Monday, January 2, 2012


image borrowed from bing


It was unseasonably hot in Brentwood
that August morning in 1962, as she
reclined nude, lying on her back in the
middle of her scattered silk sheets
with rivulets of sour sweat running down
between her large breasts, as she struggled
to recall what Bobby had come to talk to her
about just after midnight, as the old friends
chloral hydrate and nembutal rocked her
ever so gently into a cloud of forgetfulness,
and she lapsed back to moments in her
past, with her trio of husbands and legions
of lovers standing in a weeping daisy chain
around her, poised in a canopy bed
in the middle of a meadow, her nakedness
so natural at noon in a sunny nether land,
then 17 again in 1944, working at the airplane factory,
smoking weed with a young Bob Mitchum
on lunch breaks, with Jim off in the Merchant Marines,
and that first picture of her published in Yank magazine,
and her subsequent nude photo sessions that
would serve her well for the rest of her days;
that shorter marriage to Joe who couldn’t
understand why she would not just give up her
career and cook pasta for him and his buddies,
followed by those five years with Arthur, the two
miscarriages, capped by that damned picture in
Nevada, baking liking road kill on those salt flats
watching Monty struggle, Gable being the
perfect gentleman, Huston smoking cigars
among his oxygen bottles, perplexed now why
she refused to sleep with Deano even though he
adored her, or if Fox would let her return to the set
leashed to her demon hordes of fright, or was it
too late, just too damned late as she drifted
into a black fog she would remain lost within

She hung around for a couple days after
they discovered her body, attended her own
funeral, happy that Lee delivered the eulogy,
pleased at how Joe handled the affair, that
they buried her in one of her favorite Emilio
Pucci dresses, lying in state within her shining
bronze casket lined with champagne colored
silk, clutching a sweet bouquet of pink teacup
roses that Joe would refresh in that pot
hanging outside her crypt for decades,
and it tickled her to find out that Hefner
had paid plenty to buy the crypt to the
left of hers, giving her credit for the
energetic successful launch of Playboy.

Glenn Buttkus

January 2012

Listed as #18 over on Magpie Tales 98

Would you like to hear the author recite this poem?


Kathe W. said...

wow- double wow. Brilliant

thingy said...

Riveting. You must have been a fan to know so much about her.

Taylor Boomer said...

oh, playboy star,

what a tale.

Kim Nelson said...

Never have I heard a commentary or tribute to Marilyn more open-hearted or engaging as this. You did her... yourself... justice.

Helen said...

So glad you 'goofed' ... this is one of my favorite Glenn productions.

chiccoreal said...

Dear Glenn: Fine form Glenn! Really rivetting, with much actual mind film footage reeling tears between the word takes. Thank-you!

Jean Sullivan said...

One of the indelible memories of my early years is waking up on a sleeping porch in an almost strangers house in Chicago on a hot summer day . . . was it August . . . and hearing a sad voice on someone’s radio on the sleeping porch next door . . . both of us three stories up . . . murmuring that she had been found dead. It was dreamlike, that sad voice and I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming . . . but then the sweat running off my body told me I was alive and the day had only just begun.

Brian Miller said...

dude...very all that you capture of her and of course your storytelling...nice....

Anonymous said...

Outstanding tribute to Marylin the person, deeply deeply heart-felt

Tess Kincaid said...

Beautiful tribute to Marilyn, Glenn...glad you added it this week...

robkistner said...

This was rich and deep with texture and detail, superb piece Glenn -- and I like you reading style, it holds one buoyed to the end... really nice stuff here...