Thursday, December 19, 2019

Season's Verses




image from countryliving.com


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

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

Beyond Our Grasp




image from imdb.com


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

Monday, December 16, 2019

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

Wednesday, December 11, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 106




image from etsy.com


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

Tuesday, December 10, 2019

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

Monday, December 9, 2019

Desert Serenade




image from onegreenplanet.com

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

Thursday, December 5, 2019

Great White Fathers




image from wikipedia.com 


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

Monday, December 2, 2019

The Spirit Triumphs




image from etsy.com


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

Wednesday, November 27, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 105




image from etsy.com


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

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

Bramble Berries




image from organiccrops.com


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.

Monday, November 25, 2019

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

Thursday, November 21, 2019

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

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

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

Monday, November 18, 2019

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

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

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

Monday, November 11, 2019

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

Thursday, November 7, 2019

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

Tuesday, November 5, 2019

Black Hamlet





image from stratfordstage.co.uk

Black Hamlet

“The process of delving into the black abyss, for 
me, is fascinating.”--H.P. Lovecraft.

Within
the great cosmic black maw,
there exists
an onerous overwhelming darkness,
stretching to forever.
One has to search
for any trace of light.

But residing near a star,
light is always intense,
so much so
that prolonged exposure
leads to burning of the skin.
The sunnier the Clime,
the darker the aboriginal
becomes, creating
the black races.

I have always thought it odd
that the less attractive
pale white-skinned races
consider themselves superior,
which is an ethnic absurdity.

From a metaphysical standpoint,
in the geno-lottery,
any of us could have been
born black.

In America
we would have progressed
from being colored
to definitely being black--
even after the wondrous 
several decades of mixed coupling,
the divers shades of brown
all count as black.

In Spanish we are negro.
In French it’s noire.
In German it’s schwarz.
In Italian it’s nero.
In Swedish it’s farg.
In Russian it’s svet.
and in Greek it’s mavro.

It’s all Black,
regardless of the language.
Admittedly, we are still on a journey
to wash the shame out to the word,
and paint over it with pride.
I believe that one fine day
we will reach that objective 
on a global scale.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub