Thursday, September 29, 2016

Faith


image from pixgood.com


Faith

“Faith without doubt leads to moral arrogance, which
is the eternal pratfall of the religiously convinced.”
--Joe Klein.
                                       Faith
                                 a girl’s name
                              could be, or a boy’s
                       --to wear, to carry to defend
                 like a tattooed lace collar, or plucked
                                   eyebrows.

Faith,
for me,
always pops
up false, like a
simpleton’s trembling
smile, or those spinning
metal duck targets in a carnival
shooting gallery.

                                                   Even 
                                                   as a child,
                                                   I found the bright
                                                   zealous eyes of the faithful
to
  be
     empty,
            a sell-out,
                   false & phony,
                           the worshipping
of
big
attractive
lies,
charismatic
con-men
and
very
dangerous
demagogues.

We see that faith
      and subsequent belief systems,
                go hand in hand, go steady like
                      some junior high crush, and that
                   relationship is as fragile as a
               paper mache boat--too easily
          sinkable, unbalanced, unhinged
without wheels, without genuine
propulsion--yet claiming, even
boasting of its stability.

Faith, by definition, is a strong belief in something
of/for which there is no empirical truth, an admission
& a celebration of ignorance--where someone buys
the con, the premise & moves into a compound in
Waco, or a village in Guayana, or travels to Syria
to learn how to kill Infidels, rape young boys, suppress
women, & literally reverse reality, shifting it back into
the barbaric past, or elect a pompous arrogant
billionaire who makes promises of change based upon
sleight of hand & the pernicious greed of the 1%. 

So here I stand, absent of faith in our government,
politicians or the police, with my acrid skepticism
being reinforced daily.

Perhaps faith itself
is not a false journey, and
we must accept that
our personal choices do
demonstrate our need for it.             


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Comparisons


image by Emily Blincoe over at http://www.emilyblincoe.com


Comparisons

“Personality begins where comparisons leave off.”
--Shannon L. Alder

Pessimism bitch slaps optimism.
The earth & its moon tend to hide their dark side.
Comparisons are inevitable,
night and day,
yin & yang,
monochrome images juxtaposed to color ones,
perfect smiles vs. broken teeth,
athletes competing with the crippled,
molotov cocktails vs. tiger tanks,
men from Mars--women from Venus;
gods of war vs. nymphs of love,
bare knuckles compared to boxing gloves,
50’s shoe skates vs. roller blades,
dusky moths fluttering beside Monarch butterflies,
a 1949 Packard alongside a Nisson Leaf,
a garden spade vs. a steam shovel,
bare hands vs. an industrial crane,
a wheel barrow competing with a box car,
mountains towering over foothills,
a mud puddle in sight of the sea,
a sperm whale swimming with sardines,
& the Donald pretending to debate Hillary.

Art is so vast, it
surrounds & inspires us to
interpret its face.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub


Monday, September 26, 2016

Denizens


image by petapixel.com


Denizens

“God is dead, & we killed him--but his
shadow still looms.”--Friedrich Nietsche.


Can anyone
take a stroll
after midnight.
even in a well-lit
city, without fearing
what lurks in the
shadows--                            that netherworld of
                                             scurrilous foes that
                                             live to hunt.
                                                       rob,
                                                       rape,
                                                       murder,
                                                       defile &
                                                       devour
                                              we who walk in the light?

I doubt it.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Blackthorne--Review IX--Ep: 50-51


image from mbaldwinfineart.blogspot.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenics 50-51

Review  Part IX

“The couple of these reviews only garnered like a half
dozen comments. I understand, but it is disheartening
to work so hard on catching the readership up on the
story so far, only to witness little interest. Of course,
the reviews are lengthy, & most folks don’t want to
read more than one page; there it is--and now to
continue.”--Glenn

Fifty: Deception--Buck & Johnny built a holding corral in
a small alcove in a cliff. They staked out three unbroken 
mares in it. From ten feet or further, the tall sage that was
cut & stacked against the railings hid the corral--it just
looked like an open passage between two large boulders.
Above them, the Appaloosa & his herd stopped to
investigate. The stallion & the mares conversed. The breeze
blew from behind him. He did not smell the hidden men. 
Several of the mustangs were restless in the herd. The
Appaloosa silenced them. The stallion trotted down the
hill & stood at the opening. The tethered mares urged him
to come to them. After a few minutes of alacrity, he came
into the corral, and began nuzzling the mare. The sound of
the first pole slipping across the opening spooked him. He
whirled around & bolted toward the pole, but rapid fire a
second, third, & fourth pole slid into place blocking him--
& there were two men with ropes behind the poles.

Fifty-One: Capture--The Appaloosa raced around the 
holding pen, as the mare screamed & strained against
their lariats. He jumped, bucked, & kicked out hind legs,
then rose up on them, wild-eyed & punching at the dusty
air. Johnny & Buck stood quietly, their faces flushed with
excitement. The Eagle said, “God’s heuvos, that’s one
damn magnificent horse! Buck said, “Hey, brother. it
worked--Chatawa is ours!!” Johnny responded, “No, my 
Buck, he is all yours, jumping right out of the clouds for
you, folding back his wings, the mist still steaming off 
his spotted rump. He has great medicine & a warrior’s 
heart. One day soon he will be pleased to carry your
big bones.”  Buck, “Well, he’s not mine yet, for he has
run wild for a time, & only the arroyo wind has been his
rider.”  Johnny, “With him at stud, you will build the
finest rancho in the territory. Bronson will shit himself
with envy.” Johnny slipped through the poles, & stood
up, his yellow lariat in one hand--then he said, “Do 
you see his split ear? You luck holds, hombre, for he
is Nez Pierce trained. Appaloosas like him have 
already been tamed & ridden, but their spirit has not
been broken. Now he is calm, & he waits for a new
Master.” Buck sprouted a huge smile. The stallion
stood in front of the mares. Johnny, “Sure, I know,
hellfire stud, these now are your women. We are not
here to hurt them or you. No, no, we will give you 
love. Do you remember love, Chatawa.”  The stallion
held the Indian’s scent in his quivering nostrils, &
upon hearing his Indian name, he calmed down. 
The Eagle continued, “Yes, I’m talking to you, brave
boy--with the ass like thunderclouds. Do you remember
gentle hands, the smell of buffalo?”  Johnny pointed
to Buck, “There is a buffalo , right there. You & he will
be compadres. You two prairie giants have seen
plenty of those big humps crashing to earth, huh?”
He moved closer to the Appaloosa, his rope looped
now. “”Chatawa, do you see this rope?” He tossed 
the rope loop on the ground near the horses hooves.
“That’s right, it’s just an old rope, not a snake, harmless.
It smells of horses, mesquite, buffalo crap, sweat, & me.”
He gathered up the rope & stepped closer. The dappled
stud lunged at him, but Johnny side-stepped, & flicked
the wide lariat loop over the horse’s head, then quickly
swing-wrapped it around a breaking post. The horse
stopped & stood tall. “You see, it’s alright, you are not
hurt.” The Indian bent down & plucked out a handful
of sweet bunch grass, & tossed it near the stallion.
Chatawa accepted the offering, & began to munch it.
Johnny unwrapped his end of the rope, & dropped it
into the red dust. Johnny & Buck leaned against the
railings, just smiling & enjoying the company. Johnny
said, “It grows late, boss. Let’s unstake the mares &
let them all calm down over night. We will continue
this in the morning. I tell you he has a great spirit--I
have never seen greater.” Buck said, “Yes, and he has
known love. That will be our key with him--his heart.”


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Passionate Plumage


image from fancyfeathers.com


Passionate Plumage

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches
in the soul.”--Emily Dickinson.

As much as most of us love birds,
    appreciate birdsong & colorful plumage,
        we must not forget, as my grandfather used 
    to say, “they are just snakes with wings.”
True that--for feathers evolved from
the types of scales on reptiles and
dinosaurs; they developed much
like hair follicles, & are considered
to be the most complex structure in
all vertebrates.

                                  Feathers of all kinds do fascinate
                         those who do not possess them. I can
                       never pass up the inspection of a fallen
                    feather on the beach or in my yard. Eagle
                 & hawk feathers are sacred to the Native
               Americans. In South America they cherish
         Condor feathers, & in India it is the plumage
of the Peacock that they value most.

Although feathers facilitate flight for most birds, we
must not forget that bats, squirrels & insects just use
tissue to catch the air for their form of flight, & they 
seem to fly just fine without feathers.

Personally, I’ve never written with a quill, made mostly 
from goose feathers, but I’ve seen people use them and
I adore the delicious scratching sound it makes when in
contact with paper. Pen comes from the Latin word, penna,
which means feathers. The French word, plume, which can
mean either pen or feather.

Who has not wanted
to soar like a bird, floating
high on hot thermals?


Glenn Buttkus


Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, September 15, 2016

Clara Hewe Quartet


image from fineartamerica.com


Clara Hewe Quartet

“ The art of Biography
is different from Geography.
Geography is about maps.
but Biography is about chaps.”
--Edmund Clerihew Bentley.

Rogue candidate Donald J. Trump
would love to give America a hump.
He hides more than he ever reveals,
the truth squirming like a bag of eels.

**********************************************

There was a good time when I felt the Bern
as Sanders got screwed at every turn.
Oh how I miss his wishful thinking and
proletarian candor,
and his beauteous Populist banter.

************************************************
Trump should have picked Ms. Wingnut, Sarah Palin
as running mate--to further sink his candidacy 
thats certainly ailing,
but he decided instead to go with Pence,
who probably is much less dense.

**************************************************

Now sometimes maligned & ridiculed, Al Gore
beat W by a ton, still Bush Jr. managed
to snare more
electoral votes in Florida, helped by his brother
& hanging chads blessed by his mother.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

New Men's Meat Market


image by Glenn Buttkus


New Men’s Meat Market

“The company’s good and the mornings are quiet, which
is a good time to write.”--Landlord of a Bordello.

When I was 13
                 I was on a road trip 
                      with my grandfather & uncle
                             in the eastern side of the panhandle
                                    of Idaho. It was 1957, and I was big for
                             my age. Sitting around the campfire
                       one morning, my uncle got a twinkle
                   in his eyes & he said, “I’m  going to
            take Butch into town. It’s time that
      he got bred.”
My grandfather chuckled
and went fishing.

The town was Wallace,
famous for silver mines in the late 1800’s,
tucked into a narrow valley,
surrounded by the Rockies,
straddling the Coeur d’Alene River,
a stone’s throw from the Montana border.

                                     My Uncle was a long haul truck driver,
and he was very familiar with one of
                                     the unique features of the town--it had
five whore houses. He walked me up
                  to the front door of one of
                  his favorites--The New Men’s Meat Market.
                  I was both excited & terrified.

We entered the establishment and
       strutted up to a shiny old fashioned bar.
             There were a dozen prostitutes sitting around
                    in black underwear on red velveteen chairs & 
love seats. It was ten o’clock in the mo(u)rning.

The wrinkled Madam, with a bright red beehive hair-do, 
served Dick a beer, & in a voice that sounded like a bull frog,
said, “Hey, Slick, you realize we don’t do children.”

My randy uncle smiled, shrugged, & handed me his wallet, 
before rushing upstairs with a tall blond who had huge 
hooters. I sat awkwardly on a soft overstuffed chair that stank
of cologne. Several of the girls made kissing noises, and/or
whispered to one another, holding up their pinky finger &
staring right at me. I felt a blush boiling up in my cheeks.

                                    Uncle Dick came downstairs in just
                           under fifteen minutes. He pulled up at his
                 britches, finished his tepid beverage, saluted the 
            gathering of naughty ladies & pushed me ahead of
him out of the place. He took on
a serious tone as he remarked,
“It’s probably just as well. You
are a tad young to have your
ashes hauled anyways.” 

This summer, my wife and I visited Wallace, more than sixty
years after that incident. The last cat house had closed down
in 1989. While I strolled around town snapping pics of 
pioneer structures, my wife took a bordello museum tour.
Later, as she recounted the particulars, my grin was wider
than usual.

As hormones rage, most
boys struggle to become men,
and women just smile.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub


    

Monday, September 12, 2016

Revelation


image from sheilawolk.com


Revelation

“The highest revelation is that God 
is in every man.”--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

When we perform
introspection,
looking deep within,
supposedly to discover
some answers,
what we open
is a version            of Pandora’s box;
                    trillions of pieces
          of the cosmic puzzle,
where we witness
our aura
mantled in rainbows.

Existentialism
provides no answers for our
metaphysical search.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Blackthorne--Review VIII 46-49


image from guns-pictures.drippic.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenics 46--49

Review Part VIII

“Big whoop--I had left off the saga at episode 54,
so just a few more reviews will rein us up at current.
Then I will continue the adventure,”

Forty--Six: Allegro. Johnny, “Yeah, Bronson is the one-
eyed king in these parts, but you & the ranch check his
power.” Buck, “Do you worry about the danger?” Johnny,
Danger? Shit, it has always shadowed me. Do we ever 
see the scorpion in our boots? No, that’s why we shake
them out every morning. All I worry about is women,
horses, & fishing.”  Buck, “There’s a small lake above my
north meadow.”  Johnny, “I know. I used to fish it with your
father.”  Buck, “ I almost drown in that damn puddle while
teaching myself to swim.”  Johnny, “Your father used to
call it “Sarah’s Pond of Tears.”  Buck, “Drunks get very
sentimental.”  Johnny, “Bronson has been watering his
herd in that lake for years. If you try to stop him, that
water with writhe with blood.”  Buck, “Maybe not. I could
give him a chance to pay for the water he uses.”  Johnny,
Good plan. You might even make a good impression on
El Hefe bendejo.”  Buck, “Too true, brother.”  Johnny,
And how will you share the water after you build up
your own herd?”  Buck, “Yes, let’s talk about my horses.”
*********************************************
Introduction of the Appaloosa stallion, who has a flashback.
He remembers, seeing himself galloping flat out in slow
motion with Crying Wolf on his back, pursued by a small
troop of cavalry, who are firing their Spencers & Colts as
they ride. The great spotted stallion with the red hands
painted on its withers began to out-distance the soldiers
amid a volley of angry bullets. Crying Wolf is hit three
times, & there are two bloody gashes along the horse’s
flanks. The brave opened up his arms, letting out a loud
war whoop as he fell from the horse & hit the ground dead.
The stallion galloped on, lunging like a bull elk, rushing out
of that field of death, with bullets chewing up the ground
near his flashing hooves--their thunderous ricochets
pounding in his velvet ears.

Forty-Seven: Quest-- At first he ran alone out across the
prairie vastness, until the blood & war paint sweated
off him. As a gray-black specter he loped, this equine
dust devil, this grandiose dappled fury. The one day
with the morning dew & whispering wind he cold smell
them--the strong scent of los mestenos, the wild ones.
The stallion bolted & galloped off toward the large herd
of mostly mustangs.---Cut to Buck & the Eagle sitting
atop their steeds. Johnny, “Do you see him? Son of a
bitch--can you see that giant spotted stallion? Buck, “An
Appaloosa for sure. I heard there were some renegade
studs that had run off from the Nez Pierce, but I’ve
never seen one this far east before.” Johnny, “He is a
medicine horse, a real buffalo hunter, like you. He’s 
just your size too. He will bring good luck. I can already
see many spotted colts among your new herd.”  The
two men unraveled their lariats, & nudged their mounts
with anxious knees. As the pair rode hard down hill
toward them, the herd burst into action. The Appaloosa
ran point, quickly running on ahead of them. The riders
charged past/through the herd in pursuit of the stallion.
At first they all three ran along together, the terrible
trio of red, silver & spotted studs, all their tails high, their
dozen hooves tearing at the salt flats. But once more,
the Appaloosa began to stretch out a lead. The riders
leaned forward, almost onto the necks of their mounts.

Forty-Eight: Impasse-- Suddenly, Johnny’s white stallion
stumbled, & pitched forward. The Eagle took flight,
somersaulting in the air, & hitting the ground just after
his Jesus did. Buck reined up, watching the Appaloosa
run on alone. Johnny groaned, “Que Chingados.” Buck
stood up in his stirrups, “Son of a bitch”, as the stallion
ducked into a deep arroyo. He swung down from the
saddle & squatted next to Johnny, who was sitting up
now. Jesus was on his feet. Buck, “Are you hurt, old man?
Johnny gasped, “That is the fastest horse I have ever 
seen in my whole fucking life!” Buck helped the Indian
to his feet. “Piss on that bronc--did you break anything?”
Johnny, “Maybe my ass is all. Ay, Carumba--I will be
useless as tits on a fence post tomorrow, just a dozen
knots of pain all outshouting each other. Ay, that horse.
that goddamn mancha devil.”  Buck put his arm around
Johnny & said, “Today he beat us, stomped us good--but
on a different day he will feel or ropes. I swear it.
Johnny, “You know, I think I see him out there watching
us.”  Buck, “Probably just a trick of the light.”  Johnny
to his horse, “Damn Jesus, you crazy boy, you threw
me a half mile.” The silver stallion stood on three legs.
Johnny bent down & felt along the injured leg, finding
a swelling between the knee & the fetlock. “That should
teach you not to step in prairie dog holes.”  Buck, “Do
you think it’s broke?”  “No, he’s like me, a tough old
shit. Yes, he is bruised, sprained, exhausted & pissed off,
just like me.”   Buck, “Do yo9u think he can make back to
the rancho?”  Johnny, “Sure, sure, he can make it, if we
go slow & stop a lot. I’ll ride double with you on Rojo.”

Forty-Nine: Intrigue--The two men rode double on the
big Red, with Jesus limping slowly behind them on a
long tether. Buck, “We’ll just poke along with Jesus at
his pace. We may not reach the ranch until after dark,
but I think there will be a full moon.”  Johnny, “Damn,
I feel estupida--almost busted my culo.” Buck, “Consider
yourself twice lucky that no bones were broken. How
do we deal with this horse? Should we hunt him & bring
him down wth a .50 caliber slug? Johnny, “Somehow,
despite today, I have an Apache hunch one day he will
wear the AB brand.”  Buck, “Maybe so, it’s just that 
catching him is like roping a daydream.” Johnny,
I don’t think we could ever run him down, We will never
catch him.” Buck, “Does the Eagle, the maldito wrangler,
give up so easily?”  Johnny, smiling, “Chinga that 
notion, my Buck. That great mancha will be yours. It’s just 
that we need to trick him, you know, appeal to his cock, & 
not stir up his fear & pride.” Buck,“You mean pony express
him--bring fresh mounts for both of us & hop aboard mid-
gallop when our mounts blow out?”  Johnny, “I think that
even with four horses, that spotted stud might outrun them,
or himself, to death?”  Buck, “How then?”  Johnny, “You
know ur stallions are swift, goddamn fast even--but that
dervish ran our studs right into the ground, race over--
& I got the puta bruises to prove it. He runs like a puma
with his prick on fire, like something out of shaman 
legend. He gallops like the firewinds. He is Chatawa.”
Buck, “Yes, Chatawa, nothing faster.”  Johnny, “Hey,
we got some sexy brood mares back at the ranch, right?’


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Wishbone Moments


image borrowed from psychcentral.com


Wishbone Moments

“Crap in one hand, & wish in the other--then
note the results.”-- Earl Carpenter (my grandfather).

At ten, I sat on a puncheon bench
    in Lincoln Park, staring west out into
            Puget Sound at those forested islands
                  in the stream, with the majestic Olympics
                           as backdrop, & I wished for success as a 
                  writer, in order to afford a wonderful cabin out
             there somewhere in those emerald isles,
my future creative refuge,
my fortress of solitude.

                                  At thirteen, girls were no longer just a
                   shrill nuisance as they became mysterious
             and fascinating creatures. I really wished
      the one of them, preferably a buxom blond,
would become interested in me, with
my newly developing musculature
& blossoming intellect.

At seventeen, I wistfully wished that my family
had been wealthier, rather than just another
                upper lower class blue collar statistic, so that for
                crying out loud I could drive something newer than
a rust bucket jalopy with bald tires & collective 
dents, and that perhaps I could actually attend
           the senior prom--the flowers, limo, & restaurant;
           but alas, I survived intact without fulfilling my
           youthful fantasies.

There was no way my family could afford to help me go to
college, so at twenty, with student loans, I started college on
my own. I graduated first in my class from community 
college, but sadly I wished that my mother had not been
dying of cancer, as she bravely sat in the front row cheering
me on, oblivious to the reality that she had less than a year
to live. 

I certainly wished that I could have avoided serving in the 
military during the Viet Nam War--but conscription was a
strict determinant. Yet I emerged almost unscathed from the
chaos, & was grateful for the G.I. Bill & veteran’s
rights.               

Wishing & planning
are healthy pursuits, but one
must accept what comes.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Cubs of the Caliphate


image from hasbarafellowships.org


Cubs of the Caliphate 

“The ink of the scholar is more holy than the
blood of the martyr.”  from the Koran.

How do we win a hundred years war--
now that George W. has kicked off
New Millennium Crusades, gone too far,
and pushed us into a killing trough--

stoked fear levels to a record high,
stimulated martyrs to want to die,
activated lone wolves & radical cells,
helped to create inexorable hells?

Where do we find the pragmatic path
to shut down the deadly jihadist chatter,
to unearth those kinships that really matter
& stop creating all the bloody negative math?

For God wears way too many masks--
we find no answers in sacred text,
find no solace in empty platitudes.
We no longer can simply bask
in inflexible nationalism, or the next
lying promises from some demagogic dudes--

because once again we now must face
children with bombs strapped in lace,
who are dead before they ever lived,
little souls lost forever and never revived.

We are in the grip
of ancient prophesy, with
no egress apparent.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub