Monday, June 17, 2019

Freten das Dummkopf




image from businessinsider.com


Freten das Dummkopf

“Intrigue is the power of the weak, because even
the idiot is able to hurt.”--William Shakespeare.

When a fretter
eats a fritter,
will they use their hands?

Stay calm,
don’t fret,
no sweat--
a bad case of
Trumpitis,
will pass
through the colon
like food poisoning.

Time has just fretted
away youth, health, vigor, smooth
skin, and a tight butt.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 96





image from mycomicshop.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Six

Onset

Be willing to be a beginner every single
morning.”--Meister Eckhart.

1(wide shot) The ebony carriage climbed for a
half mile through clumps of fir and aspen, past
small glens dotted with riotously colored wild
flowers. The air was sweet with fir needles and
shaded grass. 
2(cut to medium wide shot) a verdant meadow;
a Mule deer doe grazed peacefully with her
spotted fawn. 
3( raise up with crane shot) the carriage passes
from right to left across the frame below the deer.
4(cut to a tighter shot) the deer; the doe raised its
head, and twitched its long ears. The fawn hopped
into a swarm of yellow butterflies on its spindly
legs, wagging its white tail.
5(overhead drone shot) The carriage dropped down 
between two large oaks.
6(sound cue) piano and cello over horse’s hooves
and spinning wagon wheels.
7(continue overhead shot, but begin descent)
They were greeted by a small lake, its water
shimmering blue-green. There were crowded
clusters of cattails at the far end of it, with
spiraling swarms of blackbirds flying above
their Spring nests, clucking in the reeds like
complaining chickens.
8(medium wide shot) the carriage rolled to a
stop at the water’s edge. The man and the
woman got out. Salina was carrying the picnic
basket and a gingham quilt.
9(cut to a two shot) from the water. Buck suddenly
drew the Thunderer and fired a shot into the air.
10(sound cue) blast of a coronet, Buck yelling
“Yahoo”, and the thunderous crack of the big
pistol echoing across the still water.
11(cut to wide shot) the cattails exploded, and
the sky darkened with blackbirds. The flock
murmurated in the air like a sidewinder, rising 
straight up, before descending in smaller and
smaller circles over the lake, winged alacrity
as they settled back into the reeds. A minute
later, the sky was barren of birds, and  their
frenzied cackling resumed.
12(sound cue) piano and violins.
13(cut to two-shot) Salina: Christ in a wheel
burrow--did you have to do that? I may have
wet myself.
Buck, turning to her, shrugging his shoulders:
Yeah, I kind of did.
Salina: You can be a bad boy sometimes.
Buck, smiling: You bring the best out of me.
14( medium wide shot) Salina spread the blanket
out in the deep shade beneath a brokeback oak,
and opened up the picnic basket--extracting a
pair of tin cups; she asked: Is the water in this
puddle good enough to drink?
Buck took the two cups to the lake and scooped
up cold clear water. He tipped one up, and gulped
a swallow: It’s fed by mountain streams. My
horses drink it.
She tucked a linen napkin into the neck of his 
shirt and they began to eat. I used to come up
here, she mumbled around biting a piece of
chicken: I would fish and daydream. You were
gone, of course. I had never met you, but your
father talked about you a lot. He was a helpless
old man at the end.
Buck: So I’ve heard.
Salina: He used to say that everyone he loved
was dead--except for you.
Buck: Well, he was confused. He was dead to me
long before he passed out in the street and was
crushed by a lumber wagon. If he loved me, he
had a peculiar way of showing it. It took me
forever to heal my own broken heart.
Salina: I’m not saying you were right or wrong
by leaving. I’m not in a position to judge.
They finished their meal. Salina packed the garbage
in some butcher paper, and tucked it into the basket.
Buck was skipping flat rocks across the glassy
surface.
Come here, she said.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Pike Place Market




image from pinterest.com


Pike Place Market

“When farming begins, the arts follow. So the
farmers are the founders of civilization.”
--Daniel Webster.

In the early 50’s,
when I was a kid,
there were no real supermarkets.
We shopped in small
Mom and Pop neighborhood markets.
There was no fast food.
You had to buy a hamburger
in a diner or a fountain lunch counter.

My mother struggled
with a meager budget.
So she always searched
for savings and bargains
in fruit, vegetables and meat.
( Have you ever eaten horse meat?
It used to be cheaper than beef.)

On Saturday afternoons,
we kids would go with Mom
on a drive into Seattle
to shop at the
Pike Place Public Market. 

It sprawls out
over four blocks,
from Pike St. to Virginia St.
It has been there since 1907,
when ten farmers sold produce
out of their wagons; making it
one of the oldest continuously operated
public farmer’s markets in America.

It is built on the edge of a steep hill
overlooking busy Elliott Bay, churning
with freighters, ferries, sailboats and cruise ships.
There are two lower levels below
the produce arcade stalls,
where orchidists, butchers, fish mongers,
and vegetable farmers hawk their wares, 
a noisy cacophony of voices
with Irish, Asian, Greek and Middle
European accents add to the din.
The lower levels contain book stores, 
craft stalls, clothing, antiques and
several exotic restaurants. 

This Market averages
more than ten million visitors annually,
making it the 33rd most visited
tourist attraction in the world.

65 years ago,
all the produce sold was locally grown,
and all the crafts were hand-made
by the sellers--but presently
China, Japan, Mexico, Central and
South America show up on the labels.

For me, Pike Place Market has become
more interested in Marketing than 
authenticity.
Fortunately, I live in the suburbs,
and I can frequent local genuine farmers 
markets; which pleases me immensely.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, June 10, 2019

LURP



image from icemanmcs.com

LURP

“You can kill ten of my men for every one of yours I 
kill--but in the end, you will lose and I will win.”
--Ho Chi Minh.

In 1967, I was part of a Long Distance Recon Team
(LURP) in Viet Nam. We had been in the bush for
a month. My 6 man team was part of Tiger Force, 
bad-ass paratroopers. I was a cherry, two months
out of the Recon school at Nha Trang. 

My first encounter with the VC was only one week
in. I had slunk off into the jungle to take a wicked
crap. It was mid-dump when far away, an inter-
rupted cry became a fire fight. I found my squad
pinned down by a force of VC. using my BAR, I
was able to lay down a deadly crossfire that 
turned the tide.

We had raided a village at 1300; our Charlie body
count was 41. Col. Morse would love that--he was
a mad dog motherfucker. My nightmares haunt
me still.

Glenn Buttkus

Flash Fiction

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub FF

Thursday, June 6, 2019

Butt Buddies




image from thehypertext.com 


Butt Buddies

“I will fight for you with every breath in my body,
and I will never, ever let you down.”
--Donald J. Trump.

In the last 900 days, Trump has told 10,300 lies.

T45= Trump
BM= Mussolini

T45: I won because I love the poorly educated.
As true as global warming.

BM: Democracy is great in theory, but in practice
it’s fallacy--a Fascist’s alternate truth.

T45: Everybody loves me because I’ve always been
successful--a kick in truth’s junk.

BM: A dictator can be loved; people love a strong man.
Delusion sold as truth.

T45: We will no longer surrender America the illusion
of globalism--truth as a carbuncle.

BM: Democracy is when the people are given the 
illusion of sovereignty.--truth being sodomized.

T45: To be patriotic, there is no room for prejudice.
The truth masquerading as a lie.

BM: If people disagree with you, destroy them.
Truth twisted into a pretzel. 

T45: The press are the most dishonest, sleazy,
terrible people I’ve met--antithesis of truth.

BM: Italy’s press remains free, as long as it supports
the regime--Truth as Fascist puppets.

They are both deranged buffoons, and we already
know what his people did to Mussolini.


Ghazal

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, June 4, 2019

Lullaby (goodnight my angel) - Billy Joel - With Lyrics

Lullaby in Blues




image from wallpaperplay.com


Lullaby in Blues

“Some day we’ll all be gone, but lullabies go
on and on.”--Billy Joel.

Good night, my angel, Billy sang,
even though the villains did not hang,
and many of the punks joined the gang,
and the comic book guns said bang.

I heard it first
on the anniversary of my mother’s death,
recalling I never heard my son’s first breath,
as my actual daughter refused my parentage,
and my actual father remained a ghost,
calling my name on midnight’s tongue.

Lullabies,
I never heard them.
Lullabies,
I never wrote them, or sang them,
those damn ditties comprised 
of divers strings;

wailing violins and throbbing cellos,
all bowing that one sustained chord
that always makes me,
allows me to weep;
because of the promises
I couldn’t keep,
failing those challenges
that were too steep,
as my shredded pride 
lies in a heap,
since what’s terribly broken
runs so deep,
forcing me,
so like a child,
to muffle it all
as I sleep.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

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Monday, June 3, 2019

Dragonworld




image from Amazon.co.uk


Dragonworld

“My scales are like ten-fold shields, my teeth 
are swords, my claws spears, my tail a thunder 
bolt, and my breath death.”--J.R.R. Tolkien.

 Somewhere.
in the vastness
of the Cosmos,
there is a
Dragonworld;

where one can find
Goldbacks,
Silver Tips,
Yellow Tails,
Black Divers,
White Wings, and
Red Bellies.

There will be
some dragon slayers
too.

Hannibal had his
elephants, but Merlin had
his fiery dragons.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 95




image from etsystatic.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Five

Alignment

Building trust can be difficult. Turf wars, politics
and lack of solid alignment are the primary
obstacles to peace and prosperity.”
--Wyatt Earp.

1(sound cue) Piano and coronet.
2(overhead drone wide shot) The black carriage
traveling through low hills, ducking under some tall
trees, moving at a leisurely pace.
3(from above, the drone drops down toward the
carriage, then cut to a tracking travel shot)
4(cut to a two-shot) Buck and Salina.
Salina: The ranch is starting to look lived in.
Buck: Thanks, but it’ll be Fall before the place looks
worth a damn. I’m figuring on hiring another hand,
and Johnny and me need to catch some more wild
horses. I’ll need to find another good stud, then I’ll
be living in tall cotton. We may have to ride up to
Silver City to find the right stallion.
Salina: Both you and Johnny have stallions.
Buck: Red and Bob? Sure, they’re good animals,
but I want a stud with hellfire in its loins. You know,
a horse like that fine Appaloosa that Paul Bronson
rides from the Triple B to the China Doll every day.
5(two shot) over Buck’s shoulder.
Salina: Would you mind if I came out here once in
a while and pitched in?
6(close-up) Buck: Pitch in?
7(sound cue) Banjo and accordion.
8(medium close-up) Salina: Yes, I’ll wear britches, 
and get to hammering or painting or fence mending,
and be a general nuisance, if you let me.
9(two-shot) Buck: Girl, you know you don’t have to
ask. They looked at each other, then both laughed.
Salina: Thor limped around for a week after the fight.
How are you feeling?
Buck: I’m a bit stiff too; turns out old Thor was a lot
handier with his dukes than I had counted on.
Salina: Dad wants you to know that he, Mr. Hart, the
blacksmith, Doc Sweeney, and a couple others plan
on being there tomorrow when you have your
appointment with Bronson.
Buck: I’m much obliged.
10(cut to a prairie dog standing in his hole)
11(sound cue) the rumble of Salina’s carriage
approaching. The prairie dog drops out of sight
in his hole just as the ebony carriage, pulled by
palominos, comes around a corner, and passes
in front of the camera.
12(two-shot) Salina: I respect what you’re trying 
to do. A man’s life can be worth less than a horse
in this town.I’m curious though--I don’t  think that
you’re running scared, so why are you being so
easy-going with a son of a bitch like Bronson?
13(sound cue) snare drum and guitar chord over
Buck’s loud chuckle. He was still getting used to
her plain-spokenness.
Buck: Maybe I’ve lived long enough that I’ve
started to grow up. Maybe I’m more sure of
myself than some men. I could go all bullets
and knuckles on Bronson, but hey, let’s try
some diplomatic forays first.
13(two-shot)
Salina: How do you figure
Bronson sees all this?
Buck: I aim to find out tomorrow.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub-OLN

Tuesday, May 28, 2019

Takhoma




image from tacomatravel.com


Takhoma

“In November 1885, a mob, led by the mayor of 
Tacoma, evicted several hundred Chinese from 
their homes, forced them to take a train to 
Portland, then burned their homes.
--Tacoma Tribune.

When I was a kid,
growing up a Seattle brat, 
30 miles south of us
was the sister city of Tacoma,
named after the Native American
term for Mt. Rainier--
Takhoma or Tahoma.

It had several pulp mills,
that fouled the air,
creating the Tacoma Aroma;
a stink like a cross between
rotted sauerkraut and rotten eggs.

After a decade
of living in California, 
I returned to the Pacific Northwest, 
finding that Seattle had become
high dollar real estate;
so I settled into the South Sound
and adopted Tacoma as home.
The pulp mills had been cleaned up,
which was a plus.

It’s a port city, built along
Commencement Bay.
It’s called the “City of Destiny”,
because in the late 1880’s,
it became the railhead
for the Northern Pacific,
before Seattle was connected;
starting a rivalry between them.
It is also called “America’s Most Walkable City.”

On a warm summer day,
one can have quite a walkabout,
walking along the Foss Waterway,.
passing by several yacht clubs
and fancy seafood restaurants,
dry docked fireboats, beaches, & parks.
There is an Old Town that runs parallel
to the waterfront, dotted with Pioneer
buildings mixed with new condos.

At the end of the walkway
there’s a city park, complete with
a huge Japanese Temple 
that is surrounded with Asian art and sculpture.
Then you come upon a ferry terminal;
connecting you to the many islands
in Puget Sound. It is inexpensive to walk on,
pick an island, and extend your walking tour.

Above the terminal there’s a winding road
that leads to a very large County Park
at Point Defiance. You start by checking
out a restored and relocated Hudson Bay
fur trading facility--Ft. Nisqually.
Walking further, you come to a fabulous
Zoo & Aquarium. Then you discover
an Arboretum, adjacent to a large garden.
Lastly you come to a viewpoint where one
can see the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.

Walking south out of the park, you enter the 
suburb of Ruston, a lovely mix of Victorian
homes and antique shops. A strong walker
can manage this seven mile jaunt
in one long day.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Poetics

Monday, May 27, 2019

Desecration




image from atlasobscura.com


Desecration

“”The triumphs of a scholar defies the desecration
of time, and the judgement of history.”
--Santiago Ramon Cajal.

17 miles south of Mt. Rushmore, in the Black Hills,
Custer County, South Dakota, Mt. Thunderhead
rises above the Sioux reservation. There is an
ongoing sculpting project memorializing the
Oglala Dakota warrior Chief Crazy Horse. His
exploits made him the Native American Lincoln;
including his prowess at the Battle of the Little
Big Horn.

In 1935, there was a movement to add his head
to the four Presidents on Rushmore. The federal
government would not support or fund such a
proposal. So the proud Sioux started their own
privately funded project to honor Crazy Horse.

They hired a Polish sculptor and started work in 1948.
In 2001, right after 9/11, they finished carving the 
face. It is 87’ tall. On Rushmore, those faces are 60’
high. After the original sculptor died in the 80’s, his
family took over the project. But after 60 years, the
monument is still an ongoing project, an unfinished
dream. If it’s ever completed, it will be a colossal
ninth wonder of the world. I visited it a decade ago,
and very little has been done on it. It remains a
testament to private achievement, but without the
Feds big bucks, it may never be completed.

Many traditional tribal elders do not like the
monument. They feel that carving on that wild
mountain is a pollution of the landscape. It would
be like carving a 100’ face of Jesus on a 
mountain in the Holy Land; more desecration than
memorial.

The Lakota Sioux stopped
Custer, but cannot stop those
sculpting Crazy Horse.



Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Friday, May 24, 2019

No Means No




image from zazzle.com


No Means No

“Those who give up their essential liberty to obtain
relative safety, deserve neither liberty or safety.”
--Benjamin Franklin.

Today Trump is our President.
Most say he has stolen our liberty.

Perhaps anyone can become President.
Beware if they put their hands on our liberty.

The Donald is completely bent.
He’s quite willing to hijack our liberty.

He’s unable to stop himself.
He covets the treasure of our liberty.

The Oval Office has a filthy dent.
He greedily would hijack our liberty.

To most of us it is evident.
We should stop him with our liberty.

He just doesn’t get the hint.
He’s too busy reaching for our liberty.

Poor immigrants and the indigent.
He devours their promised liberty.

President for Life, he feels omnipotent.
Smile as you deliver up your liberty.

Alas, truly, I see him as impotent.
No means no, asshole.



Glenn Buttkus

Ghazal

Posted over at dVerse Poets,Pub MTB

Tuesday, May 21, 2019

The Night Queen




artwork by Mary Frances


The Night Queen

“There are no heroes.. . in life, the monsters win.”
--George R.R. Martin.

I live out of a back pack.
I am one of the last of the rail riders.
I hop the boxcars
on slow corners and steep grades.
They call me Boxcar Ben.

I swear, there are more shanty towns
and tent villages today than there ever
was in the Depression.

On warm nights, I love to climb atop
the cars, spread my red Navaho blanket
and lie on my back watching
the star show, one of the last free
moving pictures.

In my travels, I am humbled and saddened
by the huge numbers of homeless folks
I encounter. Some can be dangerous,
but most of them are just down on their luck.
My heart aches for the shivering children
with the upside down grins & hungry eyes.

I’ve been a proud boxcar bandit for 30 years.
I’ve had to fight to defend myself.
I’ve done jail time, gained weight on prison slop.
I was pretty sure that I knew everything
about hobo-hopping--but in 2010, in late July,
I was rolling steel through Louisiana.
I stopped at a homeless camp for a hot meal.

Several people warned me about the next
stretch of track. They claimed the area was
haunted by a monster they called the
Night Queen of the Railway Wastelands.
Cajuns prattle on a lot about their home-grown
monsters, so I didn’t pay much attention.

The next night I was riding the Southwest
Union Flyer, and was slicing through endless
swamp. I could smell the wet moss, bat shit, 
skunk cabbage and gators. It was around
midnight when the train slowed and stopped;
what the hell; turns out a ghostly herd
of Angus cattle were camped out on the tracks.

I sat in the open doorway with my legs dangling,
riven with alacrity, watching for railroad bulls
with clubs and hand cuffs. It was a humid,
dripping night, and there was a full moon.

Suddenly I heard branches popping
and breaking, and the brush shook. The air was
laced with the stench of rotted meat. I was
pole-axed with fear. A seven foot something
stepped out of the shadows, and stood staring
at me.

It wore an alligator head for a hat, and its fierce
face was werewolf-white, with red coals for eyes,
with long yellow canine teeth. It held a staff in
each hand that had human skulls atop them. The
tall lean body was covered with dark fur--on its
chest were two large breasts--definitely a female.
It opened its ferocious mouth and roared like
a cave bear.

I bolted to the back of the car, and scrambled up
the inside ladder. I crawled out on top the car and
peered over the edge. The Night Queen was gone,
but the slaughterhouse perfume still hung heavy
in the hot air. I sure as hell never set foot in cursed
Louisiana again. 



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, May 20, 2019

Lords and Leeches




image from indiatoday.com

Lords and Leeches


We have a very real responsibility to protest the
rich and powerful in the name of universal freedom.”
--Nelson Mandela.

I think about
India and North Korea,
the caste system,
and poverty--

and for a brief
moment,
I can stomach
the insufferable 1%,
and their clown prince;

then
my teeth clinch.

The sunrise was rich,
with hue and hope, promising
yet another new day.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted lover at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 94




image from pinterest.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Four

Three’s a Crowd

“Life, too, is like that. You live it forward, but
understand it backward.”--Anonymous.

1(sound cue) piano and harmonica.
2(cut to overhead drone shot) the three of them, 
with the team shuffling and bobbing their heads, 
their golden necks arched, their white manes and 
tails catching the breeze.
3(three shot) Buck: Uh-huh, we could do that. Hell,
we can go into the big house and take the sheets
off the dining room table.
Johnny: Christ, boss, that would be dustier than
out here. We’re not set up yet for company.
4(medium close up) Buck, all smiles, removing his hat,
and wiping his brow, and the inside of the hat band
with a red bandana: Well, compadre, this lovely lass
has swallowed a lot of dust coming all the way out 
here. So let’s not be rude. Let’s take some time off,
find some shade, and get after those vittles.
5(sound cue) violins.
6( cut to a three-shot) Salina began to look around for
a nearby pool of shade. Buck was staring at Johnny,
waiting for him to respond. The Eagle raised his chin,
and wiped the sweat from his neck. Silence reigned
for a elongated moment as they inhabited the
awkwardness.
7(sound cue) horses snorting, tack creaking, the 
springs complaining under the carriage seat as Salina
shifted her weight, free range chickens clucking, over
the sweet strings.
8(close up) Johnny: The truth is that I’ve got a lot of
chores to do around here, and my boss can be a real
asshole about slacking off. So why don’t you kids
leave me a couple pieces of chicken, and you two
skeedaddle off to the lake, and have yourselves a
proper picnic?
9( medium wide shot) Salina spurted out: I won’t
hear of it. I purposely packed this lunch for the three
of us, and I can’t see why all three of us don’t dash off 
to the lake for an hour. Will the ranch fall down if you
take a noon break?
Buck, looking slyly at the Eagle: Johnny, don’t
be silly. You don’t need to stay here. 
Johnny: No, I’ve made up my mind. You two
need to pound leather before you lose the beauty
of the day. Now, go--get out of here.
Salina laughed as Buck reached into the basket
after some fried chicken. Are you sure that you
want it this way?
Johnny nodded, smiling widely. Buck handed him
two hefty golden crusted pieces of chicken. Johnny
bit into one immediately, and said around the stringy
white meat: Can both of you swim?
Buck and Salina looked at each other.
Johnny: I’m going to be kind of busy around here, 
and I won’t have time to gallop up to the lake in
the event one of you falls in.
Buck winked at him, and climbed up on the seat
alongside Salina Wallace.
Johnny: Here, take the Winchester. You might could
run into some varmints along the way.
10(sound cue) guitar and banjo--joyfully.
Salina gave Buck the black dyed rawhide fancy reins,
and he swung the pair of palominos to the left, heading
east, past the barn, along a cowpath that hadn’t been
used for years. Cheewa chased after them. The Eagle
watched until they passed from sight behind a low mesa;
a midnight black carriage pulled by golden horses 
followed by an ebony dog--three shadow figures
shimmering in a world of mirage heat, distorted by the
distance, blending together as they dropped out of sight.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Twice Born




image from astrologyhub.com


Twice Born

“Geminis waltz around in life as they are 
perpetually transforming.”--Amita Ray.


There I am,
in the middle of June,
inhabiting the crux of Gemini.

As an actor, 
I paid a lot of attention to astrology;
as a teacher, 
I paid more attention to my students.
I’ve always had an abundance of ego,
but as a husband,
I pay more attention to my wife.

I am, as written and defined,
a dual personality,
an earthy intellectual.
My two faces
of Cantor and Pollux,
are back to back, so
they never meet each other.

Of course, 
no one fits perfectly
within the textbook references
as to who they really are.

Geminis are multi-faceted--check,
intelligent--damn rights,
outgoing--a Ham, type A, sure,
impulsive--blush, flinch,
unreliable--absolute baloney,
nosy--prefer inquisitive.

Gemini’s lucky color is yellow--
I prefer red;
they are ruled by Mercury--
but I prefer Mars;
lucky stone is emerald--
but I prefer rubies.

I share my sun sign with
Bob Dylan, Morgan Freeman,
Laurence Olivier, John Wayne,
Angelina Jolie, Johnny Depp,  & JFK.

If you are charmed by me, enjoy.
If I piss you off--keep your distance.
If I love you, be enveloped.
If I hate you, gird your loins.

I am what and who I am;
twice over.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, May 1, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 93




image from owensvalleyhistory.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Three

Picnic

“Life is a picnic on a precipice.”--W.H. Auden.

1(sound cue) sweet piano and violins
2(cut to medium close up) Buck standing at the
bottom of the stairs, his arms folded.
3(sound cue) clank of metal.
4(reverse shot) Buck turning around, his stare
back up the stairs.
5(cut to the door of parent’s bedroom) a strong
breeze from an open upstairs window had
rattled the padlocks on the door; three rusty locks,
hung straight, one above the other.
6(roving crane shots) wandering about the house,
showing peeling paint, framed photographs and
Western prairie paintings, thick red velvet curtains,
fancy kerosene lamps, as we hear...
7(sound cue/Voice Over) Buck: Tomorrow I will
break those locks off, and take a look at my 
parent’s room. My father had taken all of his things
out of the room before he padlocked it. I want to 
see some of my mother’s things. It’s going to be
like opening a crypt, but I might find a bauble or
old photograph that will link yesterday to today.
It’s past time for me to make this house a home
again--not just lumber, nails, glass and tar. I need 
to stop looking at the lights in other people’s 
windows.
8(cut to exterior) We see Buck stepping out on the 
wide porch. Johnny Eagle was straddling the first
corral’s gate, his Winchester across his lap, staring
off to the North.
9(tracking shot) as Buck walks quickly over to the
corral.
10(sound cue) snare drum and guitar.
11(medium wide shot) Buck: What is it?
The Eagle pointed to a cloud of dust rising above
the horizon to the north of the house.
Someone’s coming; more than one horse.
Johnny was wearing a shell belt; something he 
seldom did.
12( two-shot) Buck: Kind of jumpy, aren’t
you?
Johnny: When does the shit fly?
Buck: I’m going to go see Bronson tomorrow.
Johnny: And you figure he’s going to be real
pleased to see you?
Buck: Couldn’t tell you--still I’m going to try to
settle some things with him.
Johnny: I’ll give my rabbit’s foot some tugs for
you; it might help.
Buck: I didn’t know you were Irish.
Johnny: I might be.
13( cut to overhead drone shot) a wagon came up
over the rise, moving fast. It slowed on the flats
below the big boulder, and started down the drive
toward the house.
14(sound cue) fiddle,and banjo.
Voice Over: Johnny: It’s Salina Wallace.
15(medium wide shot) Johnny dismounted from the
gate, on the inside of the corral. He propped his
rifle against the fence. Buck strolled out into the 
yard. Salina rolled up in a black leather carriage,
harnessed to a pair of palominos. 
Salina: Afternoon, Mr. Buck. Hi, Johnny!, her smile
broad, her voice joyous. The Eagle waved a greeting,
and began unsaddling a horse he was working with.
Buck: I notice you’re still Mistering me.
Salina: OK, Rod--I have a question for you.
Buck: Shoot.
Salina: Are you hungry?
Buck: Hell, I could eat. What’s in the basket?
Salina: Fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits and
blackberry pie...are you interested?
Buck: Damn tootin’, lady! We live on bacon and 
beans around here. You hear that, Johnny? This
fair maiden has brought us a feast!
16(sound cue) harmonica and fiddle.
Johnny put the work saddle over a rail sawhorse,
and tramped up to the fence. Salina sat with her
gloved hands in her lap. She wore a pleated riding
skirt, high riding boots, a Spanish peasant blouse,
and a flat green hat with tassels on it.
Johnny: Kind of hot and dusty for a picnic, ain’t it?
Salina: I figured we might go inside to enjoy the
vittles. How would that be?



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--OLN

Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Getting Low



image from pinterest.com


Getting Low

“Drop the last two years into the silent limbo of
the past. Let it go, for it was imperfect.”
--Brooks Atkinson.

Like with the Twist
during the late 50’s,
Chubby Checker
did an album
of limbo dances.

Living during that decade,
when Elvis was King,
trying to be Brando,
of chrome-laden Detroit barges, 
leather jackets,
jeans with the cuffs rolled up,
and greasy locks,
things were not as halcyon
as most remember;

I mean,
we had Jim Crow,
George Wallace,
McCarthyism,
and Liberace.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Poetics

Monday, April 29, 2019

Custer's Last Picnic




image from theapopkavoice.com


Custer’s Last Picnic

“There are not enough Indians in the world to
defeat the 7th Cavalry.”
--George Armstrong Custer.

When we travel by car, we always carry an 
electric icebox, full of drinks, fruit, deli-meats,
fresh bread and condiments. We stop at a
specific sight/site, throw a checkered sheet
over the hood, set up a pair of camping chairs, 
and enjoy a picnic lunch.

Most of dozens of road trips took us across the
vastness of the Southwest, on route to and from
Texas, where my in-laws live. One summer found
us crossing through Montana. We stopped at the
Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument.

Custer faced a fierce battle, commanding 210
troopers, many of them green new recruits with
limited training, and on the crest of a grassy knoll
he fought a force of 2,500 Lakota Sioux, Cheyenne
and Arapaho dog soldiers and seasoned warriors,
led by Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, right there in
front of us at 45 degrees North and 107 degrees
West.

As we gazed out at a bloody piece of history and
Western lore, we ate our Custer Sandwiches. 
Mine was rare thick cuts of roast beef on Texas
Toast bread, slathered with Mayo & mustard,
embellished with a thick slice of onion. My wife had
a turkey on rye, covered with shredded cheese and
sprouts. We drank cold lemonade, and then snacked
on slices of chilled ripe cantaloupe for dessert.

Two things I remembered from our tour of the small
museum there. Custer’s famous white buckskin 
uniform and plumed hat were displayed, and I could
see that old George A. was not a tall man; more like
5’5” in height, with a modest frame. Among the many
military mistakes made that day, I read where Custer
had been offered a pair of Gatling guns, but he turned
them down, fearing they would slow his momentum.

At Little Bighorn,
Custer’s pride destroyed the men
under his command.


Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub