Wednesday, November 28, 2018

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

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

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

Monday, November 26, 2018

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

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, November 22, 2018

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

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

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

Monday, November 19, 2018

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

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

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

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

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

Thursday, November 8, 2018

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

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

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

Monday, November 5, 2018

Hubris




image from pinterest.com


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