Blackthorne: Scene 31

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Thirty-One

Sipping & Jawing

“There is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can

set upon the freedom of my mind.”--Virginia Woolf.

1(two-shot)

Wallace: So how are things out at Antlered Buck?

Buck: Pardon, what do you know about the ranch?

2(medium close-up) 

Wallace: I know it’s prime grazing land that’s been sitting idle

for a long time. I know that Bronson wants it--& I know that

someone has been paying the taxes every year like clockwork.

3(sound cue) sweet harmonica.

4(close-up) Buck, smiling: You are pretty well informed.

5(two shot) Wallace with angle over Buck’s broad shoulder.

--Hell’s fire, every dumb ass in town knows that much.

Buck: Really?

6(close up) Wallace, him smiling now:

--Yeah, a year or so ago, Bronson sent his foreman up to the county

seat at Silver City to find out the legal status of the place.

7(sound cues) Stagecoach rumbling by, dogs barking, piano chords.

8(medium close up) Buck just stared quietly at the old storekeeper.

9(angle on) Wallace:

--Word was that they don’t like the Bronsons much up there, & the county

clerk sent their bought-butts packing. 

10(two shot)

Buck: What was the verdict?

Wallace: Christ’s eyes, son, you know what it was--the ranch is legally owned.

Buck: No shit?

This time it was Wallace that did the staring.

11(close-up) Buck:

--Well, yeah.....I think it is about time for me to take up residence again.

I got some plans for fixing it up.

12(medium two-shot)

Wallace: Might be tricky if you need a loan; Bronson owns the fucking

bank too.

Buck: Money is not really an issue.

13(wider two-shot)

Wallace swallowed the last of the home hooch in his metal cup, & set

it down on a shelf; Buck did the same with his.

14(sound cue) clink-clink, one cup after the other.

15(tighter two-shot) 

Buck was staring at a colorful Mexican serape hung on the wall.

Wallace: Boy..

Buck met his gaze.

Wallace: I knew your Pa. 

16(sound cue) banjo & saxophone.

17(medium wide shot) Cut to the front door opening, its welcoming

bells chirping.

18(medium close-up) A young woman with raven-black hair rushes into

the store. Her flashing green eyes were angry as she strode deliberately

up to the men. Her starched white blouse has Spanish lace at the neck

& bodice, & it rose & fell over large breasts. Her buckskin riding outfit was

spotted with gray-white dust.

19(three-shot) with her back to the camera. She carried a small riding quirt,

& wore high top black boots without spurs. The backside of her leather skirt

was shiny from much riding.

20(close-up) The Woman:

--God damn it, Dad! I just heard you’ve been mouthing off to Joe Hop. Jesus,

that was real smart. 

21(three-shot) Wallace in the middle, replying calmly, quite accustomed to

her emotionalism:

--Salina--this is Mr. Rod Buck.

22(sound cue) guitar & cello chords.

23(medium close-up) Salina:

--I know who he is. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets OLN

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Christ Tastes Like Turkey

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Christ Tastes Like Turkey

“Give thanks to television, for this is the first time

that the young are seeing history made before before

it is censored by their elders.”--Margaret Mead.

Mid-term elections are over, 

               & Republicans scramble about freely

               gobble-gobbling crap about entitlement,

impeachment, birth certificates, & saber rattling, as

                                religious leaders, the media &

               Madison Avenue put their stamp & spin

right on the tail feathers of blessed Thanksgiving.

               We, the people,

                             are taught, or

                                    have learned that being thankful

                for even the slightest of blessings

is a healthy exercise for our troubled souls; & yet

it is a sad fact that

                too many families, pulled apart

by world events, personal soap operas, or technology

& merchandizing, immorality, dishonesty & ignorance, fail

                to grasp the significance, the brilliance of simply

                     gathering together & giving thanks, 

                     breaking bread at someone’s designated home,

serving steaming pies of humility, foregoing

                                        slices of sarcasm, baskets of bile &

                                        dishes of discord.

Days of fasting then feasting, celebrating thankfulness

were brought to our shores

by our New England forbearers, & every school child

                    knows that around 1621 the Plymouth colonists

                                       sat down with the Wampanoag Indians

                                                       & shared an autumn feast

of venison, swan, squirrel, wild boar, & perhaps

                    a wild turkey or two--there were no functional ovens

                    in  Plymouth, so several fire pits cooked the humble fare.

  There was no sugar left, so the pastries were absent.

If we were to nominate, or consecrate a Saint of Thanksgiving,

surely it would have to be the kind warrior, Squanto,

                    who knew English after being kidnapped 

                                    & sold into slavery in England, who was

                    the one who taught the colonists how

                                       to cultivate corn, & how to extract sap

 from the plentiful maple trees.

When we look to history, as certainly

we should in order to discover & honor our heritage,

                     we find that the Egyptians, Greeks, & Romans always

                     set aside days of thankfulness, in order to pay tribute

                                         to the gods after a harvest, & before them

the Jews had the Harvest Festival of Sukket  

George Washington,

John Adams, &

James Madison                  during their presidencies, also designated

                                           days of thankfulness, but it was old

Abe Lincoln in 1863 who proclaimed that

                                           in order to heal the wounds of a nation

there would be a national Thanksgiving Day held

the last Thursday in November.

Today

my lovely wife & I are alone,               as our children are all attending

                                              gatherings & meals at their in-laws.

We will stay in our pajamas until noon, read,

                                               watch the silly goings-on on television

as we hug quietly, tenderly within the silence, the peace

of understood abandonment; for it is a different scenario

                                     when the five grandchildren congregate

                                at our home, turning it into a boisterous 

                        school play yard, laced with lilting laughter,

                 indignant yelps, angry reprisals, 

& childish demands; all of which will be enjoyed as our family

gathers in our house for Christmas.

As we prepare our simple meal for two,

just a turkey breast, & the potatoes of piety, 

& the green beans & bacon of generosity,

we will still find time to be thankful

                  for each other,

                  for our burgeoning family,

                  for our dear friends,

                  for our faithful pets; keenly aware

as we clearly see the bad weather, discontent, dissent,

crime & hunger that surrounds us, we feel

that our gratitude will be just a tiny atoll of Love

on all the dark seas of salt & pain, for we understand

                  that true thankfulness,

                   like a genuine smile

             is as infectious, 

         as contagious

as ebola.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted on this Thanksgiving Day over at dVerse Poets

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Commedia at Papryus Place

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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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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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Office Amalgam

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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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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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