Breast-Fed

image borrowed from bing

Breast-Fed

“I heard the night as if it were a chorus of women

beckoning me to their breasts.”--Anne Rice

Come on,

it is simplicity itself, remembering

when your mother lactated just for you,

and soon after traumatic weaning

you discovered a world bursting

with mastoid symbolism;

feeling aroused by the curves of a viola,

prows of great ships,

foothills and peaks,

silos and twin turbines,

Buick grills, stacks of torpedos,

forcing most real men to rhapsodize

over Victoria’s pushed-up commercials,

forming cadres of bosom worshippers,

earning eagle scout “chest rover” patches,

fighting that infernal need to give in

to breast-fixation,

feeling quixotic about reoccurring dreams

of being held prisoner between

Salma Hayek’s beauteous breasts,

never having an intermezzo

from the prevalent chesty temptations

on every corner, billboard, and media-pitch,

and constantly feeling bilked

when nipples fail to appear,

needing to suture countless hearts

broken by buxom beauties;

needing to palaver with other tit-men

for validation regarding our visceral instincts,

and finally knowing that only an atrophic wit

can be the primary sanctuary

for twitchy hands

and spontaneous drooling.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted over on Monday Melting 15

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Emotion

painting by john sokol

Emotion

“Emotion steers us blind into schools of red herring.”

Emotion is

a strong dog slipped out of its leash,

a fiery falcon suddenly free of its hood,

a fist cramping but not unclenching,

a she-bear with two spring cubs,

a terrible thirst that demands immediate slacking,

a vicious thrust that disregards the parry,

a passionate penetration without compunction,

a lacerated wounding without thought of bandages,

a burst of tremendous speed without brakes,

a powerful punch without need of restraint,

a sudden breathlessness without oxygen,

a trio of carburetor throats linked wide open,

a persistent urge to leap headlong off tall bridges,

and without it we lose

personality,

power,

possessions,

priorities,

pasticcio,

patriots,

patois,

peccadillos,

penchants,

phantasms,

pilgrimages,

and almost all good 

poetry. 

Glenn Buttkus

May 2012.

Posted over on

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In the Race For

in the race for
image by yi ching lin


in the race for


in the race for
earth, it is a zero
sum game, when
wrangled through
a partisan prism
.


Yi Ching Lin


Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

We Build Memories

we build memories
image borrowed from bing


we build memories


we build memories
on origami shelves, multi-
tiered, delicate.
the weight of this
reminder alone
gingerly shifts our
balance, pulls on
each minute like
they were loosening
petals with seconds
to spare
.


Yi Ching Lin


Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Getting My Teeth

image borrowed from bing

getting my teeth

It was as if I had only just been able to see
colors and shapes for the first time...

It was confusing, each sound running into the next sound,
like the mingling reverbations of bells,
until I learned to separate the sounds,
and then they overlapped, each soft but distinct--
increasing but discrete peals of laughter...peals of bells

It is like this, the way Louis describes it,
a great awakening of the senses,
which is not what gripped me at sixteen,
the first time i read Anne Rice---

it was more the sexuality~power,
puberty's perspective the taking,
quenching the demon within yourself
 stick your head in a speaker box,
turn the sound up, if you really want to know---

this life among the cacophony, a clatter, a gong,
a screech stare into a strobe light,
flash, flash, flash faster until your retinas dull,
this---life, unending stimulation, a flip book, blink,
fast forward film reel---

until you turn until you learn to separate sounds,
moments into the little things,
unnoticed lady in the cross walk on 5th avenue,
lay your tongue along the line from
the soft spot behind her ear to the collar bone,
just to taste her h-h-heartbeat,
the black bruise that rests in her chest,
last night, her lover--- pull back, don't take too much,
let her live, breathe, no need to sate yourself on just one---

a man runs the fruit stand on the corner,
gives samples to children every morning
as they wait for the bus,
his joy heady wine almost masking
the remorse at the loss of his own,
feel the thrum in his hemoglobin
pop along your taste buds,
like too much curry don't hurry,

slurp like some beast,
have dignity for them,
but also yourself---pace the bus comes,
a tiny round face in a side window,
pink backpack across her shoulders,
silk black hair, emerald eyes and in them---
do you dare taste what pools there---

a cab driver, a suit-tie too tight-angry, soiled pup,
words wet on the brick, trash caught in a breeze rising,
separate each, sample,

loveHATEpainRElief SEcretsSOCietYsaltGRITgriefSIGHbeauty
pull your pen out, and furious- ly write poetry---

No better than vampires---taking intimacy,
to quench that which lives within us---
can you be- lieve, do you want to know what i see---
when i look at you?
I heard the night as if it were a chorus
of women beckoning me to their breasts.

Oh, Louis, you have no idea.

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One

miTunes

image borrowed from bing

miTunes

during my thirty minute commute

to the office each week

day morning,

i listen to one FM station

habitually,

and I have chosen

five rock groups

that i want to hear

a song from.

if i get at least one

my day will be

multiple rainbows;

if none,

i call the whole day

flat-assed. 

glenn buttkus

april 2012

posted over on

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Gleaming, Moving

image borrowed from bing

Gleaming, Moving

I heard the midnight wail outside my bedroom
and knew what I would see if I pulled aside the curtain.
Under the full moon, a flash of escaped sundown,
she’d be speeding again across the yard, heading from
the thicket by the Plank Road to the woods on the left,
where Fox kept her home. She’d be as I always remember,
never forget, gleaming, moving.

I’ve seen her take this course and back even in daylight,
when the sun made her shine
like arrogant alloy of cat and dog.
She feared nothing, not even man. Perceiving
no true rival for her territory, not even coyote
come down from the eastern hills.
Boldly she waved her flag tail and took
rabbits and chipmunks at will.

As I jogged the Plank last week, a car
veered toward me and back to its lane,
whizzing by, sucking the air from me,
an exhaust-tinged vacuum.
In its tracks across the road I caught
the glint of copper epaulets near the shoulder.
I knew her and didn’t wish to. Still in harm’s way,
Fox lay, victim of the rival she did not know.

Her eyes glassy and vacant, mine wet and manic,
I looked up to see another killer approaching,
so I pulled her body to the nearby weeds.
It was then I saw it, the shifting of the skin
of her round belly and I cried all the way home.
This how I always remember her,
never forget, gleaming, moving.

Joseph Hesch

Posted over on his site A Thing For Words

Snake Eater

image borrowed from bing

Snake Eater

Prickly sweat cascading 

beneath his kevlar, 

willing his hands not to tremble, 

thick black smudges

beneath his piercing eyes,

copper-tasting saliva sifting

through his clenched teeth,

preparing to lurch 

from blackout shadow

to bright jungle clearing, 

his two sharp knives trained 

to skewer, to sever membranes,

to behead his scaly adversaries--

and as he leaped out 

to do the cobra dance,

he marveled at how the trees 

looked like mad asparagus 

just before he waded

into the ritual slaughter. 

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted over on Monday Melting 14

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The Gauntlet

image borrowed from bing

The Gauntlet

Not long ago I wore
the gray mask of a wage slave,
and some early mornings alone
in my alley, fogging the chilled air
with my heated breath, watching it
drift gingerly past the single star visible
over my garage, often I could hear
the engine of a small plane hidden
in the low clouds, sputtering as
it searched for a landing strip;

before I habitually slipped red
through the pre-dawn indigo,
tingling with alacrity,
watching nervously in my mirrors
for those constabularial predators
who might,
who could,
who had sprung from concealment
snagging one of the stragglers of our group,
bullshit-bellicose, behaving
like silver-buckled sun-glassed
voracious lions
leaping onto our thin metal backs
with guns drawn,
and claws out;

but most of the time the herd was vast,
and others were pulled down
while I pushed on
eager for my servitude,
eager for the passage of years,
eager for the quiet hour at my desk
when the flop sweat
from my narrow escape
would transform itself
like a sensuous magi-bitch
into poetry.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted over on Magpie Tales 114

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The Last Time I

image by yi ching lin

the last time i

the last time i
checked,
there were
eighty-three ways
to conduct a first
date –
the outcomes
varied in degrees
of stickiness, but
you have to admit,
some people are
just more insistent,
imposing their own brand
of take-no-prisoners love.
be wary –
first impressions
should not be neglected
over something as crinkly
as wrapping paper .

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Hoka Hey

painting by peggy o'neal

 Hoka Hey 

There are a few good artists
who specialize in painting
Native Americans,

fueling my fascination
with Indian mythology,
magic, and red dust,
bright colored feathers,

the owl dance,
the stomp grounds,
commodity cheese,
Navajo blankets
and silver jewelry,

Hopi hand-made pottery,
taking coup,
all things Sherman Alexie,
cliff pueblos, plus

my white man’s apologies.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

 Posted over on Flash 55-G-Man

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Sisyphus

painting by franz von stuck

Sisyphus

Just do it because you can’t help it,
must do trumps might could, almost hit;
scribbling madly on dinner napkins,
quibbling sadly with verbs in trash bins.

Disturbed with Dali’s tall elephants,
perturbed with hippos that try to dance;
dreaming tattered corners in scrap books,
screaming at reflections of dark rooks.

Honey dripping from my cleverness,
money lost in poet’s wilderness;
muddied memories needing fresh air,
bloodied images taking a dare.

Only a poet will need weeping,
lonely, adrift, and never keeping;
making some sense of their angry eye,
breaking conventions before they die.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012


Posted over on dVerse Poets-FFA

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Waiting

image borrowed from tess kincaid

Waiting

Now
I know it is too late.
If she was going to come
it would have been by now
The flowers I brought are going limp
Turning brown
Yet I wait
As I have waited before
As I wait now for all those who
Hover In my dreams

Doug Palmer

Posted over on his site Feel Free to Laugh

As We Walk

image by brian miller

as we walk


At Shockhoe Bottom, downtown Richmond,
in the parking lot across from Main Street Station

I'm taking pictures on my phone of street art
adorning the sides of brick buildings & hear

the skritch of step, out of step with mine,
a man following behind me, around the corner
drawing closer

(heart beat/heart beat/turn to look)

"There's a Street Art Festival
down by the canal," he shares

we talk brief & he moves on after
rave carding me---

you've got some sun, i can tell by the freckles
when you arrive & we walk down the side
of the canal, where slaves once came into the city,
you tell me, as we walk & you are no tour guide
by your own account, but i am rapt in-a-tension

the old stone bridge ruin beneath the new,
& we walk, the arches all lined up, it's your
favorite view, i can see why, it's got geometry
to please the eye & we find

the festival, all these artist on automatic lifts
& scaffolds, with cans & cans of spray paint
pssshhtt then step back then psssshhhtt, spit
shade & texture to bring life to a wall, into fish,
to bodies thrown like darts at a bull's eye,
to an elegant victorian lady

in the moment, i watch art's head crown,
its eye roll round to peak out the birth canal---
to WhAT?--maybe measure the temperature
(it's mid 70's) to see if it's time & i say, "come on
out, you can do it," my hands in the catcher position
trembling in anticipation as creation dawns,
an MC Escher pipe dream/scape

& we walk back the way slaves came, i ask
if as you walk this way you ever feel like one, 'maybe'
you say & we laugh, with-held tears, nor ankles
shackle marked as we walk

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One

Kilgore Trout in Oklahoma

image borrowed from bing

Kilgore Trout in Oklahoma

There were donuts in those days,
and commodities spaghetti. Phones
lived on walls, and they waited
at home to be called.

Kilgore was a tall man,
but you wouldn’t know unless he stood
up. He had a dog once. And a wife. Sometimes
he misses the dog.

His father lived in a trailer in his mom’s yard.
They were working on their third
divorce. The neighbors were aliens, waiting
for something good on the satellite dish.

His fans are vermin. He lives
in a basement apartment
in Muskogee. He is an olive
in a world of cherries.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

The Rye

image borrowed from bing

The Rye

Where is that white camper of my youth?
The old Ford that only drove in third?
Horses painted on the side
as we circled the back roads
out by Summer Sweet then back home,
stoned boys hanging from the back bumper.
When did I begin to consider
Holden Caulfield’s student loan debt?
The rank smell of feet in his unchanged socks?
We drank Cisco, vodka, whatever
our already graying hair could
get us across the tracks. We didn’t have
to worry if the music we made was too good,
only if it was real. Now,
there is so little room left in the closet
to store my old drum set.
Holden didn’t know the cliff’s edge
was protected by a guardrail.
We never grew and yet
we’re grown. These knees, blown
from humble living—
if I could climb,
I’d be over that edge, falling, falling.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

Tulsa

image borrowed from bing

Tulsa

Sex is in the eyes and the smell and the past.
The hint of sweat from straw-colored hair.
The taste of a smile.
The lilting voice.
The slow catch of silk on nipples.
Delilah, I miss you. I miss
Tulsa dying in the rearview, the sickly linger
of your cigarettes. But I’m not humping
the passenger seat anymore. Remember the time
we got stuck in a ditch chasing a field fire?
A farmer called a sheriff, refused to tow us,
and kept his snake-rifle on us while we scrambled
to find wood to shove under the tires.
He was afraid we’d steal the night, the fire,
the slow death of not knowing
what to believe that choked his heart.
But we were all first sons, whistle-britches, all looking
for a place to stick our hearts for safe-keeping.
The boarded- over windows of our mothers’ eyes
watched from graves half dug
but not full yet. We were forever looking back,
saying:
we will stand tall when the winds die down.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

One December

painting by gustav klimt

One December

klimt was waiting inside my honda
the candy wrapper night you walked
me from your paint box to the stars,

yes the night your eyes caught fire
and melted to pots of butterscotch
that sank into my heart on wings.

all the way home he kept pulling songs
and caramel pies from the secret lining
in the top of his gold satin fishing hat,

lighting candles the color of sunset
and dabbing my hair with moonshine
he’d made himself from antique lace.

these days, drifting drunk on poems
and new violins, I hear the patter of
exhaling leaves in this backyard

and the chatter of morning doves
planning baby showers and i wonder
if you’ve found your mountain yet.

Jannie Funster

Posted over on her site Jannie Funster

Before Perfecting the

image borrowed from flickr

before perfecting the

before perfecting the
business of travel
on, across, and around
the third rail, city
rodents must endure
and pass the final
exam on Harmonics
in Electric Circuits,
perfect the death-
defying jump, and
first, and foremost,
develop the devil-
may-care scuttle
in owning their
neighborhoods
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

On the Edge of

image borrowed from flickr

on the edge of

on the edge of
spring, i love
you, and there is
nothing to fear –
for the moment,
there is still time
enough to shimmer
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

There Are Some Things

painting by ernest ludwig kirchner

there are some things

there are some things
that are not meant
to be a struggle –
learning to play,
loving whom you
love, discovering
a hobby, and
being yourself
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Almost Ten

image by yi ching lin

almost ten

almost ten
years later, and you
are still a mystery –
same shirt, same
apron, perhaps
a heavier prescription
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Whoever Said Patience

image borrowed from bing

whoever said patience

whoever said patience
is a virtue is long
dead – loves
faded, words unsaid,
chances dismissed.
there is a thin line
between earnestness
and political theatre
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Berry-Berry

image borrowed from flickr

Berry-Berry

For God’s sake,
wash your berry before
popping it plump into your piehole
of a mouth,

for it has been insanely sprinkled,
drenched and dunked
in carcinogen-ridden chemical sprays

ever since it was a mere seed,
never safe in its field,
never happy on its stem,
never fully nubile enough to please
the sunshine lothario-rays
endeavoring to embrace it,

always evil-moist and weeping
at its own harvest.

So stand up for organics
all you gleeful fruit marines--
do not permit the artificially induced
colors of those hot house berries

to sway you into a moronic forgetfulness,
letting loose of the more accurate aspect
of their former natural glory.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted over on Monday Melting 13

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Killer

Painting by Guildford Surrey

Killer

My mirror reflected a vermilion swath
down the dark corner of my mouth--

had I run the red moors last night--
had I leapt onto a doe’s back
and sunk my incisors into its lovely neck--

had I fought in the alley behind Pinky’s,
letting the torn skin on my carmine knuckles
validate my wine-tasting--

had I bit my lower lip while dreaming
of scaling claret canyons and soaring
peregrine as my soul hawk tore
the frightened eyes out of roger rabbit?

Did I possess a bestial personality that
made lesser brutes pay double-crimson
for their chance encounter with me?

Soon the ruby ruffian gave way
to the fleeing of hypnagogia,
the scarlet lip stain faded, and
I reached for my thirsty hunting knife,
loving how it felt in the flat of my calloused palm,
heavy at the leather-wrapped hilt,
the name “Killer” stamped deep
into the blood slit on the shiny blade,
with a lethal row of serrated coral teeth
near the handle;

dripping with rosy irony since
I have only actually killed
some ants,
a couple of frogs,
several robins,
a sad turtle,
a thousand spiders,
buckets of flies,
twelve snakes,
some fish,
four deer, a dog, three cats
and my health--

nothing of consequence,
a milktoast’s resume of malice,
a wimp’s wistful arrogance;

until I stare again at the morning mirror,
behind my demon eyes, and garrulous glimpses
of strong simmering genetic memories
quiver beneath my long lashes,
powerful throbs of my darkest naked exploits
make it triple-clear that death
has been no stranger
to these strong hands,
these eyes,
this heart.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted as #45 over at Magpie Tales 113

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SEPTA Cherry Boy

image borrowed from bing

SEPTA Cherry Boy

There were only a few us standing
on the battered gray-green tiles
of the platform directly beneath
the Philadelphia City Hall, as
I readied myself for my maiden ride
on a subway surface trolley car.

Rising off the concrete bench, I picked up
a discarded copy of the Inquirer.
Thumbing through it; Richard Pryor had just
become severely burned while trying
to freebase cocaine.

The sign read 13th-Juniper Street Station.
Three college girls sauntered by chirping
like ptarmigan, with their designer jeans
painted on. I had to stare at the butt
of the shortest one; prime for pumping.

Two electric trolley buses rolled up,
their berths one behind the other
on the same track.

I boarded the first car and sat near
the rear doors, next to the window;
the seat cover had been duct taped
over switchblade slashes.

The trolley ad over the window, above
the hand rail, announced that some
all-news network called CNN was being launched.

An elbow to my ribs alerted me that
a 300 pound black woman was seating
herself next to me, pressing me
tighter to the bus wall. As we pulled out
we passed a dead end siding
where several broken cars were stored,
jammed up like victims at the 3 a.m.
local emergency room.

At 15th Street we could see dredlocks
of daylight up through some kind of planter grates
below Dilworth Plaza.

“What do you think about Nelson Mandela?”
she asked suddenly.
“Who?”
“You know, South African Apartheid--it’s on the front page
of your fucking newspaper.”
Squirming in my own ignorance I managed to say:
“I’m sorry, I haven’t read it.”
She stared at me like I was just another white moron.
“Christ, man, you gotta keep up with shit. Mandela is
a goddamn hero.”
“OK, I’m sure he is.”

The rattling trolley car burst out from the underground,
driving onto the surface street, paralleling the el tracks,
with the morning sun glaring in the dirty windows.
At 22nd Street I really loved the 1907 classic decor,
just before we dove into the Schuylkill River Tunnel,
braking loudly to slow our downslope speed,
then barreling back up and out onto 30th Street.
That was my stop.

I struggled to move past my massive seat mate.

“Hey, man,” she said sternly.

I turned back to face her.
She was wearing a gorgeous smile,
her eyes sparkling.

“You have a great day.” she said warmly.

And I did.


Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics

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Our Memories are Wrapped

image by yi ching lin

our memories are wrapped

our memories are wrapped
in cushions of untruths. when
you say i recall, how much is it
a re-calling, a re-placement of
the conditions – the sounds,
the tastes, even that puncturing
aroma of sweet and savory,
the one that beckons bite me
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

In Going Off the

image borrowed from bing

in going off the

in going off the
beaten path, there is
a sharpening of
senses – the soles
of your feet announce
it first, and for
several paces, you
are at a loss
for words. when it
winds its way up
the spine, opening
like fantastic
blossoms, there is
still no way to
tie it down – you
might as well
enjoy it
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Melodies

image borrowed from bing

Melodies

Standing in mountain meadows,
ankle deep
in thick bee-blasted clover,
staring up
at the cumulus headgear
most jagged peaks sport,

I swear I hear singing,
an angelic choir,
a complete Gregorian
or Buddhist chant,
with marvelously blended voices
heralding my presence,
without words,

still clearly thrusting
a message of welcome
straight through my heart.

Glenn Buttkus’

April 2012

Posted over on

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Simian Saviour

image borrowed from bing

Simian Saviour

I only harbor a wet sliver
of the big truth, cuddling it
like a broken piece of stained glass
that I pull out sometimes and stare at,
trying to imagine the entire picture,
the whole abstract artfulness,
merely a perturbed puppet working
on the infinite puzzle, no landscape
vast enough to lie it down within;

but it is very much like viewing a door handle
while trying to visualize the actual vehicle,
which takes on several phantom existences,
as I have--hopscotching across centuries,
searching for more odd-shaped pieces
and the perfect holes to pound them into;

this time I am a man who sees ghosts
in his house, often--who doesn’t have to believe,
just has to remember to breathe when
I stumble through dimensional shifts--

yet though I have seen a UFO at 3 a.m.
on the high deserts of California,
inexplicably, I am forever denied
an audience with Him, who awaits me,
has beckoned to me through several
lifetimes, calling from the dark innards
of many forests, tall and red-eyed.

I do long for our inevitable meeting
during some night’s journey that will include
our encounter, and I will recognize Him,
have always known Him, tingling with regret
as I only study his haunts, document
his movements, memorizing the testimony
of those He has graced with his presence;

I race headlong down forest service roads
at midnight, sending out my silent salutations,
stopping in the depth of the darkness
to flick off my headlights and beat back
the gnawing fear mites that churn in my gut,
to no avail--only the night birds answer;

Is it possible that He has chosen
to elude me during this life--
will only appear to me during
my very last moments,
with his hirsute Jesus face,
taking my small hand
in his huge one,
smiling as He guides me
Home?

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted as #4 over at dVerse Poets--MTB

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Minstrel Show

painting by bridget bossart van otterloo

Minstrel Show

Raining slightly,
I stood behind the screen door
munching my peanut butter toast
watching three robins hopping about
in the pink and white tulip tree blossoms.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Island Life

image by alex shapiro.

Island life.


The myriad ways to be the go…
…and to be on the come back!

(and the come back is the best part).

Alex Shapiro

Posted over on her site Notes From the Kelp

Wake Up Like an Infant

image borrowed from flickr

WAKE UP LIKE AN INFANT

Well-digger, come here,
Let go of yourself,
Wake up like an infant,
One more streak of clear water in sewage.


Water-fetcher, come here,
Let go of me and you.

Wake up like an eye,
Once again, an artesian well lifted high,
Between the legs, set dankness to work
From, dank greenery all around.

Hemmed in,
This overly concrete—
Mood of rushing into death's arms;
Mouthwise,
Just as in love.


All around, rapt intrigue of water,
Goes deep into soil.

Che Qianzi

translated from the Chinese by Denis Mair.

Posted over on Poems and Poetics

Dawn

image borrowed from bing

Dawn

(Outside the Window, Resembling
a Painting by Castiglione)

Rustling traces, fitly dispersed,
Ink left over from a rubbed ink stick—

Flash-heated by recipe, this overseas red,
Those rustling, stippled,
Echoing traces.

Ramble midway up the mountain,
enough to stir sounds
Reveling in water amid echoes.

In the hour of the cock, liaison
with Chinese landscape of some kind.

Che Qianzi

translated from the Chinese by Denis Mair

Posted over on Poems and Poetics