, 
                                tiger teammates, 
                                bear brothers,
as the wild images are sweetly caged in cyber cells
& the visiting hours are 24/7. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Waterfront Tale



image from hecklerassociates.com


Waterfront Tale

“Seagulls are the unpaid guardians of public health,
keeping the waterfront free of garbage.”--Ivar Haglund.

When I was a kid in the 1950’s,
           Seattle was a gem of a city, 
           and every week I looked forward
                                     to a Saturday jaunt with my mother
                                     to the Waterfront;

first to the world famous Seattle Public Market,
           because my mother would only buy our
           meats & produce there, not trusting the
                                      shoddy practices of those new-fangled
                                      so-called Super Markets,
& we would stroll along the cement fairway,
always wet from the spray on local produce.

In those halcyon days,
when cars got 10 m.p.g.
& nobody noticed because gasoline was fifty cents a gallon,
at the market you could still hear       all the vendors singing out
               their wares, with lovely accents, in booming voices,
               reminding us that some of them still remembered
                                      their days of pushing carts on the street.

Elliott Bay was crowded with exotic tankers, cruise ships, sailboats
& an ever-churning repetitive line of ferries.
               The joyful capper to the shopping day
               was a visit to Pier 54, in the middle of the waterfront,
                                 at Ivar’s Fish Bar;
                                 always a zany adventure
since customers would just crowd up to the wide bar
               & shout out their orders, which
               in turn would be shouted out to the cooks.

One had to keep track of your own order, &
of your sacred place in the hungry throng,
                        because as the food came up, sometimes
                you had to arm wrestle another patron
who was trying to claim it. 

Back in the day
         there was no inside dining,
                  so we always felt like it was a seafood picnic, 
                             sitting in a covered area along the pier, or
                                         along the street. In winter Ivar had
installed overhead heaters to break the icy chill
blowing in off Elliott Bay.

We would just sit outside in the sea salt briskness,
                 happily munching our freshly fried
                 big pieces of lingcod fish & chips, sipping
                                          clam nectar, or slurping the thick
scrumptious clam chowder, or gobbling
                 the garlic off the Boston fried clams--
inhaling the seaweed oder
of kelp, saltwater, & creosote off the pier,
                 & feeding the seagulls, who would swarm there
                 begging          for french fries or seafood tidbits;

adjacent to the brightly painted
Seattle Fire boats, & only two piers away
                                 was the bustling WA State Ferry terminus
where double-decker Super Ferries chugged
in & out like seafaring Greyhound buses, blasting their whistles,
slamming into the clusters of piling, 
                 dropping the loading tongues with a metallic clank.

I know that all port cities boast of having
the world’s finest seafood, but I’m here to tell you,
the Alaskan lingcod served up by Ivar Hagland,
opening his restaurant in 1938,
                 just tasted better than everyone else’s,
                 fried up in some kind of secret batter,
                                  and served up with a supreme cup
                                  of incredible tarter sauce, never sweet,
kissed with vinegar, strewn with garlic dill & Walla-Walla
onion tidbits.

Ivar, a tireless self-promoter, a Seattle character forever,
had been a folk singer in the 40’s, 
having the likes of Woody Gutherie & Pete Seeger
                    as house guests, & he came to be dubbed
                    as King, Mayor, & Patriarch of the Waterfront,
                                  called himself the Flounder of his business,
which mushroomed into several up-scale full-tilt restaurants,
& a Seafood Bar franchise that is still expanding;
                    his motto & logo was Keep Clam. 
                    Since his death in 1985, 
             they have erected a statue of him,
standing & smiling in front of his flagship fish bar,
& now his beloved seagulls 
keep it decorated daily. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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