Blackthorne--Scene 55

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Five

Alacrity

“So, in the way of writing without thinking, thou hast

a strange alacrity in sinking.”--Thomas Sackville.

1(wide crane shot) behind the five riders, with Buck 

& the Eagle facing off against them.

2(sound cue) Cheewa growling.

3(medium close-up) One of the wranglers : 

I may have to shoot that damn dog.

4(overhead drone shot ) high above the seven men,

then descending down toward them. A buzzard flew

across the frame half-way down.

4(sound cue) wings flapping over seed rattle.

5(two shot) Johnny’s flushed face & Buck’s knitted 
brows.

6(medium close-up) Buck : Your land, you say, since when?

7(sound cue) piano chord--off key.

8(medium close-up) Bronson : Ever since I’ve been running

my herds out here.

9(tight close-up) Buck : Just how long has that been 
going on?

10(two-shot) Over Buck’s shoulder, Bronson : Hell, it must 
be over a year now.

11(voice-over) Thor : More like two years.

Bronson: Yeah, I think you”re right, brother.

12(four-shot) Johnny : As far as we knew, all this was open 

range. Thor spat : Now you know different !

13(sound cue) saxophone & snare drum.

14(medium close-up) Johnny Eagle : Alright, gents, how’s it 

going to be?--his voice was like a taunt cello string, his 
cheeks fluttering, his body one tight muscle.

15(medium wide shot) Johnny & Buck with their backs 
to the camera, as an awkward second creeps by.

16(tight close-up) Buck flicked off the snap on his holster 
holding his sawed-off side arm.

17(camera pans smoothly, swiftly) over the faces of the five 
riders; they all saw him.

18(medium solo-shot) Bronson rose up slowly in this stirrups,

the fancy leather creaking, crossed his right leg over the neck 
of his palomino, then leaned on his elbows, staring intensely
at Buck, before smiling broadly : Well, Christ on a sawhorse. 
let’s all take a breath here. I’m sure that you boys worked 
real hard collecting these shabby ass jackrabbits.

19(close-up) a prairie dog stuck its head up from his burrow,

chirped, & ducked back down out of sight.

20(medium close-up) You god damn rights we did !! snapped

Johnny, his anger smoldering in his eyes.

21(two-shot) over Johnny’s shoulder as Bronson calmly

continued to smile, the man on the high pommel, in control--

Now I want you fellows to understand, I am still hoping to 

keep this visit in the “warning” category.

22(sound cue) French horn & banjo.

23(tight close-up) Bronson : The only problem is, it just 
would not sit right with my men if I was to let you off Scot-
free.

24(two-shot) Buck & the Eagle stood in silence--waiting.

25(close-up) Bronson : I’ll tell you what, in order to make

everybody happy, how about this--you give me the 
Appaloosa--and thank-you by the way for capturing him, my 
own crew couldn’t get it done--and for the present I’ll just 
pretend not to see those other jugheads.

26(close up) Johnny, through clenched teeth : How about this

--you eat shit & live.

27(medium wide crane shot) Bronson remained in the saddle,

but the other four men rose up in unison & slowly 
stepped off their mounts.

28(sound cue) muted coronet bleats.

29(two-shot) Bronson: Not a smart play, Johnny.

Thor : You fucking breed, we could take all the horses, and 
then stake your sad butt on a fire ant hill

30( quick-cut, angle on Buck) I wouldn’t do that if I were 
you.

31(sound cue) snare drum bap & seed rattle.

32(medium wide shot) Thor turned toward Buck, his hands 
on his hips just above his gun belt, his voice low & calm
: I don’t know you, Hoss, but believe me, unless you want to die 
today,  you need to stay out of things that are not your concern. 
This business is between this damn Indian & my brother.

33(two-shot) over Thor’s shoulder--Buck : I’m sorry, fella, but

you’re all mixed up.

34(medium close-up) Bronson : What are you jawing about?

35(close-up) Buck : Johnny Eagle works for me. These are 

my horses. He can’t give you anything. You need to deal 

with me.

36(three-shot) Bronson, to Johnny : Is this true?

Buck set his jaw, & the Eagle nodded yes, eying the

Rifle near his bed roll, & flicking his thumb across the 
sharp edge of his throwing knife.                          

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Time Travelers

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Time Travelers

“We could warp space-time so much that you

could go in a rocket & return before you set out.”

--Stephen Hawking

Quantum physics

meets

meta-physics

on a gossamer thin thread

of time--                   

                              a transparent throbbing vein,

                            shaped like the living split

                          between the left and right brain.

                              

                              Beyond the veil, time is

                        reputed to be superfluous,

                    where past-present & future

                  are One;       perhaps linear,

                                       perhaps circular,

                                       perhaps amorphous.

Beyond our tiny galaxy,            a cosmos within

a billion-billion universes          a cosmos within

gyrate like hungry pinworms    a cosmos within

devouring rotting flesh,             a cosmos within

like mountains of granite          a pea,       within

being crushed into infinite        God’s half acre--

grains of sand. like munching   beyond 

molecules in a dust bunny--      comprehension,

                                                  beyond

                              imagination, beyond thought;

those stars behind & beyond those dead ones we

see in our night skies, because we are barely able

to cope with the notion that travel outside of our

galaxy will require leaving our body behind in some

sort of cryonic stasis, embarking on a soul journey

after we learn to fold time & penetrate black holes,

expanding our minuscule consciousness--also

consider that

traveling beyond the beyond will only be the

beginning of our cosmic selves, & most certainly

we’ll need poets along on the journey(s) to insure

that posterity will accurately chronicle the 

tumultuous tale of humanity turning itself 

inside-out, to witness Time being filleted 

like a fat flounder, split open to the white

meat, probed, smoked & deboned.

We must become time

travelers in order to be

at one with our gods.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Night of the Reaper

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Night of the Reaper

“Believe that love is the strongest thing in the

world; stronger that hate, evil, or death--and

believe further that Love was born in

Bethlehem 2000 years ago.”--Henry Van Dyke.

A decade ago, my wife & I were visiting her mother

in Texas, My mother-in-law was 80, but still mentally

sharp. Three nights before Christmas, we were playing

pinochle, & she was gleefully winning. My father-in-

law was staying in a Rehab facility. Six months before,

he’d fallen asleep at the wheel of his truck & struck a

tree. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so he was launched

through the windshield & suffered traumatic brain injury.

He had always been a kind man, but he had turned

mean in the midst of his delirium. My sweet mother-in-law

could not adjust to his consummate cruelty toward her

& the medical staff.

Suddenly my sister-in-law showed up, telling us that my

father-in-law had died an hour earlier. We immediately

caravanned up to the facility & viewed the body; his great

chest stilled, a small smile on his lips. I watched grief on

the faces of the family wrestle with relief--hoping that

clarity had been granted to him on his journey, and that

cruelty had to hunt for a new residence.

A funeral for

Christmas bestowed mixed blessings;

so unique for each.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The City Stirs

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The City Stirs

“Nature is a petrified magic city.”--Novalis

Sirens awaken me alltissmo & blaring;

perhaps     a meat wagon,   the police,

              or a firetruck--          charging

toward some calamity, deliberate and

              bellicoso.

A canto of pigeons coo on the edge of

the roof, all dolce & delicato--quite the

contrast to my Mickey Mouse alarm

clock blasting its brassy bell aria. I silence

it with a swift colpugno.

              Foghorns in the harbor

              bleat abafando in the

              distance. My tongue tastes metallic as

                             I burp pepperoni pizza, greasy

                             and abbandono.

               Some truck with twin

               stacks bellows & spews

               as it labors through its

                              crunching chorus of gears, before

                              fading con calando.

As I brew coffee,

     needing to consume

         caffeine devoto, I tap

            my fingers to the onerous

                  barbaro beat of a twin jackhammer

                       duet, busily reducing concrete to a

                          acciaccato dust pudding.

Mere blocks from the office, I move adante through

the´cacophony of the crowds crescendo, untouched,

nearly invisible, finding their frowns & epithets capricco,

the white noise within me fully abandono, but only in

the security of the elevator does my heartbeat return

to abattuta.

                          The city awakens

                           con allegrezza, as I

                           grasp joy in fermata.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Beauty Rises

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Beauty Rises

“The future belongs to those who believe in the

beauty of their dreams.”--Eleanor Roosevelt.

Beauty is transcendent, 

                illusionary,

                eternal,

                sadness,

                triumphant,

                momentary, &

                ecstasy.         It can be body art, garish, eclectic

                                tattoos that use flesh as a canvas,

                           a fatal fad, a moment’s folly or love

                      in the rapture of bloom, that may lose

                  its luster as fashion becomes altered

              by cascading, tumultuous decades.

Those people who are born gorgeous as 

             models. stared at by all, once they

                  override their conceits, can come to

                        lament their beauty, often wishing to

                                 merely be an anonymous participant

                                        in the crowded landscape, rather

                                        than something akin to alabaster

                                        on a bronze pedestal;

But it is Nature, in all its guises, whether in a forested glen

swarming with golden & black Monarchs, or atop verdant

foothills at the feet of a fire mountain in early morning, 

while wild strawberry light slides across ermine glaciers,

with Mandarin orange clouds hanging like a general’s 

epaulets on the shoulders of the peak, or at a black beach

during a tropical sunset while the sea’s white caps frost the

smooth tops of infinite rows of waves & frenzied gulls pick

at the stringy pink flesh within yellow crab shells--where we

discover God’s living palette--

and finally, true beauty 

becomes the earnest appreciation

of aging, decay, and oxidation;

midst rotting wood, peeling paint

& rusting metal--where we 

re-evaluate a mature lover’s body,

though no longer hard-muscled,

but still the wondrous encasement

of the loving glow from their eyes,

the tenderness of their touch,

and the undying loyalty, sacrifice,

accommodation & reciprocity that

inhabits every fiber of their essence.

Beauty emerges from

every corner of our life.

resplendent to each. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

                                 

Charred

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Charred

“Only the Charred Council--not angels or demons, could

hold the warring factions at bay.”--from the Darksiders,

When char replaces flesh

and bleaches bone black,

fire scars burn deep--

beyond reconstructive surgery,

beyond recognition,

beyond humanity,

where upon the bark,

protoplasm, pulp and sinew,

sentinel and soul,

are converted to

first bright and

then dark energy--

when

cremation

obliterates

the creation.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44