Kafka Sunrise

image from pinterest.com

Kafka Sunrise

“I cannot make anyone understand what is 

happening inside me.”--Franz Kafka.

One morning, years ago, I awoke to an odd

clicking noise. As I localized the sound, I

realized that it was more of a crazed crunching,

and that it was coming from my left ear. I

panicked a bit--did I have a punctured ear drum?

Then the noise stopped. I had my wife look at

my ear. She found nothing. 

The crunching sound would come and go. 

Sometimes it would get very loud, then subside. 

It became surreal, like a Kafka daydream. I 

imagined a tick or a spider burrowing in my cheek.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The noise became 

maddening. Then suddenly it began to itch. I

turned the lamp on just in time to greet an ant

emerging out of the quagmire of ear wax. It

dropped into my hand. I took it outside and

released it. It had earned its freedom.

Last June, beneath deck stairs,

hundreds of tiny black spider’s

eggs hatched babies.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

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Love Is

painting by Elena Kotliarker.

Love Is

“I love you simply, without problems or pride; so

intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

--Pablo Neruda.

Love is magma muscle,

the vertex of the flesh husk

we choose to inhabit.

Love is the engineer

that directs the plethora of emotions,

the executive producer

for the daily broadcast

we consider as our life.

Love can, and perhaps must,

overpower the darker impulses,

can smooth them out,

even eradicate them.

If love were a hormone,

it would spring from the heart,

treating it like a railroad round house,

providing for itself several routes of egress.

Love is not lust, not greed or avarice

or selfishness--no, it is the antithesis

of these;        selflessness,

                      vulnerability,

                      integrity,

                      honesty,

                      near transparency

Love can be too often misunderstood,

misinterpreted, misaligned and misused

by a sweet tooth,

     an erection,

     ego, preferences

     and inhibition.

Life can be reduced to mathematics.

Love can combine math and heart emissions,

and provide startling solutions

to problems, diplomacy, negotiations

and relationships.

Love can be the departure & the destination

                     the before and the after,

                     the darkness and the light,

                     the reason d’etre,

                     or Cupid’s curse.

Jesus wept,

out of love

and the lack of it.

Glenn Buttkus

Metaphors

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Under the Sea

image from cesdeals.com

Under the Sea

“I usually solve problems by letting them

devour me.”--Franz Kafka.

Penny Plankton could not swim against

the current.

Sam Sardine gobbled up Penny and her pals.

Sam smiled at his good fortune.

Bradford Bass munched up Sam easily, but

Bradford was still hungry.

Then Timothy Tuna swallowed Bradford whole.

Timothy was happy with his feast.

Sidney Seal scarfed up Timothy in three bites.

Sidney giggled because of his wonderful lunch.

Olivia Orca devoured Sidney while he slept.

Olivia shared her meal with her two calves.

Walter Gray Whale ate up Olivia in one big bite.

Walter felt like the Sultan of the Sea,

for he was the biggest creature under the waves.

Nothing was big enough to eat him.

Mister Morton was a professional whaler,

and he harpooned Walter last week.

All these events may seem cruel or sad,

but this is Nature’s Way,

and we cannot change it.

Glenn Buttkus

Children's poem

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Blackthorne--Episode 101

image from pulpcovers.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 101

Bushwhackers

“Some fell by laudanum, some by steel, and

death by ambush lurked in every shadow.”

--Samuel Garth .

1(sound cue) coronet and breaking glass.

2(medium close-up) Johnny heard the glass break.

3(cut to second story window in the main house)

a brigand had smashed the window with a rifle.

4(one-shot) The Eagle swung the hot barrel of

his Winchester around just as another shot tore

into the tree; splinters stabbed into his shoulder.

In the same moment Johnny got off two shots

in the direction of the figure in the window.

5(sound cue) saxophone and piano.

6(cut back) to the second story window. The

gunny standing there fell face first, breaking

more of the glass. His body hung like a limp

scarecrow, slashed to ribbons by the glass,

and shot in the head and chest.

7(sound cue) bass drum and banjo.

8(medium wide shot) the barn began to smoke.

The tall red double doors swung open and a dun

mule rushed out, followed by two men, firing as

they ran.

9(overhead crane shot) Johnny firing from behind

the tree, and the two bushwhackers scrambling

across the open space between the barn and the

bunkhouse.

10(medium close-up) Johnny firing three times,

his lever action a blur.

11(two shot) the back-shooters kicking up dust

as they sprinted. One of Johnny’s bullets hit the

slower one in the leg, but both men made it to

safety past the east side of the bunkhouse.

12(wide shot) the barn began to burn

13( voice over) Rojo chinche assholes! 

14(sound cue) guitar and French horn over

horses screaming.

15(tighten wide shot) flames begin to lick

around the doors.

16(voice over continues) They burn the fucking

barn--Bob and Red are still in there! Damn it,

Buck, where are you? Bronson has sent half of

his men, and they burn our horses!

17(sound cue) horses screaming and kicking

their stalls.

18(cut back to the main house) black smoke was 

billowing out the window, over the head of the 

dead wrangler.

19(sound cue) horses galloping over blues guitar.

20( medium close-up ) Johnny whirled around,

looking behind him.

21(overhead drone traveling shot) Rod Buck was

racing down the west road, slapping leather, alone

in the carriage. Cheewa was running alongside.

Johnny’s heart rose to his throat, and his wounds

did not hurt any more.

22(medium wide shot) the black carriage came in

with its red wheels spinning, Firing from under the

porch, the wood shed and the bunkhouse tore holes

in the rig’s canvas cover. Thirty yards from Johnny

the sniper under the porch dropped one of the

palominos in its traces. The horse went down,

tripping his companion beside him, jerking it off

balance, and it went down too. Buck jumped from 

the carriage as it snapped its leathers and flipped

over onto its side.

23(tight one shot) Buck landed on his feet, going

into a shoulder roll to break his fall. As he rolled,

two shots puffed up in the dirt where he had just

been. He fired his sawed off at the man under the

front porch. A four foot section of thatch burst into

splinters. At the same time the Thunderer barked

in his right hand, spraying lead across the front

of the bunkhouse. He rolled to safety behind the

overturned carriage. One of the horses had got

to its knees, and it was complaining loudly. The

firing ceased.

24(sound cue) violin, banjo and harmonica.

25( tight one-shot) Buck lie flat against the ground.

He peeked at the wood shed and bunkhouse

through the wagon spokes. The barn was fully

aflame. The main house belched smoke from

its second floor. Flames appeared from the north

side of the house.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Prom Night

image from pinterest.com 

Prom Night

“We must let go of the life we have planned, so as

to accept the one that is waiting for us.”

--Joseph Campbell.

It was Prom Night.

Rob sat there with his hands in his lap,

holding the corsage.

He was 18, and was there

to pick up Miss Kathy King.

Her father sat across from him

glowering, his arms folded.

Rob had been going steady

with Kath all year,

an eternity in high school time.

He would have liked to fold his arms too,

and make eye contact with Mr. King,

but the young man understood

the courting ritual.

Mr. King was a prominent banker,

and Rob was from a blue collar family.

Kathy’s Dad kept staring

at the modest ill-fitting suit

the boy wore; it was his father’s.

His folks had warned him

about dating a girl from a wealthy family,

but young love disavows

all barriers to its fruition.

Finally Kathy descended the stairs

in her lavender evening gown.

She was a vision of blond cheerleader ecstasy.

He presented her with the compulsory corsage.

Her mother pinned it on her.

Her little sister came out to join the parents.

Her mother told them to have fun.

Her father reminded them of the midnight curfew. 

The kids stood for a picture, waved, smiled,

and rushed out to Rob’s red 1955 Chev Bel Air

convertible.

He opened the passenger door for her.

Her starched petticoats swished

as she pulled them into the car.

As he walked to the driver’s side

he fantasized about “going all the way”

with her, as she had promised.

The Chevy V-8 lit up, the glass packs rumbled

as they pulled away from the curb.

Rob glanced into the rear view mirror;

the little sister was waving good-bye.

The kids giggled nervously.

The waiting for this evening was over.

A half mile away a delivery truck rushed

toward its destination. At the intersection

of Maple & Main, Rob, distracted, entered

the intersection without looking both ways.

The speeding truck T-boned them

on the passenger side.

Kathy was killed instantly.

Rob broke his spine, but survived.

Now a new kind of waiting began,

as the terrible memories raged

like a wildfire in his heart. 

Glenn Buttkus

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Forest of Evil

painting by Behshad Arjomandi.

Forest of Evil

In the darkness of the forest near Vlad’s castle,

the stench of evil has saturated the tender bark

of aspen and birch. The trees became barren.

Last Fall, as the leaves dropped, they were the

last signs of life

The bubbling brook that fed the trees was

poisoned, because of the thousands of corpses

dumped into the creek near the Castle. The water

turned gray, the pebbles turned red. When Spring

arrived the trees could not blossom. Their bark

became black with a deathly ooze.They began to

lean over, their spines broken. Their spindly 

branches intertwined into a bulwark of sharp 

brambles.

First the birds left, except for those who feast on

carrion. Then the animals fled. Soon villages were

abandoned. Years later people asked what had

happened in these woods, but no one knew the

answer because those memories were left here

with the trees.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

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Uncelebrated

image from fineartamerica.com

painting by Igor Postash.

Uncelebrated 

“It’s hard to hold the hand of anyone who is 

reaching for the sky just to surrender.”

--Leonard Cohen.

I’ve had several English teachers advise me to

become a writer--but none of them advised me to

become a poet or an actor; two pursuits that

provide succor and heartbreak. I, of course,

became both. I, also, out of necessity, became a

teacher, which paid the bills.

By 1974, I had written two novels--an existential

Western, BLACKTHORNE, and a detective novel,

BAERBAK, placed in Seattle. I submitted them both

for publication. No one was ready for them. I was

advised to write non-fiction. Damn it, I don’t want to

be paid to write--I want to be paid for what I write.

I looked into self-publishing, but I had too much anger

and pride to follow through. I rationalized that to be

published was no big deal; there’s always the internet; 

a select pool of readers. At 75, I can live with that.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery: Leonard Cohen, Book of Longing

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Bitch by the Bay

image from Delta Flight Museum

Bitch by the Bay

“A bitch is the opposite of a whore. A bitch does

not need anybody--or at least that’s what she

would like people to think.”

--Saint Paul Trois Chateaux.

I was born in Seattle,

on Flag Day, a few minutes

past midnight in 1944.

Growing up, learning

the city by hopping

like a gypsy locust

from suburb to suburb,

I became very proud

of my seven-hilled city,

like a throned monarch

hemmed in by parallel mountain ranges,

and teeming port

for our inland sea of Puget Sound,

with its dozen lush islands,

served by a fleet of super ferries.

When I was twelve,

I began to take buses

into the heart of downtown,

to see movies,

to people watch,

and to marvel at the eclectic mix

of modern and pioneer buildings,

watched over by the Smith Tower,

the tallest building east

of the Mississippi.

Seattle became a part of me,

of who I was, and who I’d become.

It felt like Eden before the fall,

like Rome at its peak, full

of artists and intellectuals

like Paris in the 20’s.

I spent a couple of years

in San Diego in the Navy

in the mid-60’s.

Seattle was a joy to come home to,

all opened-armed, wild wet kisses

and blow jobs on a regular basis.

I returned to Southern California

in the mid-70’s, as an actor, 

all starry-eyed, naive and vulnerable. 

LA hardened my edges, 

and smashed my rosy glasses.

Acting was replaced by Teaching.

By the early 80’s I pined

for deep green forests,

snow-capped fire-mountains,

and vivid memories of the past.

So I headed North again.

But Seattle did not welcome me

this time. It had become

a place to chase ghosts,

a place of a spiraling cost of living,

a place of a dozen new skyscrapers,

and a gaggle of confusing freeways.

Seattle took on the role

of bitter ex-wife, who remarried

for money, who belittled my cherished

memories, who would not even

acknowledge me in public.

I’ll tell you what--when an ex-lover becomes

a haughty bitch, there’s nothing to do

but break up with her, find

another lover, and make

a new home.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Lunatic Fringe

image from metalarchive.com

Lunatic Fringe

“The people who are crazy enough to believe they

can change the world, are the ones that do.”

--Rob Siltanen.

I am aware

that madness

can be a demon

that devours and scars

the victimized Self;

and it chews slowly

so that you can appreciate

its sharp yellow teeth.

I wear my anger

like a hair shirt.

Some days

everything and everybody

makes me mad.

I am capable

of leaping into rages

that are terrifying,

even for me.

I was in the Service

during Viet Nam.

I was careful

to keep myself out

of the combat zone,

because I feared

if I got used to

killing people, 

a real madness

would envelop me,

then I’d get a taste for it,

would enjoy the killing;

madness would ride me

like a lethal leech,

and I would never

shake it off.

I would be its bitch.

My own father,

returning from combat

during WWII,

never got over

his severe PTSD.

I prefer embracing

the flip side of madness,

what Kazantzakis gave to Zorba:

We all need a little madness,

otherwise we can’t cut the rope

and be free--

what Robin Williams gave to comedy:

You’re only given

a little spark of madness.

You mustn’t lose it.

I have often wondered

if the truly mad

are aware of their madness?

They say that 75% of us

could use some mental health 

counseling. I don’t know.

It all sounds Dinky Dau to me,

some #10 prime bullshit,

as Charlie used to say.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

In the Nick

Nick Fury--art by Jim Steranko

In the Nick

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery--only

today makes a difference.”--Nick Saban.

There was a tick

named Nick,

and his favorite trick

was to nick folks

in the neck,

making his escape

in the nick of time;

nicknamed Slick Nick.

Reindeer on the roof

in August, looks like Old Saint Nick

let them off the leash. 

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille--exactly 44

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Dogtown

image from pinterest.com

Dogtown

In Dogtown, fire ants are ground into the chili.

Weasels collect debt when payments are due.

Collies adore you, and would never desert

you. A platypus smartly attired in just plain

plaid, put together an all-tuba band,

performing for workers at Boeing’s tool & dye

shops. Badgers make colorful tie-dye

shirts that turtles wear when they’re chilly.

Ordinances are enforced by a helmeted band

of Alabama termites, lips lathered in dew,

where centipedes can fly passenger planes

and snakes love fly larva for dessert.

Where cacti bloom deep blue in the desert.

Lady bugs are too bored to properly dye

table clothes, so all the tables are very plain.

Those killer bees all buzzed in from Chile.

The naughty angry mice must never do

as rats have done--that rotten rodent band.

Koalas put together a hard rock band,

but most fall asleep, or just desert

the group. It’s sad when the rent’s due.

Mortician moles want folks to hurry and die.

Whacko wasps create the hottest chili.

Lots of buses, trains, and squadrons of planes

visit. Bulldog spinsters have faces too plain

to please, so they wear pink rubber bands,

making snouts pucker up, aloof and chilly.

Pugs like kitty roca as cat box dessert.

Deputy Dawg promises he will never die.

Slugs like French-licking the bubbly dew.

The Emu strongly state, “We just wont do

what’s right.”--making it abundantly plain.

Hornets created intricate nests with tool & dye

workers, that terribly uppity and arrogant band.

South of city limits were the dunes of the desert. 

Over City Hall flaps the flag of Chile.

Residents know what to do, just form a band.

Then plane off losers, forcing them to desert.

Music does not wilt or die, whether hot or chilly.

Glenn Buttkus

Sestina

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Blackthorne--Episode 100

image from pinterest.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic One-Hundred

Onslaught

“Guard yourself as you may, every moment could

be an ambush.”--Cormac McCarthy.

1(sound cue) Indian branch flute & harmonica.

2(medium wide shot from overhead drone)

the late afternoon musk-melon sun was beginning

to slide behind the ranch house. Johnny was near

the bottom of the hill.

3(cut to medium close up) The sun was in the

Eagle’s eyes. He pulled his hat down a little.

4(tight close-up) Johnny stopped.

5(sound cue) cicadas, chickens, and the breeze

went silent. A rifle shot thundered across the yard.

6(sound cue) loud six-string blues guitar slide and

riffs over bass drum heartbeats.

7(one shot) He moved the second he heard the shot,

but it was a second too late. A bullet caught him just

above the left knee and spun him to the ground. He

rolled into some high grass,and peeped over the top.

Nothing moved.

8(close-up) Johnny’s eyes darting left & right.

9(rising crane shot) from the top of the grass to a wide

shot of the house. The sun was behind the house now,

and long shadows reached out to him like phantom

fingers. A man darted out of the front door and cut

quickly to the right, heading for the corner. Johnny’s

30-30 slug tore wood off the siding just above the 

man’s head, as the brigand dipped out of sight. 

Someone else fired from behind hay bales in the

first corral, knocking the Indian’s hat off.

10(cut to medium close-up) Johnny picking up the

hat, and poking a finger through the bullet hole:

Bastardo.

11(sound cue) coronet, guitar, and castanets.

12(medium wide one-shot) Johnny returned fire,

slamming rifle lead into the bales, limping and

running as he fired, going for the big tree in the

middle of the yard. He was four feet from it when

a slug knocked him down. Bicho--he crawled.

Cabron--he rolled, until he made it to the tree.

There was three large rocks near the trunk of

the tree that gave him cover. Two wounds

screamed for his attention, left knee and right

forearm. He pulled off the red bandana from

his pate, and wrapped the forearm, tying it

tightly. He was bloodied as if he had been 

gored by angry bulls. He flicked out a dozen

shells from his bandolero, and stacked them

by his elbow.

13(sound cue) saxophone squeak, electric 

guitar and snare drums.

14(medium close-up) From three directions,

bark was flying off the tree, inches from his

head.

15(jump cut) A dozen horses were stampeded

out of the larger stock pen, and they panic-

galloped south to the brown mesas.

16(cut to a close-up) Johnny: I told you! Carajo--

I told you they would come! Hijo de puta--and

here the fuck they are! ...firing at the side of

the house. 

17(sound cue--Voice Over) During a lull:

OK, the wood shed or maybe the bunkhouse,

in the corral behind hay bales, and a forro now

under the front porch--three, maybe four.

18(medium close-up) a bullet tore the heel off

his left boot. A man darted out of the hay loft

door. Bronson, you sonofabitch. Five! You sent

five goddamn men--but you will not kill me!

19(one-shot) Johnny fired twice at the barn

hay loft door.
20(cut to medium shot) the bullets hit a couple

feet to the right of the door.

21(sound cue) wood splintering, then a slug

hitting flesh.

22(close-up) Johnny reloading, shiny brass sliding

into the Winchester magazine.

23(crane shot) the guy behind the hay bales fired

three times in rapid succession, ripping off sappy

bark twice and recocheting off the rock once.

24(medium close-up) behind Johnny as he held his 

open sights on the spot the gunman had been. When

the assassin bobbed up, 30-30 expanding lead gave

him a lobotomy, splattering his brains.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Blue Hooves

painting by Beverly Dyer

Blue Hooves

“Nevada is home to more wild horses than all the

other states combined.”--Jon Porter.

A family of mustangs,

a stallion,

two mares

and a colt

galloped along a dry river bed,

kicking up

dry acrid borax dust,

billowing beneath their unshod hooves.

They roamed the

southwestern Nevada foothills

as some of the last wild horses

in the country;

wearing no man’s brand,

unbroken,

unfettered,

free.

They were being chased

by out-of-work cowboys

in flat beds and pick ups;

one driver

bouncing over sagebrush

and prairie dog holes,

another poke in back of the truck,

whirling a blood-soaked lasso

over his head--15 feet

of rope lashed to an old truck tire.

The engines roared,

the cowboys whooped,

and the wicked lariats

hummed a lethal tune 

as they sliced through

the cold morning air.

The black stallion was the fastest.

One of the mares kept up with him;

the other mare and the colt

were falling behind.

There was a pursuing truck

on each high side

of the river of sand

and a jacked-up Ram V-8 

closing on the stragglers.

The stallion, 

a veteran of these chases ,

was headed for a hidden arroyo

that was too narrow

for the trucks to follow.

The black Ram

pulled within throwing distance

and the wrangler tossed the singing loop.

It was a perfect toss,

settling around the neck of the mare.

The rope tightened

and the truck tire anchor

flew out the back.

The mare continued to run,

towing the tire

that jumped and dragged behind.

The colt was confused

and it tripped over the tire

and fell down

The angry Dodge crunched its brakes,

and skidded to a stop

as another rope found the yearling’s neck.

The drama played out, 

always the same script,

man the victor,

horses choked by ropes .

The colt would become

some child’s first horse,

and the mare would take up residence

in a can of dog food.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Union, Union

image from IMDb.com

Union, Union

“What’s wrong? Easy. One--working conditions are

bad. Two--they’re bad because the mob does the

hiring. Three--things will not improve until we stop

the mob from getting away with murder .” 

--Karl Malden: ON THE WATERFRONT.

We celebrate Labor Day on the first Monday in

September. Oregon was the first state to do so 

in 1884. Summer unofficially has closure. Children

have to return to the regiment of public education.

We anticipate the first Monday in October when

the Supreme Court reconvenes, as RBG attends;

hurrah.

Sadly, labor unions can be a blessing or a curse.

In 1900, we worked 12 hours a day, 6 days a week.

We didn’t see an 8 hour day until 1916. Like in a

bad marriage, we believe that we can’t do without

them, or we’d be at the mercy of heartless greedy

employers. Yet Jimmy Hoffa, and others, have

shown us how to corrupt unions. The mob can get

involved. Too often worker’s pensions have been

stolen or dissolved. Strikes are called, and terrible

violence can erupt led by bought thugs and cops.

We are forced back to work without much gain, if

any. 

Add to that the civil servants are prohibited to

strike, as a teacher, after several strikes, there was

no cost of living raise for a decade. Today, modern

technology, CGI, AI, and robotics are replacing

millions of workers--not the immigrants recently

arrived. I fear the 21st Century may be the death

knell for labor unions. Labor Day parades will be

done by robots and androids.

Hawks atop hotels,

find plenty of pigeons to

use as daily prey.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub