Blackthorne--Scene 83

painting by J. Ken Spencer

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-Three

Debacle

“What we dread most, in the face of the impending

debacle, is that we may have to give up our

gadgets.”--Henry Miller.

1(wide shot) two riders pushing hard, silhouetted

against a fiery Saturday’s sunset, that had turned

the prairie’s chest to yellow-orange.

2(sound cue) banjo and guitar and violins over 

hoof beats.

3(medium wide overhead crane shot) Buck and

Johnny rein up at the Grange Hall. Cheewa, 

almost invisible in the soft darkness, began

barking.

4(sound cue) harmonica over a cat’s screech.

5(two shot) The dog had flushed out a black cat.

He chased it, a race between two shadows, through 

a crack between two boards on the wall of an

unpainted warehouse adjacent to them.

6(tight two-shot) The two men moved stiffly in their

new store bought shirts. Buck wore a blue shirt, new

denim trousers, a string tie with a turquoise bolo,

and an old pair of boots shined to a brown gloss.

The Eagle wore an earth green shirt, open at the

neck, with the starched fold still in it, and a pair

of clean, but worn jeans. They both wore their 

weapons and old hats.

7(cut to a medium wide shot) the Grange doors

were wide open, with a blazing lantern twinkling

on each side of them; the commotion from the

folks inside flooded the empty streets in waves.

They tied down in front of the BRONSON HOUSE.

Most of the hitching rails were occupied. A half

score of wagons and carriages stood alongside 

the hall.

8(sound cue) piano, banjo, violin’s fiddling over

the crowd’s hubub. 

9(two-shot) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder: Must

be every sodbuster, cowhand and drifter in the

territory here tonight. He hiked up his britches.

Buck: Yup, everyone came to see the elephant.

The Eagle pulled an old silver watch from his worn

pocket: Almost eight o’clock--hell of a way to start

a romance.

10(medium close up) Buck: Uh-huh--my turn to screw

the heifer. You head on in. I’ll go face the music. I

may return by myself.

11(two-shot) Johnny: OK, boss. I’ll meet you there.

Let’s hope she’s in an understanding mood tonight.

12(medium wide shot) Johnny strutted off in the direction 

of the Grange Hall, brushing the trail dust off himself.

13( cut to wide shot) Buck stood in front of the General

Store. Salina was not there. He peered into the large

front window. The place was empty and dark.

14(overhead drone shot) Wallace had built their living

quarters out from the store, shaping an L out of the

building. Smoke curled up from its chimney. We see

Buck walking around to the back. Their home was

the northwest corner of the building. A sprawling

covered front porch stood next to a tall hump-backed
oak. 

15(cut to a dolly shot) as Buck approached the porch.

We discover Salina sitting on a slider, wearing a shawl,

with her arms folded, smoking a rolled cigarette.

16(sound cue) harmonica over grandfather clock

ticking loudly.

17(two shot) Salina, over Buck’s shoulder: Well, here

you are, big boy. What’s the matter, you lose your

watch?

Buck: I’m so sorry that I’m late.

Salina: Yeah, I’m sorry too. You kind of left me in

the lurch.

Buck: I got busy working on the roof of the bunk

house, and I lost track of time. I feel like an asshole.

Salina: You look just like one at the moment.

They stared at each other for a minute. She smiled

first, and his smile followed suit.

Buck: So...do we still have a date, or do I go alone

with my tail between my legs?

Salina: Did you bring your dog?

Buck: Sure did--he and Johnny are over at the Grange.

Salina: Other than being late, it seems like you held

up your end. So yes, our first date can now kick into

gear. There just are a couple of things we need to 

talk about first.

Buck: OK--shoot.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Ablaze

image from pinterest.com

Ablaze

“Courage is a fire--bullying is smoke.”

--Benjamin Disraeli.

Rust never slumbers, 

but it is a slow meandering 

oxidation process, whereas fire

is the rapid oxidation

(the blink of an eye)

of a material in the exothermic

process of combustion.

Native Americans used to be

stewards of the forests

by controlled burning of the brush

and fallen logs. In our infinite ignorance,

we no longer adhere to this practice.

The headlines today were

The world is on fire and Trump

is playing with matches.

