King or Clown

painting by Ally Saunders.

King or Clown

“The most terrifying thing is to accept

oneself completely.”--C.G. Jung.

As a child, without language,

     we soon discover the seeds of 

           our personality--then as we are

                  propelled along our educational

            journey, we begin to find ourself

      strongly attracted to certain things--

art,                                      creative writing.

  music,                                  puzzles &

      dance,                           games,

         sports,                      movies,

            mechanics,        theater,

                poetry,        literature,

                    mathematics:

                this attraction turns to

             interest, & soon we start to

      measure our skills, talents & dreams.

We fortunate folks,                      

it seemed to us, embraced

being extroverts, Type A’s,

& we found that we could

devour our studies like

ravenous carnivores--just as

we ran afoul of peer pressure,

candor & competition and were

able to excel in divers area, only

to then hear the accusations of

egocentric conceit, arrogance,

impatience & unreasonable anger,

              just as we grow accustomed to our

              parents, teachers & mentors always

              measuring & rating our achievements,

              pressuring us to focus on grades,

                                                       communication,                                                                                                                                          writing skills,

                                                       physical prowess,

                                                       and beauty.

A quick stroll through my home provides  

amble glimpses of my achievements--

               things in frames like

               college degrees,

               certificates & awards,

               posters from plays, films

               & recitals I have been in--

               photographs of me with

               celebrities, in costume from

               plays, & holding an open mic

               at poetry readings/performances,

               as well as photographs I’ve taken,

               & a copy of my own page in IMDb.

My wife easily tires of my self adoration & my

heightened self-esteem. She is fond of reminding

me of the less attractive side of my personality,

and that living with me provides more than a

healthy challenge for any human being. I find

myself thanking her for keeping me on an even

keel, & for completing me.                                              

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"

Dawn of Darkness

image borrowed from unveiledthought.com

Dawn of Darkness

“The day of battle dawned pink as the fresh-

bitten thigh of a maiden.”--Roger Zelazny.

Day 8 

has dawned

on the Trumpian era.

Muslims are

being murdered

while at prayer

in Quebec.

Trump’s immigrant ban

has transformed all the

world’s airports

into sloth-pits.

No one 

was consulted

or directed,

Chaos reigns supreme

as Benito Baloney

plays at President. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q25

Blackthorne--Scene 57

painting by Marcia Baldwin.

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic  Fifty-Seven

Decision

“There is no difference between being a killer or

making a decision that will send others to kill.”

--Golda Meir

1(sound cue) banjo strumming.

2(medium close-up) Bronson: Let me be clear--either

you give up the Appaloosa or lead flies and you’re 

both dead men. Horse stealing is frowned on in this 

part of the country.

3(medium close-up: jump cut) angle on Johnny Eagle,

standing like a cigar store Indian, coiled but still, his

eyes lit up.

4(close-up) over Bronson’s shoulder, Buck: I think a

circuit judge might see things differently.

5(sound cue) harmonica riff & drum bap.

6(close-up) over Buck’s shoulder, Bronson snorted in

levity--Hell’s bells, man. This is not the moment to discuss

legality. So make up your mind--right now.”

7(medium close-up) Thor: While you’re still breathing.

8( cut to medium crane wide-shot) over the corral, the

three horses standing & watching the scene.

9(cut to close-up) the spotted stallion’s face, his big eyes

taking it all in.

10(sound cue) piano chord.

11( medium close-up) angle on Buck, his face a battlefield

between anger & accommodation. 

12(sound cue) Rapid voice over from Buck: The wranglers

don’t look like killers, but they’ll back Bronson’s play, Thor 
is death in a hat.

13(two-shot) Bronson: I honestly believe that I’m being 
damn generous. We could have opened up on both of you--
legally. So, pard, which way does your stick float?

Thor: Time’s up, peckerwoods !  

14(sound cue) coronet bleat over Buck’s loud exhalation of

angry air. Buck: Fuck it!

15(streaming tracking shot) across the faces of the five 

intruders.

16(two-shot) Buck: OK, OK--stand down !! his open hands 

were partially raised in non-response.

The Eagle was confused, but...

17(close-up) Johnny’s knife thrown into the ground.

18(sound cue) the thud of the knife sticking over loud

Indian seed rattle

19(medium close-up) Johnny raised his open hands

above his waist.

20(angle on Buck) Buck: No one has to die here today.

It’s just a damn horse.

21(close-up) Bronson, displaying a tight-lipped smile,

nodding his chin in consent.

22(close-up) Thor, his eyes blinking rapidly, his red

face decompressing.  

23(close-up) Johnny, his face a pastiche of incredulity,

anger & confusion.

24(sound cue) guitar, harmonica, & piano.

25(medium wide shot) Buck lowered his hands, and

stepped over to Johnny’s pack saddle. He extracted the

yellow lariat.

26(medium close-up) Buck: Alright, alright--let’s get this

fucking done.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Moon Me Sweetly

image from americanmoon.org

Moon Me Sweetly

“I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful

of the night.”--Sarah Williams.

As violent storms,

politico & atmospheric,

congregation across every 

bruiseprint of every parsec,

every parcel of this gut-me nation--

someone has snot-slip the facts,

managed to French my resolve,

cloud my curdled cognition,

and knife my numbness.

I tell you.

it is past time to fear

those in power who will

undoubtedly gleefully penis the public,

painfully dentist the dudes,

and woefully wound most of the women--

all with their implicit consent.

By the state full we will be forced

to line the lemmings up

at the precipices,

blindfold each individual,

then cliff their butts

into swirling dead zones,

before we stone them mid-drop,

concrete any semblance of grief,

soon needing to target the towers

of innocent bodies with torch blowers

and landfill in order to paper the deed;

arriving too soon at a terminus where 

no one can justice the results,

equity the puddles of pure pain,

assembly broken limbs,

or erection torn souls.

For no matter how much our new leaders,

lip our livelihoods, or finger the facts, or knee

the truth, or hand over hardships, or larceny

our stripped naked liberty--

We have nothing to

fear but stupidity it-

self; bitter new fruit.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at  dVerse Poets Pub

Trumpeting the Coronation

image from boingboing.com

Trumpeting the Coronation.

“No major-party nomination in the complete history of

this nation has ever known less or has been less

prepared to deal with our national security.” --Joe Biden

For all of us presently experiencing 

the Trumpian phase,

who will be forced to endure the upcoming

Trumpian days, tomorrow promises to be

a day drenched in sorrowful infamy--

as Trump is actually inaugurated as President,

as Trump demands the media kiss his ring,

as Trump defames American heroes & ideals.

as Trump belittles & bullies the disabled,

as Trump surrounds himself with battalions of

billionaires & squads of generals & bevies of

bubble-headed blondes,

as Trump tweets vitriol, racism, sexism & lies,

as Trump insults, berates, & demeans women,

as Trump attacks & distorts civil rights,

as Trump dreams of introducing fascism to the

lost sanctity of the Supreme Court,

as Trump sodomizes our health care system,

as Trump redefines Truth with world-class con

and spin and inexorable boorish braggadocio,

as Trump side-steps revealing his tax record,

as Trump accepts praise from Putin,

as Trump simply does, says, and is

whatever he feels like at the moment,

unfortunately, after the coronation tomorrow,

he will know what it feels like

to actually be the most powerful

man in the world--

able to silence his critics,

able to gut Social Security,

able to make millions of us squirm

as he orders golden toilets

for the White House, but

I have no more tears to shed.

I have herds of fears to leash,

I have buckets of regrets to calm,

I have dreams to vanquish, and

I have future nightmares to experience,

for at 7am EST tomorrow,

the virtual rape of Lady Liberty

will be televised live

in front of an audience of billions.

Probably, most of

us will survive the next four

years; I do hope so.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Christ was a Carpenter

image from latitudegallery.com

Christ was a Carpenter

“The things I make may be for others, but how I

make them is for me.”--Tony Konovaloff.

I like to surround myself with things made from wood;

cabinets, tables & chairs, trunks, boxes, floors and

carved art. I take a small wooden sculpture or bowl

& stare at the grain, and run my fingers over their

polished sides--somehow feeling connected to the

dense forest, the steaming jungle, or even the desert

arroyos. Those who work with wood, whether to build

things or create art, are using primordial skills that

predate those who work with steel, iron, concrete or

plastic.

I have a pair of woodworking friends.

One is a former student of mine who

fashions writing pens out of blocks of

imported or gathered wood. The other

carves tiny wooden vases & pots, like

furniture for Thumbelina, of every shape,

hollowed out, fitted with lids. He could 

sell his carvings, but he prefers to give

them away as gifts for friends & family.

Both of them have outfitted

    their own wood shop, with several

         sizes and types of lathe, planers, and

              fifty kinds of cutting, sanding, and polishing

         tools. They both make out little hand--

    written certificates, identifying the wood

used, its history and locale. They

were excited to show me how they

order exotic wood samples from

Africa, Europe, Asia, South America

and Australia from the internet.

While I was in Hawaii, I bought a couple hunks of wood

and carried them home for my artisan cronies. Politely

they both showed me less expensive samples on-line.

Trees create clean air,

then become lumber, crafts and

artful shelf huggers.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Blackthorne--Scene 56

image from guns-pictures.drippic.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Six

Confrontation

“Confront a corpse at least once. The absolute absence

of life is the most disturbing confrontation you will ever

have.” --David Bowie

1(sound cue) French horn & Indian branch flute.

2(medium close-up) Bronson, still sitting up on his

ornate saddle: I see. Well then, big fellow, if that’s the

straight of it, who might you be?

3(two--shot) over Bronson’s shoulder. Buck: The name

is Buck.

4(close-up) A small look of recognition crossed Bronson’s

face at the mention of Buck.

5(sound cue) acoustic guitar chord.

6(close-up) Buck: Rod Buck--I used to live around here

when I was a kid, before you took up residence. I’m told

my ranch is that place you’ve trying to buy--Antlered Buck.

I came home to fix the place up & raise some horses.

7(two-shot) over Buck’s shoulder. Bronson: Alright then,

you’re the man, and Johnny’s just a hired hand??

8(close-up) Buck: I’d say he’s a lot more than that.

9(close-up) Bronson: Understood--but tell me, were you

figuring on building your herd by starting with some of

my horses?

10(crane shot) up behind Johnny & Buck, angle on the

five intruders, four standing next to their horses, with

Bronson still mounted on his golden steed.

11(reverse crane shot) up & behind the five men facing

Buck & the Eagle and the big black growling dog.

12(medium close-up) Thor, his voice a little high pitched:

So, Honcho, what’s the play?

13(sound cue) piano & snare drum brushing.

14(two-shot) over Thor’s shoulder, Johnny, still calmly

infuriated: This is total bullshit, and you all know it. There

are no brands on any of these strays.

15(three-shot) over Johnny’s shoulder, angle on Thor and

Bronson. Bronson: It’s a sad fact that I’ve got legal claim to

any stray grazing on my dirt--certainly a hell of a lot more

than a couple pokes riding over it.

16(medium close-up) Buck: Can you prove to us that this

land belongs to you? I mean we saw no markers or fences,

nothing to convince us this is not open range.

17(voice-over) angle on Buck’s face. Bronson: 

Let’s just say I prefer it that way.

18(tight close-up) Bronson: But anytime you 

want to light a shuck over to Silver City, our

county seat, you can verify my claim.

19(sound cue) blues guitar slide & saxophone.

20(two-shot) Buck & Johnny, with Buck chewing

his lower lip his eyes on Thor.

21(medium wide shot) The three wranglers, their 

hands free, hovering over their pistols, and Thor

with his fingers cramping, more than ready to whip

out his .38 and shake lead in all directions.

22(sound cue) a raucous cacophony of sudden

overlapping gunshots.

23(medium wide overhead drone shot) Note: 

probable flash-forward-- Thor’s right hand was a

blur as he drew his Lightning Colt .38, as two of the

hired hands drew their Colt .45’s and the younger

one drew his Navy Colt .36, as Bronson drew his 

fancy Smith & Wessen .38 --countered by Buck’s

right hand filling with his Colt Thunderer .41 and

his left hand drew his sawed-off shot gun, as 

Johnny’s throwing knife was mid-air headed for

Thor, soon followed by the deep crack of his

Winchester .30-.30.

24(jump-cuts) Buck and the Eagle are wounded

three times each. Bronson is gut-shot, Thor has

been shot in the face & has a knife buried in his 

chest, two of the wranglers are slain, one head

shot, one heart-shot, and the youngest hand is

still standing, unscathed and shocked.

25(sound cue) the crackle & echo of 20 gunshots

executed in ten seconds, thundering across the

empty landscape.

26(two-shot) the actual present moment, Buck:

So what of you think, Johnny?

27(close-up) the Eagle: I say no fucking way! 

Chatawa is ours. If it killing they want, they have

stirred up the right rattlesnake nest.

28(close-up) Bronson: So it seems to me, Mr. Buck.

it’s up to you.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Bridges of Hope

image by Glenn Buttkus

Bridges of Hope

“Men build too many walls, and not enough bridges.”

--Joseph Ford Newton.

Poets know that words

    are the concrete and steel

           we need to build bridges--

    words that can touch,

                      have effect,

                      penetrate deeply

                      cajole gently,

                      elicit joy,

                      celebrate liberty,

                      create affection,

                      conjure love and

                      reinforce positive ideals.

Most friendships, family units &

diplomatic solutions to volatile situations--

all are bridges,

all connect two separate sides,

all provide access & egress,

whether made up of rope & nets,

                                 cable & iron,

                                 wood & nails, or

                                 skin and bone--

these bridges are essential as

they complete disparate factions

and emotional bonds.

                         Still, one must accept not

                     all bridges are bright and

                  shining, sweet & smiling,

               for there are bridges, like

            the infamous one from El

       Paso to Juarez that can lead

   to a hellish haze, deception,

danger, and even death.

    Defective bridges, like the old

         one at the Tacoma Narrows,

              dubbed as “Galloping Gerty”,

                 can fail and fall down. It is indeed

                 sad that sparse government funds 

                 that are allocated are less than 

                  adequate to bolster our nation’s

                  crumbling infrastructure.

Hell, I drive across bridges daily

that sway, creak and wheeze--which

leads me to nightmares of a bridge

disaster, where my car drops hundreds

of feet into chilly dark water, and I must

facilitate an escape from the vehicle

while underwater.

                   

                   These days I have more broken

                    bridge nightmares than those 

                    where I’m caught in a house fire,

                    being eaten alive by a grizzly bear,

                    or being shot while shopping at a

                    mall, working at the office. eating

                    at a restaurant. or watching a parade.

On a happier note, as a photographer I find myself

fascinated by bridges of all kinds, and I snap images

of them like others do of cathedrals. For me, trestle

bridges are the most interesting, their naked steel

girders and massive rivets reminding me of those 

super--structures reaching for the sky on new buildings, 

and those celebrated photographs of steeplejacks sitting

on suspended girders eating lunch.

Bridges are needed

to span gaps, relationships,

and grand ideas. 

                 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Dark Days

image from istrumpevil.com

Dark Days

Darkness, darkness--

I have found the edge of sadness,

I have found the edge of fear.

--the Youngbloods.

For some of us it’s

Armageddon, and for some

others it’s rapture--

as darkness clenches its fists.

Government has been

made up of mostly career

politicians throughout, but

the time has come where upon

people’s anger and

discontent have led us to

electing outsiders, and

non-politicians; praise Zed.

The Donald smirks and

tweets like a school yard bully;

appointing fat cats, gene-

rals, and kiss ass sicophants.

The media quakes

with each new story, each new

transgression--throwing up their

hands--rolling their weeping eyes.

So buck up boys and

girls, for we’re in the shit now,

must learn to dog paddle to

stay afloat for another day.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackbird Blues

artwork image by Jinny Nieviadomy.

Blackbird Blues

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night--take these

broken wings & learn to fly.”--the Beatles.

Winter froze the moonlight into knotted braids

of pale rope that swirled in the icy blasts,

oscillating their shadows, so it appeared

that the landscape had become a piano

keyboard & a laughing lunar invisible pianist

plunked out a wind waltz, creating a woodwind

musicale out of the dancing black & white keys.

On this night, the leaden skies of ebon evening

turned into red weeping blood, a startling

stigmata, throbbing with some unknown despair 

as a solitary raven swooped through the sticky

thermals, its feathers growing heavy with steaming

plasmaic mist, only being clearly seen as it

winged sadly past the moon, on the hunt, predator

not trickster, cawing in its mina bird tones:

“All is madness--dystopia has descended upon us

& stupidity was the worst virus we endured last year.”

Blackbird flying in

darkness with lunatic grace--

searching for the truth.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub