Thursday, September 27, 2018

The Welcoming




painting from fineartamerica.com


The Welcoming

“Only cops and vampires have to have an
invitation to enter.”--Christopher Moore.

I was traveling through the Midwest
last year--a road trip to visit
cousins who have a dairy farm
near Fort Dodge, Iowa.

On the way there,
I was tooling down U.S. Route 69,
listening to “Hot Country K97”,
when I swung over the Des Moines River,
drove south on Central Avenue
into the heart of Fort Dodge,
stopping at the old Wahkonsa Hotel.
They’ve got a great bar there
and I needed a beer badly.

I sat on a stool at the bar,
and sipped at the cold brew.
A heavy set man in a dirty down vest,
a red plaid shirt and a John Deere ball cap,
sat down next to me. He spoke softly.

Hey, stranger--you just traveling through?
Yup. I’ve got some cousins on a farm nearby.
Did you know that Gene Ford, the major league
pitcher, came from right here?
Sorry, I don’t really follow sports that much.
Tell me, are you a nigger lover?
Shocked, I stammered...I’m from Seattle--and we
tend to be pretty liberal there.
Around here, we’ve kept the darkie population down
to 5%--and the beaners too, 5%.
Uh-huh--so what do you do for a living?
I’m a long haul truck driver, a flatbed carrier, hauling
drywall all over the country.
Yeah--I hear that the gypsum mills here are huge.
Mostly we’re all loyal Republicans in these parts.
President Trump is like a God to us. For the first
time since the 50’s, we can be proud
to be Americans.
Do you think that he is doing a good job as President?
Damn rights--he’s our kind of guy. We’re still unhappy
about those eight years we suffered under that 
nigger monkey raghead Obama.
Ah, please, before you continue, know that I am
a Democrat, and we do not see eye to eye on
politics or your world view.
World view? Shit, I figured as much. I can spot
a Commie Liberal a country mile off.
Looking around, I said--Sounds like I may not
be very welcome here.
You catch on fast, numb-nuts.
Several other men began to gather behind me.
I could see a Nazi tattoo on the neck of one.
We’re not unfriendly--so finish your beer and
then get your leftist ass the fuck out of here!

I abandoned what was left of my beer--
their laughter and cat-calls ushered
me out the door. Christ, this was not
the town I had visited a decade before.
Something wicked had past through 
before me.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Flotsam




image by glenn buttkus.


Flotsam

“Our language is a mighty river, picking up silt and
flotsam here and discarding it there; but growing
wider and richer.”--Robert MacNeil.

The beaches along the coast
    of Washington State are never
        littered with beautiful and exotic
             shells, but we do get some cool flotsam--
        pieces of rope and torn nets, and
     colorful styrofoam fishing floats,
bouquets of bird feathers,
clam and crab shells after
they’ve been picked over
by gulls and crows--
                     but mostly driftwood, some entire
                     trees, their roots splayed like squid
                     tentacles. I am attracted
to the smaller pieces,
the chips and broken tips.

Upon closer inspection,
each piece turns out 
to be a tiny work of art,
a unique sculpture
fashioned by finger waves
and the stress of the journey.

We seem to be in the Japanese current.
After their tsunami, I found
                               pink tennis shoes,
                               strange children’s toys,
                               and Asian golf balls.

The piece I took with me
was left out on the deck
until it completely dried out;
then it resembled
           a rattlesnake head ready to bite.
           or a capital A running from something,
           or a sea eel coming out of a coral reef.

You know it may have been
                           part of a house,
                      or a piece off some furniture,
                  or the hilt of a Kendo sword,
             or a chunk from a girl’s hope chest
          or the middle of a baseball bat
  or a slat from a suburban picket fence.

It rests on an oak shelf inside now. When I pass
it I often pick it up, rub it, staring at it, marveling
at its rough-hewn beauty. Then I return it to its
repose. After its long journey, it seems happy
in its new home.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, September 24, 2018

Tempest




painting by Daryl Joyce


Tempest

Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”
--William Shakespeare.

Huge Congressional waves
are crested with malevolent chaos.

For over two years,
calm seas have been rare.

The helmsman is mad
as Lear,
and the oarsmen row
as obedient lemmings;
their strokes uneven--
the ship wandering
in circles;

no safe harbor
on the horizon.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Blackthorne--Scene 79




image from pinterest.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Seventy-Nine

Prudence

“In our country, we have three unspeakably
precious things--freedom of speech and
conscience, and the prudence never to
practice either of them.”--Mark Twain.

1(overhead crane shot--medium wide) the
confrontation and the crowd. In the 
peripheral a freight wagon lumbers past.
2(sound cue) French horn and cello over
hoofbeats and wheel squeaks.
3(two-shot) over Thor’s shoulder--Buck moves
toward him, walking easy; the red and green 
shotgun shells on his chest bobbing.
4(medium close-up) Buck: What do you want,
badass, an apology?
5(four-shot) Cash stepped in front of Thor, and
the sheriff stepped in front of Buck. Cash waved
his gloved hands in the air.
6(medium close-up) Cash: Alright, alright! Is this
any way for neighbors to behave?
7(two-shot) Cash, over Thor’s shoulder: Back off,
Thor. Quit fighting your little brother’s battles for
him. I’m sure that, for now, an apology will suffice.
I will even walk over to my place and convey it to
him--although he probably will be hiding under
some whore’s skirt.
8(sound cue) faint saloon piano.
9(medium wide-shot) Buck moved out around the
sheriff, and Thor stepped out from behind Cash.
10(close-up) Buck: Listen, gunhand, this is my
home now, and I really want to settle down here.
As for you, I believe that you won’t live to be as
old as me.
11(jump-cut close up) Thor, taken aback.
12(medium close-up) Buck: Yup, someone will
kill you--but I’d rather it wasn’t me.
13(close-up) Cash, biting his lower lip, sucking
his teeth: Just cool down, both of you.
14(close-up) Buck: So, hey, you can tell that 
sweet little tinhorn brother of yours that I am
real sorry I tossed him out of a window. I can
see now that it wasn’t any of my business
that he was pistol-whipping his girlfriend--and
you tell him to enjoy riding that stallion I 
caught for him, and to remember all the time
that he is riding it--what good friends the Bucks
and Bronsons are going to be.
15(two-shot) Cash, stepping in front of Thor:
Do you mean that?
16(sound cue) banjo & harmonica.
17(two-shot) over Cash’s shoulder, Buck: Most
of it. Some of this depends on you.
18(two-shot) Cash, over Buck’s shoulder: Hell,
there’s a fair chance we can get along. Some
of that depends on you.
19(medium wide shot) Buck: Right now, in front
of all these good folks...I want you to know that
you can keep using the lake on my property for
your herds. All I ask is that you don’t graze too
long on my land. I’ll need some of that grass for
my own horses.
Cash, smiling and nodding: A damned fine start.
He pulled the glove off his right hand and they
shook on it. Buck turned on his heel, and started
up the street toward the General Store. Hop and
his deputy lowered their scatter guns. Johnny
Eagle stood for a moment, still returning Thor’s
menacing stare, Then he turned and followed Buck.
20(medium close-up) Be seeing you soon, neighbor!
Thor yelled after them.
21(sound cue) branch flute and snare drum. 



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Cirque du Vitam et Mortem




image from cinemasterpieces.com


Cirque du Vitam et Mortem

“Time is a circus, always packing up
and moving away.”--Ben Hecht.

Who can ever forget
their first visit to the circus?
Mine was in 1952,
in the Big Top,
set up in a farmer’s field
outside of Seattle--
Ringling Bros--Barnum & Bailey.

I remember
fresh sawdust,
wooden bleachers,
tall vendors in red striped pants
selling peanuts, cotton candy & popcorn,
the distinct oder of exotic manure--
elephants, horses, lions & tigers.

There were three big rings,
about 50 feet in diameter
circus is from the Latin for circle.
We sat by the middle one,
so that we could see the ringmaster.
There was a thrilling opening parade,
complete with marching band & clown cars.

Lion & tiger trainers
and the trapeze/high wire acts
were my favorites, amidst
a cacophony of brass instruments,
crowd clatter, lion roars, & elephant trumpeting.
Huge colorful balloons were tethered to everything.

Being an inquisitive eight-year old,
I wanted to know the history of the circus.
My Mom told me it was a tradition
that started in England in 1770,
and that most of the high wire/trapeze acts
that we had just seen were
recruited in Europe.
“The clowns too?” I asked.
“No, dear, they have their own school in Florida.”
“Can I go to clown school?”
“You don’t have to,” she said,
“You’re a natural clown already.”

She may have been right,
but when she died at 39,
the copious tears of a clown
flooded the neighborhood.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Crazytown




image from theurbantwist.com


Crazytown

“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide
the madness.”--Allen Ginsberg.

Aardvarks on golden leashes are
Becoming a common sight in Crazytown;
Cats wearing snake skin zoot suits,
Dancing the bop with their kitties,
Every one of them with slick-backed hair
Fighting other Toms in back alleys.

Gyrating pooches howling the blues,
Having a ball in their pork-pie hats.
Inside the station the rat police plot
Jacked-up charges and bogus fines.
Kind kangaroos are the court judges,
Leaving leeway for folks in Crazytown.

Many of us fear being there late at night;
Nobody, certainly, carries very much cash.
Others are drawn to the spirited melee.
Prostitute opossums wear those short skirts,
Quite ready to offer love for sale, cuz wild
 Rendezvous’s happen often in Crazytown.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Together We Fell




image from Business Insider


Together We Fell

“At Shanksville, where many people who were
given no time at all to decide, did the right thing.”
--Bill Clinton 2011

It felt like we all lived through
the same nightmare on that
Tuesday morning in 2001.

A plane had crashed into
one of the twin towers
blared the news report.
I immediately remembered the many planes,
in foul weather, that have crashed into
the Empire State Building--but hey,
it was a beautiful morning, cold and crisp
and electric blue.

Then the second plane
hit the second tower,
and it suddenly dawned on us
that we, that America was under attack,
just like that gorgeous Sunday morning
at Pearl Harbor.

The rest of our morning was a horror show,
people jumping, both towers falling,
the crash at the Pentagon,
and the courage shown by the passengers
who brought their plane down 
in a field at Shanksville, thus preventing
an attack on the White House.

Then we experienced the aftermath,
where tens of thousands of volunteers
pitched in to clear the rubble
and search for survivors;
when the whole world sent
their prayers and support.

Every year on 9/11
we celebrate Patriot’s Day.
For the first several years
there was a reading aloud
of all the names or those who perished.
It took over an hour.
I recall in 2003, when Mayor Bloomberg said:
So many names--there is hardly room
on the walls of my heart.

Today, 17 years later, I listened
to Trump bumble his way
through a well-written tribute;
like listening to a fifth grader
reciting Shakespeare.
He mentioned the 7,000
men and woman in the armed services
who have died in the Middle East
fighting in the war that never  ends.

I don’t know what makes me sadder,
remembering that tragic day,
or trying to fully grasp the nightmare
we are once again all living together.
The 21st Century has yet to rise
off its knees.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, September 10, 2018

Dawn Patrol




image by Thomas Pollart.


Dawn Patrol

“I am but mad north-northwest; but when the wind
is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”
--William Shakespeare.

The white-out is coming
said the squirrel
to the hare;

Put on 
your white winter coat
to fool the hawks.

The flapping wings
are already
in the gray clouds.

Death can be quick for
rabbits in the snow; talons
dropping from the sky.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Blackthorne--Scene 78




image from icollector.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Seventy-Eight

Stalemate

“Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs--
better than all the stalemate ifs.”
--Robert Frost.

1(Medium close-up) Thor: I’m not interested in
dirtying my hands by touching you. I don’t touch shit.
2(two shot) Buck, over Thor’s shoulder: So let me
get this straight--you’re afraid to use your fists?
3(two-shot) Thor, over Buck’s shoulder--clenching
his jaw: I said, I fight with my gun. You know what 
a gun is don’t you buffman? You got enough iron
hanging on you to lame a damn mule.
4(sound cue) piano & harmonica.
5(medium close-up) Buck: Well...what if I don’t
feel like fighting today?
6(close-up) Thor:  What?
7(cut to overhead drone shot) the whole crowd
standing in the street.
8(tight close-up) Buck: What if I just don’t feel like 
killing you this morning?
9(two-shot) Thor, over Buck’s shoulder: I would
have to say that your feelings don’t mean shit
on this street today.
10(medium wide shot) Buck: Look around you,
gunfighter. The whole town is watching--dozens
of witnesses. A town pretty much owned by your
brother, I grant you, but maybe today will be
different. Maybe today if these folks see you
kill a man in cold blood, a man who refused to
fight you, maybe they will become angry, and pull
down on you, and shoot you to pieces like a
rabid skunk.
11(sound cue) banjo & snare drum.
12(medium close-up) Thor: I wouldn’t bet my
life on it.
13(two-shot) Buck and the Eagle--Johnny:
Shoot him in the guts!
14(medium wide shot) Thor tensed, but didn’t
budge. Cash looked on, smiling, his hands on the 
fence for all to see.
15(medium close-up) Thor: Don’t think that
I won’t pull first.
16(two-shot) Buck, over Thor’s shoulder: Oh,
I know you are capable of murder, but I don’t
think you will do it today.
17(close-up) Thor: I’ll shoot your eyes out!
18(close-up) Buck, calmly: OK, asshole--
now’s the time.
19(medium close-up) Thor’s right hand began
to move. Stop! someone yelled.
20(medium wide shot) Sheriff Joe Hop stepped
out of the crowd, with a scatter gun aimed at Thor.
The tall deputy, also armed with a shotgun, stood 
on Hop’s right, holding on Buck.
Cash Bronson: What are you doing in town, Joe?
Joe Hop: Keeping the peace.
Bronson: Seems like you’ve had a bad case of that
lately.
Hop: It’s time.
Bronson: You don’t say. Time for what?
Hop: Time for someone to say no. Buck is saying
it, and I‘m backing him.
21(close up) Thor: So you’re going to nursemaid
this sorry sonofabitch?
22(two-shot) Hop over Thor’s shoulder: Yeah, it
sure looks like it.
23(sound cue) Indian seed rattle.
24(close-up) Buck: There’s only four of them.
25(two-shot) Hop, smiling then drawling: Yeah,
I know--but some innocent bystander would have 
got plugged sure as hell. So I figured to stop it.
26(medium close-up) Thor: Is it stopped?
27(two-shot) Hop: It is--unless you want your fancy
belt buckle blown out through your ass.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, September 4, 2018

Heartbreak Hotel




image from fineartamerica.com


Heartbreak Hotel

“The heart was made to be broken.”
--Oscar Wilde.

Are we living in the End Times?
Can any one of us fully process
the world’s ills in a single day?
My heart is shattered beyond repair
because of...

drug cartels in Mexico and South America,
drought, starvation and unclean water
in Africa and Illinois, the Opioid Epidemic
in the middle class, the thousands who 
died needlessly in Puerto Rico, monster
tornados, hurricanes, & volcano eruptions,
glaciers melting & drowning polar bears,
cruelty to animals, the battering and raping
of women, the fucking 1% that owns nearly
everything, terrorist & racial massacres, the
killing of young black men by the police, the
New Millennium Crusades, authoritarian
assaults on democracy, the spread and growth
of the homeless population, our crumbling
infrastructure, governmental corruption at
every level, the insidious lobbyists who own
the politicians, the seasonal forest fires,
torrential rains, flash flooding and mudslides,
those massive traffic jams, our renewed fear
of nuclear destruction, when “the truth is not
the truth”, when Trump orders his minions
to disregard all the coverage done by the
free press and media--and to only pay
attention to the propaganda spewed out
on Fox State TV--

all this, in one form or another
broadcast every single day,
because we live in an age
where a camel farts in Saudi
Arabia, and within ten minutes
it becomes banner news.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, September 3, 2018

Monday--Monday




image from cabroworld.com


Monday--Monday

“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day--
sometimes it just turns out that way.”
--the Mamas and the Papas.

The cat demanding its breakfast blended
with the bastard-buzz from his clock radio--
6:00am. Opening his eyes, he caught a
flicker on the back of his lids form the last
moment of his dream--a wharf rat sitting on
his chest, its red eyes bellicose. 

His right arm was numb from some awkward 
sleeping position. His pillow case was damp
from his slumber’s open mouth drool. Tossing
his blankets back, he immediately felt the
September chill in the room. He stood up
stiffly and walked across the cold hardwood
floor to the open window; he preferred to sleep
in a cooled room. Shutting the window he 
managed to muffle some of the traffic noise.

Standing up in the shower, with his hands high on
the wall, the steaming hot water finally pronounced
him “fully awake”. Damn, did he scribble down the 
phone number of that hot blonde from the bar last
night? Why didn’t he use a condom? Whiskey stupid.
Could he ever find her place again? Would that dent 
he left on that silver Lexus get somebody excited this
morning? The plumbing thunked as he turned off the
shower. Barely dry, he stepped boldly out into that
blue Monday maze.

Hawks like pigeon eggs
from the nest on the roof next
door--their breakfast raw.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub