Season's Verses

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Season’s Verses

“Christmas doesn’t come from a store, perhaps

Christmas means a little bit more.”--Dr. Seuss.

Rah-Bra-Hurrah

Such a pure joy you’re so busty,

for even though I can be crusty,

I think these things cost too much.

So this one’s on me--not Dutch.

from your Worst Half.

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

Hangman

From the shape of this box,

You may think this is socks;

but no, it’s dotted with ducks,

so please don’t think it sucks.

from your Middle Daughter.

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

Show Me the Money

It is something that loves your cash,

and you’ll need it to buy corned beef hash.

Wearing it in front like a nut,

you avoid strain on your butt.

from your Mother-in-Law.

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

Vino Veritas

This is one you must not shake,

though it’s not something I did bake.

I’ll tell it’s fragile--enough said.

It can be enjoyed while in bed.

from your First Cousin.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Beyond Our Grasp

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Beyond Our Grasp

“I abhor the idea of a perfect world. It would bore

me to tears.”--Shelby Foote.

Too often

I have felt lost

in a Dali painting;       bizarre, macabre,

           where elephants are thirty feet tall,

           clocks are flat as fried eggs,

           where Medusa pushes Venus

           off the clam shell,

                    or a naked shepherd in a Titian

                    painting chained to two pillars.

on my right, Utopia,

on my left, Dystopia.

In 74 AD,

Spartacus took his 10,000 slave

army to the toe of Italy,

and aspired to create 

a Utopian dream

he called the Sun City.

There would be no masters.

      Every man would be equal,

          but when the victory celebrations

      were over, with hangovers 

intact, they tried to set up a

municipality,     with rules & laws,

                         commerce & trade,

                         a justice system,

complete with a constabulary.

Per usual, some rose to the top,

and became leaders, while

most did not; they soon began

to complain, stating that they were

better were off remaining

Roman slaves.

People deserted

in clots of a hundred, which

became flocks of thousands.

When the population

had sufficiently thinned,

they were attacked

by three Roman legions.

After their defeat,

all the survivors were crucified,

hanging on thousands of crosses

along the Appian Way.

The Communist Manifesto

sounded great on paper,

but over the last century,

every country that tried

to implement the shining theories

of brotherhood and perfect equality

has failed miserably;

their failures were brought on by

commerce and capitalism,

imperialism and war,

even just human nature, itself--

these things intervened, driving a wedge

of rampaging egos, privilege, & inequity

straight into that dream of a perfect society,

soon degenerating into empty words and

broken promises.

History tends to be cyclic, a closed system, a

Gordian Knot, an infinite loop, wherein our

foolish orbit has taken us to the dark side of

the moon where stygian darkness seems

all encompassing. 

I fear that the “New World”, as America was once

called, degenerates into a biased replica of the

“Old World”, after the newness rubs off, and the

honeymoon is over.

It’s up to the youth now. I’m too old to march, to build,

and fight with them for a better world, but I still can

cheer them on.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

U-45

painting by Augusto Ferrer-Dalmau

U-45

“The only thing that ever frightened me during the

war was the U-boat peril.”--Winston Churchill.

On Christmas Eve

a super ferry

plowed its way

into Elliott Bay,

with Seattle’s skyline

all aglow;

passengers

began screaming

Stop!

Off the starboard side

a WWII submarine

surfaced.

It was the U-45,

painted blood red,

and the conning tower

said TRUMP

on it.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Episode 106

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 106

Heart Song

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.

What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

--Antoine de Saint-Exupery: The Little Prince.

1(sound cue) piano and violins.

2(close-up) Johnny, after an inhalation of pain:

If it comes to killing him, use a knife. A blade is

best. I want him to feel his own bowels, as I feel

mine, drop into his hands, just a steaming pile

of guts in the street, like butchering a boar.

3(two-shot) Buck: A knife it shall be.

Johnny: He runs.

Buck: El Blanco?

Johnny: Yes, and he is swift.

Buck: Will you chase him?

Johnny: I want to. I could catch him. I, too, run

like the wind.

4(tight close-up) Buck: Let him go, brother. He 

will come again.

5(sound cue) guitar & harmonica.

6(two shot) Johnny, after a beat: Did I ever really

tell you about your father?

Buck: No.

Johnny: Why not do you think?

Buck: I never asked you about him.

Johnny: Then it is time.

Buck: after hesitation, If you say so.

Johnny: I do. Bill Buck...he was a man.

7(medium close-up) Buck, quickly: Whiskey

devoured him, drowned his heart, slayed his soul.

8(two-shot) Johnny: In the end something

destroys all of us.

Buck: So far, nothing really likes the taste of me.

Johnny: Even loneliness?

Buck: I am home now, and I am not lonely--I

have you.

9(close-up) Johnny: Me? I am nothing.

10(two-shot) Buck: No, sir, I will not hear you. You 

are the Aguila, soaring over the land, and we

wither in the shadow of your wings.

Johnny: I will not die.

11(sound cue) accordion and banjo.

Buck: Die? Can they kill the thunder

storm? If you throw a rock at the sun,

will it go away?

Johnny: The sun is inside me now--
burning my bowels.
Buck: The Doctor will be here soon;

just hang on, my brother. I will not

let you leave me.

Johnny: We will have a grand rancho.

Buck: The grandest.

12(medium close-up) Johnny: We were

going to go and find you?

13(two-shot) Buck: Who?

Johnny: Your father and me; a week before

he was killed? He was an old man, and he

couldn’t travel alone. I was his amigo.

Buck: After all those years, why in Christ’s

name would he do that?

14(close-up) Johnny: You were his only family,

his son. He wanted to look you in the flesh, and

try to tell you how sorry he was, and to tell you

he loved you.

15(two-shot) Buck: Love?

Johnny: He knew he would not live much longer.

Grief was consuming him.

Buck was silent.

Johnny: In your family, you are the life force. Your

people were not strong. Death rode their shoulders,

rode them right into the ground. Sadly, they never

lived as we do. Life shines in us, even though now

it grows dim in me.

Buck: I will fan that flame.

Johnny: I am fighting. I hear the words from

my death song, but I won’t sing them yet. 

Yet I have seen much. I rode hard.

Buck: You will ride again.

Johnny: Caramba...you would have to tie me on

a horse.

They both laughed, and it was difficult for the Eagle.

Buck: We are talking a lot. Does it hurt to talk? 

Would you like to close your eyes and rest? I

promise I will not leave you.

16(sound cue) cello

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Buy-By-Bye

image from tuthdig.com

Buy-By-Bye

“Our echoes roll from soul to soul--and grow

forever and for ever.”--Alfred Lord Tennyson.

When young, death is but a shadow

--follow.

For some of us, death can come early

--barely.

My own mother was just thirty-nine

--pine.

My tiny nephew died of SIDS

--kids.

For me, funerals can be a drag

--hag.

Loved ones should just have a joyful wake

--cake.

No one gets out of life alive

--jive.

Mortality becomes middle-age crazy

--daisy.

They say fifty is the new forty

--sporty.

After retirement, time reaches hyper-speed

--indeed.

Your older body begins to break down

--clown.

Your own libido takes flight

--fright.

No one wants you to drive a car

--har-har.

Funeral homes send Christmas cards

--regards.

You become easily distracted

--subtracted.

You begin forgetting many things

--badda-bings.

When walking you seek more benches

--trenches.

You hope Death resembles Robert Redford

--Stepford.

Perhaps with death comes a doorway

--hooray.

You attempt to stifle your fear

--tear.

You try to muster your resolve

--evolve.

Always step gaily into the light

--good-night.

Glenn Buttkus

Echo Verse

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Desert Serenade

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Desert Serenade

“In the desert the line between life and death

is sharp and quick.”--Brian Herbert.

From a moving car the Southwestern desert

looks barren, placid, even inert, but I took a

camera, built a sagebrush blind, and sat for

a whole day. I found that death sweeps over 

the halcyon hotbed like a shimmering mirage, 

rife with survival scenarios.

A Gila monster is climbing a cactus in pursuit of

bird’s eggs. Though it’s venomous, and marked

like a diamond back, it’s a lizard. A gray sand

spider is burying itself, preparing to leap out and

attack small prey. A pair of golden eagles are 

swooping down and feasting on jack rabbits.

Suddenly a cow is screaming across the arroyo

nearby. She is limping, viciously pursued by three

coyotes, Her rear flanks are bloody from bites.

They quickly disappear behind a sand hillock.

Then coyote yips and whines fill the air. I guess

they met the herd bull.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Great White Fathers

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Great White Fathers

“Those who would expect to reap the benefits of

freedom, must, like men, undergo the fatigue of

supporting it.”--Thomas Paine.

If there is an afterlife,

our founding fathers

must be burning their wigs

over the state of our union.

Gentlemen, I realize

that you were not demi-gods, icons

or devils--you were actual men,

with all the weaknesses and foibles

integral to that species.

First off, it is very evident

that Dolly Madison, Abigail Adams, and

Mercy Otis Warren were helpful

in the shaping of our Republic, yet

history has been mute regarding these women.

Why is that?

James Madison: Are you serious, sir? It would

not have been prudent to acknowledge their

distaff contributions.

Alright, let’s talk about slavery. Most of you

owned slaves. Though you had

an opportunity to do so, you chose

not to deal with the issue of slavery.

Why not?

Thomas Jefferson: Sir, we had the wolf by the

ears. We could not subdue him, nor could we

afford to let him go. In addition, we could not

imagine that the thousands of slaves from our

day would mushroom to millions, nor could we

have envisioned your present day civil rights

issues.

OK, what about the Indians? The Native

Americans were here first. I think you

clearly saw the crux of future conflicts

with the indigenous populations, yet
you made no provisions for dealing

with this obvious future problem.

George Washington: Actually I did make an

attempt to deal with this, planning on creating

sovereign reservations for their tribes, but

Hamilton had to remind me that we lacked

the resources to implement these plans.

Of course in fact, they were ignorant

savages, who were resisting inevitable
progress.

George Washington: Yes, there was that

to consider as well.

Benjamin Franklin: But would you agree
that our achievements outweighed our

failures?

Yes.

Alexander Hamilton: As Emerson noted, anyone 

who compares themselves to us, must realize

that we had the advantage of “being present at

the creation.”

John Adams: It’s been stimulating having this

conversation with you. We have to do it again

sometime.

Far out, I’m in.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Spirit Triumphs

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The Spirit Triumphs

“Here in America, we are all descended in blood

and spirit from revolutionists and rebels. As their

heirs, we must not confuse honest dissent with

disloyal subversion.”--Dwight D. Eisenhower.

During

the Golden Age

of Comics.

in 1940,

artist Will Eisner

created a newspaper

comic series called

THE SPIRIT, 

about a murdered

rookie cop,

Denny Colt,

who returns

from beyond to fight crime.

He was sexy

and had super powers.

It ran until 1952.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

This comic book character, one of my favorites, has lasted 
79 years, right up there with Superman and Batman. They
made a TV movie about him in 1987, which flopped. They
made a film about him in 2008, which was a moderate
success. Dark Horse Comics has resurrected him in
recent graphic novels.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Episode 105

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 105

Tenacity

“ Don’t give up your dreams--cling to your vision

with all the tenacity you can muster.”

--Orison Swett Marden.

1(sound cue) cello and harmonica.

2(two shot) Buck rose up and tramped off through

the long shadows of twilight toward the bunkhouse.

3(close-up) Johnny’s eyes reflected the flames still

in front of him.

4(dolly back to a one-shot) His arms were folded

around his belly like a bat folds up its wings. His

shoulders slumped, his head was down.

5(expand to a two-shot) 

6(sound cue) footsteps, creaking leather, and tin

against tin--Buck returned, whistling a tune, loaded

down with a saddle, a lantern and a burlap sack.

Buck: Hell, we got everything we need.

He opened the sack and pulled out a blanket, a pile

of rags, disinfectant, and a half bottle of whiskey.

Buck: You know, I never did like that barn much--

didn’t spend much time in the house either. If I

was to ever take a woman, it might be strange to

try and make a home in that house.

Johnny: Hey, I hear you, but that’s bullshit.

Buck: No shit about it, Pard, carefully peeling

back the shirt around the wound in the Indian’s

shoulder. That house was full of death and

sadness, and that barn was full of rats.

7(cut to close-ups) Johnny: What will you do?

Buck: Rebuild.

Johnny: I meant tomorrow.

Buck: I will keep my appointment with Bronson.

8(sound cue) piano.

Johnny: You will kill him?

9(two-shot) Buck poured some disinfectant onto a

clean cloth and dabbed it into the shotgun wound.

Johnny did not flinch.

Buck, after a moment: Maybe.

10(close ups) Johnny: I will not die.

Buck: A mean sonofabitch like you? Christ, no,

not today. He gently grasped the Eagle’s wrists.

Let’s take a look at your belly.

11(two shot) Johnny allowed his hands to be

lifted. Buck bit his cheek as he peered at the bullet

gash in the plexus, but his eyes remained calm.

Johnny: Is it bad?

12(sound cue) violins and branch flute.

Buck: Amigo, it is not good--but the bleeding has

stopped. Let me bandage it.

Johnny nodded. Buck tore several strips of cloth

from an old cotton shirt. Johnny held his arms up.

His shoulders quivered. Buck began to wrap the

strips around him, but an eagle’s talon that hung

around his neck got in the way.

Johnny: Take it.

Buck carefully removed it, and held it.

With it could go your luck .

Johnny: Crazy talk, boss. I will be stove up for a

month, no more. You wear it while I heal up. It will

be good medicine for both of us.

Buck nodded, and put the talon, suspended on its

leather lanyard, around his thick neck.

Hold your arms up again.

Johnny did. Buck wrapped the thick strips around

Johnny’s waist, and tied them tightly. He wrapped

the old warrior in a red horse blanket, and tipped

his head back gently onto a saddle that was 

propped up behind him. He eased him back like

he would with a sick child. He held the bottle of

whiskey for him, tipping it up, letting Johnny gulp

down three scalding swallows.

Johnny: I tell you this killing is the only thing that

Bronson understands.

Buck: I will see him tomorrow. If these were his men,

I will tear his heart out and eat it in the middle of

the street.

Johnny: Jesus, boss, you know these men were sent

by Bronson!

Buck: We killed every one of them, so I can’t ask.

Johnny coughed, then rasped: I piss in the milk of 

his mother.

Buck: I shit in the milk of his grandmother.

Johnny: He must not win.

Buck: I fear there will be no winners in this.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Bramble Berries

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Bramble Berries

“He who sows brambles will reap thorns.”

--Spanish Proverb.

There was a time, when I was a kid,

a child not a goat, when picking

blackberries was a family affair.

Although, in praise of goats, it is widely

known that they are the best solution

for eradicating pesky thorn bushes.

They are a very sturdy plant. You can mow,

chop, burn, crush or dig at them, and they

will spring back when your back’s turned.

Most neighborhoods have a vacant lot,

or neglected corner where blackberries

can thrive, where the ripe fruit awaits.

They can grow in poor soil, ditches, steep

hillsides, and hedgerows; even in a

wasteland, and could devour a football field.

A dozen of us would show up in long-sleeved

shirts, jeans, and high leather boots, for

protection from the blood thirsty thorns.

We brought gardening gloves, and ladders

to drop over the six foot bushes, a handful

of band-aids, machetes, and sharp clippers.

We carried colorful plastic buckets and

rinsed-out coffee cans to hold our freshly

picked multi-pounds of bounty.

My grandparents called them cane berries,

because of the thick stalks, and they pointed

out that blackberries were not real berries, for

they were made up of seeded drupelets, cousins

to raspberries. My grandfather was fond of saying

that raspberries were a feminine fruit, where the

berry slips off the stem, leaving a cavern in the

middle, but blackberries had to be plucked,

and their erect stems remain intact.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Poem written in the style of Ted Hughes.

Pilgrim's Prayer

image from wikipedia.com

Pilgrim’s Prayer

“Thankfulness may consist merely of words.

Gratitude is shown in acts.”--Henri Frederic Amiel.

In our home, as in many others, before we partake of

the Thanksgiving meal,  we go around the table and

allow everyone to share what they’re grateful for this

year. The little children are grateful for receiving 

sweets, treats and toys. The older children are 

thankful for Jesus, friends, and good grades. My

three daughters are thankful for their spouses, and

the spouses in turn are grateful for them. My wife is

grateful for her nine healthy grandchildren. I am very

thankful for my patriarchy and my wife. We say grace,

and then get after the holiday feast.

But I often wonder what each of us is truly grateful for--

our health, another dawn to greet, another day above

the ground, personal and professional success, how

many Facebook friends we have, our modest levels of

notoriety, the means to buy a new car every third year,

a mild winter, fellowship, loving pets, the greenest

lawn on the block, retirement, stimulating hobbies,
projects, and the like?

Beneath my own bombast and stentorian tones, I am

grateful for being able to live in a country where strong

dissent is both tolerated and stimulated. Even though

it feels like we are living through the Plague Years, and

the Hundred Years War, like with all things, the Trump

Era will pass, the light in Liberty’s torch will burn more

brightly, stability will stamp out chaos, and the American

Dream will be reinstated for immigrants. 

Can the zebra be

grateful for providing a

fine meal for a lion?

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Emperor of Oz

image from theaterbythesea.com

The Emperor of Oz

Dorothy: How can you talk if you haven’t 

got a brain?

Scarecrow: I don’t know--but some people

without brains do an awful lot of talking.

Candy Man    can,

                               but      shouldn’t,
even though     super strong

                         MaryJane             cupcakes

  cannot cure                            Trumpitis,

              those political       spin lesions

brought on by paroxysms        of        POTUS

shenanigans.

We must

      invest our hope,

           convoluted                   

                as the may be     cuz maybe 

Nancy Pee    

                can give      WE         of the

                     ambuscado,

the recipe for         french-fried freedom

                                 and equity

once damned Donald      takes

         several bites out of the       Giant

              imPEACHment,                       and

the New Normal    can be more like      the

Old Normal, except        different/better,

     much preferred   to the    political pablum

          that is spewed out of

                                             pundit pie holes,

because this time    it’s more than  the

                                             fe-males

bleeding out of every o

                                    r

                                     i

                                      f

                                       i

                                        c

                                          e-- Hell, no,

Jack!  Finally we must witness the congregation

of Republican scarecrows singing:

                  If I only had a brain...

Glenn Buttkus

This is my "imitation" of Edward Estlin Cummings,
who is known for his radical experimentation with
form, punctuation, spelling and syntax.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Demon Dancing

image from wikipedia.

Demon Dancing

“My demons and I are not compatible; never have

been, never will be.”--G.G. Allin.

Beyond surreal,

I watched her

turn her head all the way around

like a barn owl.

She had goat’s eyes,

all yellow with vertical pupils,

and had moldy pink horns for ears;

then she projectile-vomited

several quarts of thick green mucus

that steamed and smelled

of urine and dead rats.

She spoke in a low rumbling rasp,

Your mother was fucked

by idiots and mad men,

you pencil-dicked fudge-packing faggot!

She rose up off the filthy bed

and spun in mid-air,

flinging feces in all directions,

before descending to her scabby knees,

grabbed my rosary, and began

masterbating with the cross, screaming:

This is what Jesus really needed,

the taste of a young twat!

I tossed holy water on her,

and it burned her face like acid.

I yelled: In the name of our savior,

Jesus Christ, I demand that you abandon

this innocent girl!

Her demonic laughter was chilling.

We are legion, and we are beyond

your pathetic reach, pedophile priest!

Then I opened my eyes,

and my digital clock read

in red hot numbers--

midnight.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Corner Boy

image from pinterest.com

Corner Boy

“Danger doesn’t lurk around every corner, but it

does hang out waiting for fear to show up.”

--Anonymous.

I’m 14, making

300 bucks a week.

There may be

easier ways to make money

than standing on a corner

selling crack, but

I can’t think of one.

Hearing the crack 

of gunfire,

I reach for my Glock,

I don’t need school,

just bullets.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Exegesis

image from Wikipedia.

Exegesis

“Nations are born in the hearts of poets, and die

in the hand of politicians.”

--Muhammad Iqbal.

Sometimes

during daydreams,

REM or meditation,

I visualize my Higher Self,

my Soul Spark

as Gardharva,

there in Bardo,

wearing my rainbow

that reflected my past lives,

contemplating whether
I should move out, or back

into the cosmic continuum,

as spiritual guide or counselor,

or should I return once again

into the breech of another lifetime

on this plane of existence.

Choosing

to return to the fray

and adventure of humanity,

my HS would begin mapping

out the spread sheet of my next lifetime.

My most recent past life

had been one of

privilege, wealth and physical beauty.

My next venture,

it was decided, would be

one that included many obstacles

to surmount, some integrity to regain,

to be Caucasian, hirsute, poor vision,

poor skin, an imperfect immune system,

a cauldron for discontent,

and a fairly high IQ.

Then my Gandharva

would zero in on my mother,

a 16 year old free spirit,

who had an abortion at 15,

who was a singer and musician.

It was 1943, in October.

She was dating a paratrooper.

They’ve already had sex several times

in the back seat of his big black ’41 Buick.

Tonight was the spiritual target

for my conception.

It went well,

and my Higher Self

joined with a fertilized egg.

I developed within the womb normally,

and nine months later I was born,

at 12 minutes after midnight,

on June 14, 1944.

It was said that

I was born standing up,

looking for trouble.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Once You Go Black

image from pinterest.com

Once You Go Black

“Darkness is immortal, but the blackness itself

is also pure and blazing and fierce.”

--Carl Sagan

Cats see real good

in the dark,

so do owls.

They have vastly different

pupils and retinas

than we do.

Our own pupils dilate

in the dark

in order to capture

as much light as possible.

That’s why it’s such a shock

to walk from a darkened theater

into a bright sunny day.

More specifically,

it’s the rods in the retina

that give us the capacity

for night vision.

It is, of course,

the visual cortex

in the brain

that interpret and define

the wayward pixels

sent to it.

But the ebon chaos

that we are immersed in daily,

creates a kind of darkness

that we have difficulty penetrating--

day for night reality.

I say if it’s darkness

we are having,

let it be extravagant,

so that more people pay

attention to it, and we will

be forced to work together

to bring back the light.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Here's Glenn

Here’s Glenn

“Clarity comes from looking inside your own heart.

Who looks inward first dreams, then awakes.”

--Carl Jung.

Glenn,

consider this

an intervention,

and understand that you

are a difficult person to counsel.

Like other Geminis,

you have a strong opinion

on everything, and you

express yourself

with a heightened passion.

You are quick to anger,

your version of 

an angry face,

and an angry voice

intimidates people.

Remember that employer who said,

You can’t help yourself--you intimidate

everyone. You even intimidate me,

and I own the damn place.

There are people,

friends and family,

who fear you,

but still like you,

even love you;

yet you’re not a bully.

So you are a rare bird,

a red Cardinal midst

a murder of Crows.

You used to force-feed

your opinions and ideas,

running roughshod

over other’s views.

To your credit, presently

you have become a better listener.

You have always had problems

with authority, perpetually balancing

insubordination with excellent work ethic.

You are a screaming liberal, And you

present yourself as a blue-collar intellectual,

always taking the side of your fellows,

which has prevented you from rising in the

ranks. 

Your decade as a professional actor was not

wasted, but real success eluded you because

you got in your own way. You tend to exhaust

those around you with your unfiltered

enthusiasm, and overbearing personality. Yes,

you are smart, but MENSA has never tried to

recruit you.

You can be generous to a fault, and then flip

to being a sarcastic hard-ass. You have always

been a malcontent, a loose canon, and your

superiors have had to struggle to cope with you.

On the positive side, it is inspiring to witness

over many years how you manage despite your

disability. You seem to still extract joy within

your endeavors, and find purpose in your many

pursuits. Keep channeling your rage into your

creative and artistic spheres. In can be said

that you have made your mark in this world;

continue to do so.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB