Fear is my Co-Pilot

image borrowed from niul.org

Fear is my Co-Pilot

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark;

the real tragedy in life is when men are afraid of the light.”

--Plato.

I get up to fear

fixing my breakfast, & then

plotting my whole day.

How can those horrible hordes

swords

of pious pugnacious patriots ever break out

shout

of the mucus-lined terrible trenches

stenches

of scintillating sonorous sorrow,

tomorrow

finally elude the fallacious daydream of mink-gloved 

garish greed, whereby their red-necked pitiful palaces,

located dully dead-center in the vacuous wasteland of

vast rust-bucket trailer parks, 

                 their shaved-head vicious visage, 

                 their colorful prison/biker tattoos,

                 their White Supremacy bilious booklets,

                 their brutish benevolence, &

                 their mandatory attendance at KKK kamikaze camp-outs

& asinine Aryan Nation rallies all along the Idaho prick’s panhandle,

ALL seems to be rigorously righteous

       within their fascist fallacies &

                 their American Nazi fantasies,

       wherein Donald Trump could lead,

                     Jeb Bush could rig an election,

                     Glenn Beck could advise,

                     Sarah Palin could govern, &

                     Michelle Bachmann could join the Supreme Court.

I swear, every damn day, it seems

another mad dog murderer walks into

                     a bustling super mall,                     or

                     a full movie theater,                        or

                     a rural elementary school,              or

                     a starched recruiting office,            or

                     an unsuspecting Navy yard,           or

                     a slumbering military base              or

                     a commonplace commuter train      or

                     a salami-scented delicatessen        or

                     an infidel’s cartoon convention.

armed with a Russian AK-47 &

a dozen crammed lethal killer clips                      & sprays

                       soft-nosed brass-headed bullets like

                   demon rain into random bystanders;

              furiously fueled by Islamic deadly double-speak,

                                       by chest-splitting hate-mongering mentally

unstable conditioning,    by sadly surreptitious other-directing,

                                       by deceitful vacations to Syrian sack-of-shit

combat training camps   by pissy-promises of beauteous martyrdom,

                                       by too many moronic choices, 

                                       by unfortunate easy access to firearms,

                                       by trading Jesus for Allah--

although the dark dastardly denizens

that speak for either of them have twisted

love into larceny,

compassion into terror,

insecurity into paranoia,

stupidity into pride, &

dimples into death.

Yet in my idealist’s heart, I hope/believe/pray that the insidious insanity

of misplaced nationalism, the larcenous lure of fictitious personal power,

the rise of punk-bitch pride & thuggish bullying, grinning cruelty, limitless

capitalistic kopecks--could be somehow redirected onto a brighter sun-

dappled landscape, into that socialistic democracy as espoused by

Saint/Senator Bernie Sanders, where every unrealistic dream of equality,

perfect equity, unfettered freedom, & unharnessed honesty could come

true, where our fabulous fantasies of brotherhood could create heaven

in Helena, could reverse global warming, could curb billionaire’s choke

holds, defeat lobbyists & paid-for politicians, or actually practiced as 

good deeds by the dying Jimmy Carter.

I would love to just

awaken in a world where love

outranked hate; amen. 

          

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Poetics  

From Baltimore to Anacreon

image borrowed from thehistoryreader.com


From Baltimore to Anacreon

“If you forget the words to your own songs, well, you

can improvise--but if you forget the words to the national

anthem--then you’re screwed.”--Lyle Lovett

Oh, say can you see

by the dawn’s early light, what

so proudly we hailed

                                        at the twilight’s last

                                        gleaming, whose broad stripes & bright

                                        stars, through the peri--

--lous fight, O’er the ram--

--parts we watched so gallantly

streaming? and the roc--

ket’s red glare,

Bloody fare

the bomb’s bursting in air

Claws of the bear

gave proof through the night

Vicious fight

that

our

flag

was still there.

Pugnacious pair

Oh, say does that

Pesky gnat

star-spangled banner yet wave

Freedom saved.

                                       O’er the land of the

                                       free & the home of the brave:

                                       End of the first verse.

When you pull the patriotic scab off of our colorful History,

in 1814, we discover young FranKKey, a nineteenth century

poet, standing on the tilted deck of an American frigate in

Baltimore harbor watching the British night bombardment

of Ft. McHenry, while he scribbled four stanzas of poetry

on the wet backs of cotton ledgers--& it remained just a

popular poem, until it morphed into popular music, using

the melody of a well known drinking song, called 

                          TO ANACREON IN HEAVEN, 

created by the folks at a Gentleman’s Club of amateur 

musicians in London.

Then in 1916, during WWI, President Woodrow Wilson

began having military bands play it to spike patriotism,

& during the early years of the Great Depression, in 1931,

after an Act of Congress, the song was officially designated

as our national anthem. 

                             How many sporting

                             events, or school assemblies

                             have we all

found ourselves at, with our right hand over our heart, after a

flag salute, & recitation of the pledge of allegiance, & praising

God--singing the national anthem? Maybe a hundred or so

before we were twenty--where for me in 1964, I encountered

something called the inception of the Viet Nam War, just as

the shaggy-haired Beatles started another British invasion,

with free love, sex/drugs/& rock-n-roll just around the bend. 

I love my country;

can’t help myself, regardless

of politicians.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub Poetics

Blackthorne--Scene 44

image borrowed from skip tucker.blogspot.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Forty-Four

Patriarch.

“The power of patriarchy has been to make men feel that its

better to be feared than to be loved.”--Bell Hooks.

1(three-shot) Lisa touched her wet puckered lips with a forefinger,

then placed it on Johnny’s cheek. She rose gracefully, floating off

his lap & away from the table, melting into the thick shadows.

2(two-shot) angle on Buck, his intense eyes locked on the Indian’s

face--Tell me, old Caballo, what’s the story here?

2(reverse shot) angle on the eagle:--Nothing. I am your man. There 

can be no one else.

4(medium close-up) Buck: A few weeks ago I didn’t know I was coming

back here--yet somehow many people in this town seemed to expect

me--just how in hell does that cinch up?

5(two-shot) angle on Johnny: Because your father loved you.

6(sound cue) harmonica & piano.

7(flashback) A young Rod Buck standing in a crowded smoky saloon. 

Bill Buck sat among others at the bar, his back to the boy. 

8(hold the wide shot/sound cues) thirty voices, glasses clinking, coughing.

9(medium two-shot) Bill Buck, at another’s urging, turned around & saw

his son standing there.

--Bill: What? WHAT?

The boy said nothing, hands in his pockets, staring up at his father, a single

tear running down his cheek.

--Bill: Get out of here! What the fuck’s wrong with you? What do you want

from me?

The boy did not respond.

--Bill: God damn it, Roddy--get back to the ranch. Quit following me around

like a whipped pup (pointing to the swinging doors) So get the fuck out of

here! Tell the squaw your problems--she’ll take care of you.

10(two-shot, the present) angle on Buck: My father was a falling down

drunk.

11(sound cue) guitar chords

12(medium close-up) Johnny: Your father is dead, but you are here, very

much alive--& now you are the Buck. That’s all there is; simple. 

13(medium close-up) Buck: I’m sorry--but I still don’t savvy

14(two-shot) angle on Johnny: --You wrote letters to your father?

15(sound cues) bull bison bellowing, train whistle in the distance, several .50

caliber rifle shots, & pounding hooves.

16(medium  close-up) Buck nodded Yes.

17(flashback) Young Buck at a small campfire at twilight, writing a letter on an

overturned wooden bucket.

18(close-up) Johnny: He read them to everyone.

19(medium close-up) Buck, after a moment, a beat: 

--He became a damn fool.

20(two-shot) angle on Johnny: Yes, he was a drunk, & he died alone,

but he was not a fool.

--Buck: After Ma died, he was never the same. I could not stay here &

watch him kill himself.

--Johnny: No one judges you.

21(angle on Buck) Not even him?

22(medium close up) Johnny: Especially him.

23(sound cues) clarinet, coronet, & banjo.

24(medium close-up) Buck: Wallace, Salina, you, Mateo, probably even

Bronson knew I was coming; damn.

22(two shot) over Buck’s shoulder:

--Johnny: True, big Ciervo, many did know that you would come, but there

was no “when” on their lips. A man comes home. 

25(reverse shot) angle on Buck: Just feel bone-busted tired. It is hard to

recognize things, because everything I ever knew is dead, turned to blow

sand ghosts & scorpions in my boots.

26(sound cue) trumpet & harmonica.

27(flashback) sunrise over the foothills above the Buck ranch, two black

collies chasing a squirrel near the barn, dark smoke rising from a stately

rock chimney, with the lovely smell of bannocks, bacon, & strong coffee

on the breeze.

28(two shot) the Present, angle on the Eagle: You know, your father

always had a dream?

29(reverse shot) angle on Buck: When I last saw him, he had no dreams

left.

30(medium shot, flashback) on a truck crane, dollying in to the open hay

loft doors, with a large snowy owl on the end of the red pully-bar, staring

with its large yellow unblinking eyes into the camera.

31(sound cue) the owl’s soft Whooo, Whoo shifting hard into the Who’s

rock guitar chords, singing WHO ARE YOU?

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Call Me Butch

image borrowed from flickr.com

Call Me Butch

“If I’m going to tell a real story, then I’m gonna

start with my name.”--Kendrick Lamarr.

Growing up in Seattle, I attended ten elementary schools in six

years; kind of amazed that most of them were built the same--three

stories, wide stairs, hall lockers, smelling of hardwood floors, strong

cleaners, wax, chalk, eraser dust, urinal soap, lunchroom tuna casserole

& macaroni slathered in cheese, rubber balls, & baseball mitts.

Before I made it through sixth grade, my young mother had married twice

more--the first husband was divorced before my first day in kindergarten

in 1949. My last stepfather had a vicious temper, so he quit a lot of jobs,

& we moved multiple times, pushing me into permanent outsider status--

always the new kid, forcing/molding/allowing me to rapidly develop into

a type-A overachiever, having to assert myself intellectually, emotionally,

& physically to be as facile with my fists as I was with my quips & homework.

I was the one in

the first row, my hand in the 

air, first with answers.

Early on that first day 

           in the first school

        with the first teacher, I had

                my first life lesson, as I quickly learned to become

        my own advocate, being subjected to something strange

                labeled as Roll Call.

“Arnold Bryden”, the lady teacher sang out.

I just sat there staring out the window at a dog pissing on a bike.

She repeated that odd name.

I remained unresponsive.

She bustled up to my tiny desk, as I was

checking out the odd doodles carved into it.

“Why are you not answering to your name?”

I looked up at her with angry eyes.

“That’s not my name.”

“Of course it is, young man, it’s right here on my roll card,

Arnold Glenn Bryden.”

“My name is Butch--call me Butch.”

“No, your first name is Arnold. Butch is just your nick-name.”

“My what?”

“Your nick-name, what your family calls you.”

“That’s cuz my name is Butch.”

“No, you must learn that we do not use nick-names in school.

I will call you Arnold, because that is your proper name.”

After a moment of contemplation I said,

“Arnold is a dumb name, I don’t like it. My Mom will be mad at you

too, cuz Arnold is my Dad, but he was mean to us, & he is gone 

now, so just call me Butch.”

“OK,” she said, pondering the situation,

“Then what about Glenn, your middle name?”

“Glenn?”

“Yes, Glenn--that’s a fine name.”

“OK, you can call me Glenn. I like that name.”

It is hard to know

who you are at five years old,

but somehow, I did. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Poetics

On the Stump

image borrowed from Facebook

On the Stump

“The people who cast the votes decide nothing.

The people who count the votes decide everything.”

--Joseph Stalin.

Oh Christ, Presidential Politics are upon us yet again.

Bagmen.

We hear all the candidates yowling like tomcats.

Wombats.

We do wonder where in hell is the actual truth?

Booth.

They attack each other like starving rats in a maze.

Craze.

Too many of us are filled with disgust.

Discuss.

Some of us never even make it to the polls.

Dispose.

So do they even have the right to complain,

Bane.

When they choose not to practice democracy?

Autocracy.

Can we stumble & elect a demagogue?

Epilogue.

Or will we elect the First Madam?

Rodham.

Will Trump pick Palin for his running mate?

Abate.

Sanders tells us what we have desperately needed to hear.

Endear.

Personally, I really do feel the Bern.

His Turn.

How can a blowhard clown like the Donald

McRonald.

Gather up such a tremendous head of steam?

Ream.

Trump has all the finesse of a schoolyard bully.

Wholly. 

Is our government so completely broken?

Unspoken.

Will 1% billionaires ever be willing to share with us?

Cuss.

Allow the reinstatement of the middle class?

Harass.

Ever quit putting Congress in their pocket?

Sock it.

Can any political promises come to pass?

Kiss my ass.

Well, we will find out in 2016.

Ruptured spleen.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Impermanence

image borrowed from kiwikiwikiwi.com

Impermanence

“Nothing exists longer than an instant except the thing

we hold in memory.”--Sam Savage.

When we behold Art

in any of its many forms,

we question our roots.

Antiquity is rife with grandiose

               statuary & architecture,

               mysterious paintings,

               oriental rugs,

               medieval tapestries,

               Native American dolls & dream catchers,

               hand-painted vases & urns & pottery,

               tattered scrolls & parchments,

And scraps of paper containing poetic lines left unsigned--

          all fabulous to behold, to discover & share.

          all anonymous, carefully, maddeningly cloaking 

          their creators,                  as well their motivations,

                                 muses & back stories.

                                 For me, historical relics,

                                 knick-knacks, furniture & art

are just a magnificent particle     of a much larger mosaic,

                                  a cosmic mandala.

Recently, my brother & I stood on a high ridge in the jagged foothills

below Mt. Adams, taking photos of the mountain, & as we zoomed

tighter for close-up shots we both were delighted to find three faces

formed on the edge of a melting glacier--where the exposed boulders

had formed a perfect rendering of a trio of distinct physiognomy.

I remember thinking about all the other faces

        and animals I have seen in the vermilion cliffs of

                 Utah & Nevada, or powerfully poking up out of dense

                          forests everywhere for some of us to marvel at, or

                  marching out to sea, broken off of continents, worn into

        wondrous shapes by wrathful waves--some into graceful arches,

others to stand alone or in groups, but who/what is the

                  magnanimous Muse that enjoys the creation of

                  these artistic & poetic anomalies, these elephants,

                                                                                  ships,

                                                                                  covered wagons,

                                                                                  turtles,

                                                                                  alligators,

                                                                                  camels,

                                                                                  bulls, horses,

pyramids, geometric shapes & human faces? Because some men

are so fascinated by Nature’s handiwork,

that in South Dakota, they have

transformed mountains into Art,

imprinting their visions into sheer cliff sides.

You know, whether we believe in Genesis or Evolution,

                                                     Scripture or Anthropology,

                  there was a time that we worshipped Nature,

                  & accepted it as divine--but today we have

        allowed our technological hubris,

        greed, pride, & ignorance

to plunge our entire planet into peril.

I think that somewhere

out in the vastness of void,

midst the star-choked swarm

of a billion-billion solar systems,

there are eyes watching our fatal folly,

merely observing, unwilling to intervene,

perhaps even making wagers on the

eventual timeline for our

destruction & extinction. 

If we co-created

this planet, let’s revisit our

own motivation.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Poetics