Brown Shirt--Red Tie

image from pinterest.com

Brown Shirt--Red Tie

“When Trump made his announcement to run for

President, he paid actors $50 to cheer for him.”

--the Washington Post.

The dismantling of democracy is a terrible sight.

Trump loves “strong men”, hopes to be their heir.

Fascism is a cancer, having a putrid scent.

Trump has contracted the “F” disease, and I’ll

endeavor not to allow Fascism to just slip by.

My muckraker door will never close.

I’ll never be a dingo in kangaroo clothes.

Now there’s disdain for human rights, on or off site.

A move to merge Church & State; solicit or buy

supremacy for the Military; keep war in the air.

There’s rampant sexism in every state and isle.

Identify enemies for unifying the cause; message sent.

Stoke bloody Nationalism, regardless of rotten scent.

Control the Mass Media; keep them very close. 

Hate intellectuals & artists; shut down all aisles

of communication, make new laws to cite.

Cronyism and corruption must be curtailed ere

Lady Liberty’s welcome turns to bye-bye.

Voter suppression, fraudulent elections, thugs to buy.

Limitless power of police & military; spend every cent

to make it so; tear gas canisters in the air.

Suppress Labor Unions, those litigations never close.

T45 apes Mussolini, Hitler & Franco, plus others to cite.

Be a narcissist, have no empathy, and for one, I’ll

raise a fist of defiance. Our president is on an isle

of deceit. Justice is avoided, or allowed to buy

off decisions, or be hidden, all in plain sight.

Lies, rife with condolences are forced to be sent.

T45 sees an emperor in Trump brand clothes

made in China. He must be removed ere

his arrogance and ignorance grows--for he’s heir

to monsters. Swearing by the Constitution, I’ll

rail against him, truth to power, hoping to close

this dark chapter, and finally just wave bye-bye

to this carbuncle, as the nation heals, & the scent

of corruption cleansed, confining him to a dark aisle

between prison & oblivion, forever out of sight.

We must clear the air, restore some sanity by

ensuring it never reoccurs. I’ll be the one who sent

demands for closure, with true data to cite.

Glenn Buttkus

Sestina

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Call Me Gus

image from pinterest.com

Call Me Gus

“With cats, some say, one rule is true--don’t speak

till you are spoken to.”--T.S. Eliot

When I was an actor, 

Nixon was President,

Diana Ross left the Supremes,

Mick Jagger was fined $1,000 

for possessing cannibis

and my mentor,

the British Director 

of my training conservatory,

used to call me Gus.

I discovered that Gus

was the theater cat

from T.S. Eliot’s 1939 poetry book,

OLD POSSUM’S BOOK OF PRACTICAL CATS.

I don’t know if being dubbed Gus

was a compliment

or a spot of sarcasm.

Gus was short for Asparagus,

but actually I felt

more fruity than veggie.

Looking back, I’ve come to

realize I’m no longer a Cat. 

I liked the fact that Gus

once said, “I have played

every possible part, and I

used to know seventy speeches by heart”.

My theatrical career was more brief than long,

and I stopped before I heard the bong.

Was my Mentor prophetic

or cruel with a pithy wit?

I will never know,

but even so, one thing is clear--

I liked being a tomcat called Gus,

who sat by the actor’s entrance.

becoming mascot to many

and friend to all.

However, one thing that

Duncan Ross did not know 

was that Andrew Lloyd Weber

would produce a hit show

called CATS, based on Eliot’s poems,

and that in London it would run for 21 years,

and on Broadway it would run for 18 years,

and it would gross 3.5 billion dollars.

Personally,

I never saw the show,

but a couple of actors

that I trained with were

in the show for a decade;

I’m just saying.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Piub

New Day

image from pinterest.com

New Day

“I have always been delighted by the prospect of a

new day, searching for that bit of magic behind the

morning.”--J.B. Priestley.

Camped out

on a mountain top,

greeting the sun

rising hot

over the east,

like a gourd

of molten iron

spewing

into a sky

clogged with cumulus

that catches fire

for a few magma moments,

like dropping a lit match

onto lamb’s wool--

tranquility.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Woke

painting from fineartamerica.com

Woke

“Once the soul awakens, the search begins, and

there is no going back.”

--John O’Donohue.

Between

our natural greed

and gullibility,

most of us

can fall prey to 

            a clever con,

            empty promises,

            sex as payment,

that ever so common tendency to accept 

            a perceived windfall,

            something for nothing,

to completely disregard that old adage--

if something looks like it’s too good

to be true,              it probably is; yes

so gambling can become an addiction,

from slot machines to scratch tickets,

courting Lady Luck,

aching & hoping to find/receive

the hidden treasure--

or being victimized

by a ponzi or pyramid scheme,

or to adopt the stupid notion

that a scattered chaotic web of lies

is much more attractive

than allowing ugly naked truth

to find the light.

I mean something/someone

feels authentic, genuine, substantial,

trustworthy and accommodating,

and then goddamn it,

there is that bewildering

red puff of smoke,

and your find your self

lost in a myriad of Funhouse mirrors, 

where nothing is as it seems

or as it should be, just

a plethora of distortions.

I tell you there are way too many

manic mornings when

you wake up, get up,

then wake up again,

lying in lily pads with frogs on your face

or again

in the eye of a tornado,

or again

in the midst of a machete fight

or again,

this time with beautiful thighs wrapped 

around you, and perky breasts

brushing across your face,

or again

as the electric mist is choked

with a kaleidoscopic light show,

and Christ, then you hear

the sibilant buzzing of an alarm clock,

and in that swirling moment

you wonder if you are just a participant

in someone else’s dream,

and BAM you awaken in a sweat lodge

where the sun’s single sizzling laser beam 

light ray is frying your corneas,

and you clearly hear

three sirens from different directions

and you really/actually stand up

because you have to piss.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Ethnic Cleansing

image from pinterest.com

Ethnic Cleansing

“The Holocaust happened yesterday, the Civil

Rights movement happened this morning. We are

not out of the woods yet.”--Max Joseph.

As a child of the 50’s, with three black kids in my

high school, I’m sad to say I told racist jokes, and

treated Negroes disrespectfully. Fortunately, my

progressive grandparents had black friends they

socialized with. My real eyes began to open,

my heart cleared out a guest room, and my world

expanded.

During the 60’s, after Viet Nam, civil rights, and

hippydom--I had black buddies in the service,

dated black girls in college, and haunted jazz and

blues clubs. I shedded my racist tendencies like

a snake skin.

Moving to California in the 70’s, I had a similar

journey with Hispanics. I’m ashamed of my past

ethnic ignorance. If any of you have a parallel 

tale. I assure you, color blindness is a blessing,

and you will love again the stranger who was your

self. Souls are all the same color

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery--exactly 144 words

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Dark Knight

painting by Frank Frazetta

Dark Knight

“When he is needed, a dark knight will rise, but you

may not like his methods.”--Bob Kane.

Too often I feel catapulted into darkness,

out of control, fueled by manic madness,

bereft of empathy, riding my sweet anger,

eyes drenched red, feeding my hunger

for blood on the infested mean streets,

for fists in the faces of cops on the beat.

Long enough under their heels, time to beat

down those silver-badged thugs of darkness,

to erase their fucking bully stains off streets.

Time for us to French kiss our madness,

get off our asses and really banish hunger,

pour jet fuel on our collective molten anger.

Step forward boldly, notch up our anger,

being true to our selves cannot be beat.

Raise our voices loudly, remain very hungry,

sharpen our swords, worship lords of darkness,

stoke our vitriol, stroke our phallic madness,

hear our demands, really dig our blessed anger.

I have suffered too long on Lonely Street.

Soon you’ll lament belittling my throbbing anger.

You’ll witness the Devil when you meet my madness.

You’ll hear my drum, and puppet-dance to my beat.

I will force you to be terrified of the darkness.

I will be the one who compels you to hunger

for the false safety of the past, and then hunger

for a time when I won’t roam freely your streets,

because my bitchin’ assault rifle will bark darkness,

and each brass bullet is leaden shards of my anger;

my revenge for a lifetime of me being beat

bloody, while constructing my terrible madness--

a gorilla on your back type of monumental madness.

Many of you will die, never to be hungry

again. Now I march proudly to the inevitable beat

of White Supremacy, real death in the streets,

performing my duty, while unleashing my anger.

Suicide by cop, soon to drown in profound darkness.

I know I will not be alone in that darkness;

I go smiling, mantled magnificently in madness.

I wonder if the streets are ablaze in downtown Hell .   

Glenn Buttkus

Sestina

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Truth as a Lie

image from paintingvalley.com

Truth as a Lie

“Trump is unloved in his own house; a figure of

ridicule. He was told by the greedy & the stupid

that he would make a swell president. The Liar’s

Paradox has spun out of control--with liars lying

to a liar who believed the lie. What would this be

called? Fox News, I think.--Richard Cohen.

Trump has spun 12,050 lies in only 928 days.

Government is grateful when people refuse to think.

Homer taught poets the art of telling lies skillfully.

Every lie repeated often enough becomes the truth.

People tend to accept a big lie over a small one.

Liberty must be controlled--it’s that precious.

What is it, to each of us, that is most precious

among the hordes of lies we encounter every day?

It shouldn’t be that hard to think of one.

Perhaps it’s no longer a virtue to actually think.

I submit, for me, it’s respecting real truth.  

Difficult to do while amongst liars so skilled.

What a world if “truth” was included in every skill

set; something coveted and considered precious.

Audacious, I know, to respect, to worship Truth.

If truth became a hero, I would cherish that day.

Now truth is not revered. I don’t even postulate

that it is considered a necessary, useful skill.

I beg you, implore you, to be the first one

to counter falsehoods with truth so skillfully.

I don’t believe you are dolts, incapable of thought,

of introspection, honor, empathy, & the valuable

distaste of telling/hearing swarms of lies daily.

Wear blue hats with one word on them--truth.

Don’t just fret when you hear something not true.

If so, speak up, proudly be the brave one

whose stentorian voice is heard that day.

I will cover your six with my own skillfulness.

Our “Fellowship of Truth” will emerge priceless

Garner your dignity, strength & righteous thoughts.

Demagogues & dictators cannot kill a good idea;

on T-shirts, on everyone’s lips--one word--TRUTH.

Form legions, march in streets--priceless.

Become a warrior for truth--be at one

with it; court it lovingly, very skillfully,

so that you will forever celebrate that Day.

There will never be a better day in your life.

Prize cognition over all other-directed emotion.

Nothing, before or after, will be more precious.   

  

Glenn Buttkus

Sestina

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

It Takes Two

painting by Mario Garibay. 

It Takes Two

“Let there be space in togetherness, and let the

winds of heaven dance between you”

--Khalil Gibran.

Two bodes back to back

are emotional opposites;

at night opposites attract.

Two bodies back to back

are sometimes just two spines;

at night they unite.

Two bodies back to back

resist all commitment;

at night all is forgiven.

Two bodies back to back
stay warm when it’s freezing; 

night makes it critical.

Two bodies back to back

are ready to celebrate;

but at night they separate.

Two bodies back to back

shift to face to face,

and the night turns to treacle. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Dead Poets

image from pinterest.com

Dead Poets

“Boys, you must strive to find your own voice.

Don’t wait!  Break out!”--Robin Williams

DEAD POET’S SOCIETY .

A poet dies,

and we mourn

because

another voice is stilled,

suppressed,

silenced.

Yet other poets

can celebrate too;

poetics

are their legacy,

words live on,

passed-on poets

have souls that endure

Birdsong can be taped,

and played all winter, even

though singer has flown.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Ad Infinitum

image from pinerest.com

Ad Infinitum

“Take love, multiply it by infinity, take it to the depth
of forever--that’s only a glimpse of what I feel

for you .”--Meet Joe Black.

Sad that nothing lasts, nothing touches forever,

no empire, idea, religion, machine,

not man’s most profound sacred endeavor;

whatever the hell that is--fast buck, long green,

created by a genius or a fiend.

Cave paintings are fading, sacred stones turn

to crumbled dust, even Congress adjourns.

Only Love has the ability to grasp eternal
sparks, can always be relit, and will burn,

blossoming with children, who are so vernal.

Glenn Buttkus

Dizain

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Blackthorne Episode 99

image from pinterest.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Nine

Outcast

"The most miserable outcast still hoards some
memory, or some illusion."--Joseph Conrad.

1(shot note) all of the scenes in this epic are shot

with three cameras, allowing for maximum

coverage--not counting the steadicam, crane

and drone shots.

2(one-shot) Johnny Eagle stood in the Buck

family graveyard; three graves, with plain

headstones, with a low white-washed fence

around them. There was ample room for

several more graves. 

3(sound cue) piano and cello.

4(slow pan) across the three headstones; left to

right, Martha May Buck--beloved wife and mother,

Jackson Tobias Buck--second son, and William

Tiberius Buck--husband and father.

5( one-shot) from behind the father’s headstone.
There was another Winchester cradled in his arms, 

a completely full shell belt of 30-30 brass strapped

around his thin brown waist, and the leather fringes

on his short vest and twin knife scabbards danced in 

the warm breeze that blew across the bluff.

6(sound cue) sweet coronet and guitar.

7(medium close-up) Johnny: Bill Buck, you were my

compadre, almost a brother. I miss your sad laughter.

8(tight close up). Now your son is like my son. Aye,

carumba, he is like you said. He is valiante. But I

must tell you, he distresses me. 

9(cut to overhead drone shot, near him, but slowly

rising) dialogue continues as Voice Over:

He wants to try and make peace with Bronson. You

know how foolish that is. Bronson is like a scorpion

with its tail erect. You can not reason with a scorpion.

10(overhead shot) levels out into a wide shot of the

ranch: But he is the Buck now, and I will do as he

wishes. Things change here, brother. Soon it will be

a grand rancho again, with lots of fine horses. Perhaps

there will be a woman here again, new blood, new life.

I think I will die here, and I will rest with my brother,

and his wife that I never met, and his youngest

muchacho, whom you said was always pale, who

never felt any warmth from the sun.

11(flashback) sepia photograph of Bill, Mary and

Jack on the front porch.

12(cut to close-up) But not today, old Buck. Not

today. There is so much to do. There is this pinche

Bronson, and your son needs me. I am his man.

13(sound cue) Spanish chords on guitar.

14(overhead medium wide low drone shot) the

Eagle ambled down the trail behind the barn.

15( a series of flashbacks)

Johnny, a stranger in Blackthorne, befriended by

Bill Buck. They liked to sit by the fireplace in

Pedro’s Cantina. Bill would play his banjo.

Johnny: They say I am too white to please the

Indians, and too red to please the white eyes.

Bill: Fuck ‘em, you’re just right for me.

***Johnny had scouted for the Army, and had

killed Indians, Navaho, Apache, Comanche,
Sioux, Kiowa and Crow.

***He ran with the Mescaleros for a winter, and

he had killed soldiers.

***Wherever he went, no one could break horses

like he could. At first he did it for nothing, for the

thrill of it .

***Then he teamed up with a black ex-cavalryman,

a Buffalo Soldier. They caught wild horses, broke

them and sold them to the Army.

*** one night at Ft. Riley, there was a drunken brawl,

and three soldiers ganged up on the black man, and

cut him to pieces with their bayonets. Johnny escaped

, knifing a guard on the way out.

*** He rode into Blackthorne, and got cat piss drunk

in the China Doll. Ramos had tossed him into a horse

trough in front of the saloon. Bill Buck pulled him out

of the tepid water, and half carried, half dragged

Johnny over to Pedro’s. He fed him beans and hot

coffee as their friendship began.

  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Inside Job

image from amazon.com

Inside Job

“Raise your words, not your voice, It is rain that 

grows flowers, not thunder”--Rumi.

Rumi and Cayce tell us

we are not a body

who has a soul, rather

we are a soul

who has a body.

I try to believe

that a true healer

allows their higher self

to communicate directly

with your higher self,

asking permission for the healing.

I have had to accept

that my higher self answers with

a resounding NO--the meat known

as Glenn has more to learn, 

the Bardo plan for me clearly

has had me fighting and dealing

with a mysterious series of

serious autoimmune processes

for thirty years and counting.

It has led me mercilessly

deeper and deeper into

the terrible darkness and icy depths

of damnable Disability.

I endeavor with every breath

to own and to thank

the metaphysical outline

that I, essentially, designed for my self;

even though I admit to often railing against it

         as I drop a crystal bowl

         or take an eventful fall,

         or swallowing chronic meds,

         or giving up driving and hiking.

My gracious, mostly clear mind allows me

         to continue to write poetry,

       to cheer on my wife to pursue world travel,

         to vigorously speak truth to power,

         to host my own photography site,

to keep the synapses snapping sans Sodoku,

to keep the cognitive cobwebs to a minimum,

so that when I am not shaking my raging fists,

gritting my angry teeth, 

or screaming at the Universe,

I am able to dispense and receive

LOVE,

from my family

and several international communities 

of bone fide cyber-friends.

The old boar does not

eat the cubs as before; now

loves and plays with them.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Enola's Gift

image from pinterest.com

Enola’s  Gift

“Every positive value has its price in negative

terms--the genius of Einstein led us to Hiroshima.”

--Pablo Picasso.

On August 6, 1945, the population of Hiroshima were

about to meet the devil, calling himself Little Boy, a

never seen before uranium gun-type atomic bomb. He

was dropped out of a silver-plated war eagle, a Boeing

B-29 Superfortress, with the fetching name of Miss 

Enola Gay.

At the same moment, fifty miles south, an American

POW (a soldier I worked with 40 years later), was

just emerging from the chow hut with some prison

buddies. Though many miles from the epicenter,

nevertheless, they all saw the flash, and witnessed

the terrible mushroom cloud rising up angry into a

ruptured sky.

None of them understood what they had seen. Five

weeks later, when they were liberated, they were

informed as to what it was. The veteran, who

became a science teacher, told me decades later,

“It was like watching the end of the world.”

Silver eagle flew

out of the sun, as Little

Boy devoured the war.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Bastard No More

image from my family album

Bastard No More

“He was the kind of person who stood on

 mountaintops during a thunder storm in wet

copper armor shouting ‘All Gods are bastards!’ “

--Terry Pratchett.

Frankie and Betty were lovers for one

night, in the back seat of a black Buick.

They kept after it until they were done.

She was sixteen, he twenty--for kicks.

1943--young men used their dicks,

before shipping out to go to the War;

leaving the girls with gifts within their core.

Six weeks later Betty found out she was

pregnant, the airman gone--life a closed door,

with me in her womb, cupid’s sharp red buzz.

As fate would have it, the airman, already

engaged to someone else, was freaked out when

he heard about me, conflicted, unsteady,

he decided that I had never been,

that I would never claim that he was kin.

Mother married a soldier she also

was dating, telling him “baby in tow”.

So I was never a bastard, but then
I never knew my Dad, and had to go

Seventy Five years to find Dad again. 

Glenn Buttkus

Dizain

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Forms"