I have always been fascinated by SHC,

spontaneous human combustion--

where a living body, or a recently deceased one,

suddenly bursts into flames, without

any apparent source of ignition.

There have been 200 reported cases

of SHC in the last 300 years.

Usually the bodies have been chronic

alcoholics and usually females.

Their combustion does not set

adjacent materials on fire.

It does burn the hands and feet off,

leaving a pile of greasy, fetid ashes

that emits a very offensive oder.

This certainly gives new meaning

to the common phrase:

the bitch is on fire.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Queue Up

painting by Linda Mears.

Queue Up

“There are no queues on the extra mile.”

--Anonymous.

Every month we mark our calendars, connoting

every holiday, birthday and appointment--when

the cleaning girls are coming, and the home care

nurses, and the yard crew, and when the Pub calls

for more poetry. These reminders often trigger

waiting, though anticipation can season and mask

the waiting, making it more tolerable and less

inevitable.

In the womb, we cannot wait to be born. In life, we

convince ourselves that we are not just waiting 

around to die, dreading the arrival of old age,

infirmity and disability. We distract ourselves with

divers projects, trying not to dwell much on our date

with death. We are blessed not to know our actual

death-day, and we train ourselves not to notice the

constant presence in the shadows, our personal

reaper, our companion through the portal.

Post-life, we are waiting for the gala reunion beyond 

the veil, and the life review, and the plans for the

future. Of course, if it is true that time does not

exist over there, death would have brought us the

end of waiting. We will be left with only the doing.

If some trees live for

centuries, they must enjoy

celebrating life.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

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Crown of Shame

image from pinterest.com

Crown of Shame

“Glory built on selfish principles, is shame 

and guilt.”--William Cowper.

Thousands of troops on the border,

dispatched by a lunatic on a lark.

Of course this is completely out of order,

as packs of militant hellhounds bark,

and border guards ready their mortar.

America on this Thanksgiving Day,

wears a laurel wreath of shame

as needy immigrants are denied access.

We all know who is to blame,

who created this awful and stupid mess.

It was immigrants who built our country,

and made it the envy of the ages;

then the worst President in history

put immigrant children in steel cages.

Damn, Trump’s IQ is a real mystery.

Glenn Buttkus

Quintain

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The Wild Side

painting from awmactc.com 

The Wild Side

“She didn’t just walk on the wild side, she lived

there, dancing in the streets and setting fire to

the sky.”-- j. iron word.

During the 60’s,

we all wanted our children

to feel natural about their bodies,

nudity and sexuality.

It was just so very hip

not to be uptight about it.

Sex was no longer,

for women, simply something

to tolerate for procreation--

no, hell no...

women became liberated.

A not-so-subtle consequence

of all this sexual freedom,

was that men had to learn

to accept a hard truth,

as they discovered that when

it came to the battle of the sexes,

women showed up with a machine gun,

and men only had a one shot

muzzle loader.

How daunting it was

to fully understand, and accept

that most women are quite capable

of having dozens of orgasms,

compared to the single and swift

ejaculation that constitutes closure

for the male.

Today, in order to become a caring and tender

lover, men must have a total and honest

communication with their ladies,

coming to an agreement as to when

they will have their singular moment.

Coitus can easily last for an hour,

and if you get fatigued,

you must be willing and able

to man her vibrator--then hang on

for dear life as your lady navigates

the whirling winds of Eros,

as she screams, bucks and wails.

Once I was capable of putting

my wife’s dervish desire above my own,

I began to enjoy the sensual voyages,

the erotic rollercoaster rides.

This exalted caliber of sexual union

catapults both participants

leagues beyond religious or societal 

parameters, where two people create

one cosmic equality, rife with pleasure

and boundless spiritual depth.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Anger Mismanagement

image from martialartsplanet.com

Anger Mismanagement

“You will not be punished for your anger--you

will be punished by your anger.”--Buddha.

They called

big Ben Bolt

the Spoiler.

He was a large man

with gentle eyes

and huge hands, but

put a pitcher of beer

in him and he would 

morph into a vicious

bare knuckled

street fighter.

Beer

and his foul temper

cost him

everything.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Scene 82

painting by Jim Clements

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-Two

Riposte

“Fencing is a game of living chess.”

--V.E. Schwab

1(two-shot) this dialogue will have the standard

reciprocal shot cuts, over the shoulder of the 

character being spoken to (unless there is a 

close-up, which will be designated.)

Buck, over Salina’s shoulder: Uh-huh...but what

is important to me is what do you think.

2(close-up) Salina: I think...that I used to find him

interesting. I think he’s changed a lot in the last

year.

Buck: Something turned him mean?

Salina: No, he always had that dark side to him.

Lately, there are shadows on his face all the time.

Finally I see him for who he really is.

3(sound cue) piano & harmonica over the low hum

of shoppers and street noise.

Buck: So you’ve changed, but not him?

Salina: Something like that.

4(close-up) Salina: I haven’t been with him for over

six months.

5(close-up) Buck: Why tell me?

6(two-shot) Salina: Because you wanted to know.

Buck: You seem pretty sure of your self.

Salina: Don’t be silly; life is too short.

Buck: Well, in that case Miss Wallace, may I call

you Salina?

Salina: I would...if I were you.

Buck fingered the sharp edge of the new axe, watching

7(close-up) Salina

her green eyes and full mouth.

Buck, after a moment: Out at my place, someone has 

been looking after our family graveyard in my absence.

Would you happen to know anything about that?

Salina: What will you be doing on Saturday night?

Buck: Oh, I don’t know--probably just ride into town

with Johnny and spend some time at Mateo’s.

Salina: There’s going to be a dance at the Grange 

Hall.

8(sound cue) banjo & fiddle under the crowd.

Buck: Is there?

Salina: Are you a dancing man, Mister Buck?

Buck: Every twice in a while. Please call me Rod.

Salina: OK, Rod--why don’t you take me to the 

dance? It might be fun.

Buck: I don’t know...you’re awfully damn shy.

Salina: Seven o’clock in front of the store.

Buck: Can I bring my dog?

Salina, chuckling: Bring your dog and ride a black

buffalo--I don’t care.

Buck: Alright--seven o’clock then, in front of the 

store. (after an awkward moment, while they both

smiled in silence). Still, you never answered my 

question.

Salina: Why ask me about your family plot?

Buck: Because the first time I met you, it seemed

like you knew something about it.

9(sound cue) violins & flute.

10(medium close-up) Salina, nodding her head

slowly: It’s no secret--Dad and I watched over it

while you were gone.

11(close-up) Buck, his eyes misty: Thank-you.

Salina: For what?

Buck: For caring enough to do that.

Salina: Shucks, it’s just what decent folks do.

Buck: I guess I’m just not used to being around

decent folks.

Salina: Well, big boy, now you’ve got your chance.

They both laughed. Dad and I both cared a lot

about your father. He was like a shaggy pet bear

with gravel in his voice. I was a teenager when he

got killed. He was kind,and he used to play with

the children in town.

Buck: Play with them?

Salina: Yes--he became very child-like before he died.

Buck: Everyone loves a drunken bear.

12(cut to a medium three-shot) Wallace appeared

suddenly: Your grub is sacked up. What kind of

lumber did you want?

Salina: Dad--Rod is taking me to the dance Saturday.

Wallace, smiling: Uh--Rod, that’ s great. After today

that should tickle the shit out of Thor Bronson.

Buck: You don’t approve?

13(close-up) Wallace, out from beneath his bushy 

eyebrows: Hell, it don’t matter a deuce what I want.

She’ll do whatever she pleases anyway--and

I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

They all laughed.

So what do you need--joists, planks, shingles?

Buck: Yes, all of that, tramping out the back 

door after Henry Wallace.

14(medium close-up) Salina followed them with

her jade eyes.

15(sound cue) clarinet & cello over the crowd hum.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

The Submarine Races

image from coverbrowser.com

The Submarine Races

“See me--Feel me--Touch me--Heal me.”

--the Who lyrics.

Tommy was blind and deaf,

yet he became a pinball wizard,

said the Who.

Dogs and cats like to be petted,

chickens too.

As a teenager, hormones raging, heading

to a local passion pit for the

submarine races, I could hardly wait

to touch my date; what was called petting.

Only rarely, ten cars across, radios blaring,

windows all steamed up, did intercourse

ever make an appearance. Coitus

was the impossible dream, the unclimbed

mountain. So you kissed and swapped spit

until your lips were bruised, unsnapped

a bra, unzipped some zippers, co-masterbated,

and possibly on prom night, scored fellatio.

Kids today hook-up, whatever that involves

I remember when holding hands was a big deal--

but I must say that all that teasing and foreplay

caused a raging case of blue balls--

a malady from the 50’s.

The 60’s led us to

What’s your sign? Let’s fuck!,

the incredible no-bra look, communes,

topless barber shops, free love,

and the best decade of rock and roll ever.

“Heal me”, indeed.

For septuagenarians,

there is still actual touch,

deeper, more meaningful love,

and wisdom--

that’s the rumor.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Enter: Stage Left

image from hobbydb.com

Enter: Stage Left

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time

that is given to us.”--Gandolf 

LORD OF THE RINGS

My world is a movie

that can encompass all genres.

Since it is my world, like Bukowski,

I am the hero of my own shit.

Yet Life, as the studio, provides

its own directors, and its own writers.

I submit that the Panavision lens

that I perceive through is completely

cinematic, but most of the time

I don’t write the script ( though I do

come with sides and inserts at the ready).

I am catapulted into pre-set, pre-written

scenes, and it is my job to improvise

my part; and pad it if I can get away with it.

In my mind I have a lead part, but never 

the Star. As an actor I accept the need to be

a reactor. I take pride in being the primary

cinematographer. I decide when to track,

or dolly, cut to close-up or panoramic wide

shot.

For the decade that I was actually

a professional actor, my two worlds became

siamese twins, joined at the heart. I was

allowed to conjure up diverse personalities

that in a normal lifetime, one could not play 

them all--cowards, villains, priests and pimps,

cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians,

politicians and pedophiles, jesters and kings,

winners and losers, professors and poets,

and once I played Shakespeare’s brother.

Film work was rare, so I spent more time

doing live theater, but I always stood outside

myself, like I was in a movie that was all about

an actor being in a play.

Poetry has always buoyed me up when Life

worked too hard to cast me as

Everyman in some industrial documentary.

As a poet, I’m free to cast myself in any

guise, with any point of view...like Kerouac,

I can be an “outlaw of the sensorium”, like

Richard Burton I can be a “prince of players”,

like Trump, I’m a Gemini born on Flag Day,

like Jason Robards, I can pretend to be

a poet, and be one at the same time.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Mornings

image from pinterest.com

Mornings

“There was never a night or a problem that could

defeat sunrise or hope.”--Bernard Williams.

Rising before the sun

to feed the collies

and move the big tractor

out by the west corn field;

the rowed up cobs flashing

golden in my phone’s light.

My son will mount the Deere

after his second cup of coffee.

I can smell it on the chilled breeze.

The sun rose red as calf’s blood,

smearing the cloudless horizon

beyond our huge barn. Its early

rays turned the dirty white Buick

into raspberry jam. I was feeding

the chickens when frying bacon

beckoned to me across the yard;

my sweet wife was up. I headed

for the warmth of the kitchen

to fuel up before another eventful

twelve hour day; something a city dweller

could never understand.

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

Blaring sirens and horns bleating 

and delivery trucks banging, plus

being in the flight path for the airport--

these are my damn alarm clocks,

as I stir bleary-eyed in dirty sheets

staring at my digital clock; 6:30am.

I could smell the coffee brewing thanks

to a digital timer. I would have to face

my asshole foreman at the factory

and beg for this afternoon off. My son

makes another appearance in court--

this time for drug possession and

an expired driver’s license. I won’t be

able to make his bail because I have

nothing left to mortgage or sell. My ex-wife

could care less--she’s on vacation in Italy.

I’ll stop by Little Vic’s after court. Beer

is always your friend. If barfly Molly is

on her stool, maybe I’ll get lucky. It’s

days like this that I actually miss my Dad’s

farm--even though I couldn’t wait to leave

it at 18--drawn to the lure and excitement

of the big city.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Hubris

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Hubris

“We can never be gods, after all--but we can 

become less than human with frightening ease.”

--N.K. Jemisin.

From Sputnik                 to the Space Station,

               for over sixty years

we’ve been putting junk

               in outer space.

Some floats

back to earth.

Some floats

out into nebulas 

unknown.

Angels flap angry wings,

and gods wink,

then winch

at man’s

arrogance.

Should we pay attention?

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse poets Pub