Blackthorne--Episode 104

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 104

Triage

“My life is triage.”--Andrew Vachss.

1(sound cue) violin and branch flute.

2(tight two-shot) Buck: I have never seen

such courage, old one; touching the Indian’s

shoulder lightly.  

      Johnny looked up, moving his head

slowly, painfully. You are wounded...don’t

worry about me. Muerto waits.

Buck: It is nothing, a flesh wound...but they

have shot you to pieces.

3(sound cue) seed rattle & cello.

Johnny: I see it again.

Buck: See what again? as he gently wrapped his

arms around the Eagle’s quivering shoulders .

4(close-up) Johnny: El Blanco.

5(voice over) Buck: Where?

6(sound cue) coronet over buffalo hooves.

7(cut to a wide shot) the great albino bull bison,

alone on a bluff. As the men speak in voice over,

the camera dollys quickly toward the animal,

halting with a close up of its eyes.

Johnny: When I close my eyes, there he is,

my totem. The biggest buffalo I have ever seen.

He stands on a knoll and watches me.

Buck: And he is all white ?

Johnny: As white as a bank of dirty snow, with

small pink eyes and black horns. I think, I fear,

he waits for me.

8(close up) Buck: He waits for us all, my

brother. Rest now...we will get a doctor for your

many wounds.

9(three shot) I’ll go, Salina said, suddenly standing

beside him. Buck rose, wiped the blood from his

eyes, put his hands on his guns, watching the

ranch house crash in on itself, his mother’s room

and his mother, gone forever. He pulled his

hunting knife from its sheath, and handed it to

Salina, handle first.

Buck: Cut your palomino loose, girl. There isn’t

any other available horseflesh.

Salina: These bastards, her small right

hand waving over the many bodies, must

have rode up here on something!

Buck: Their broncs will be picketed and

hidden. I’ll find them later.

10(medium wide shot) Salina cut her palomino

gelding loose. She grabbed a handful of thick

mane, and swung up on its back. Buck squatted

down next to Johnny.

Buck: Hurry.

11(sound cue) French horn, guitar and castanets

12(overhead traveling drone shot) Salina jerked

the horse North toward town, kicking its golden

flanks all the way past the great gray boulder,

her skirt and hair, and the horses tail flying in

the wake of the hard gallop.

13(cut back to two-shot) Johnny stared glassy-

eyed at the inferno in front of him. The grand

rancho tumbling into embers and ash--and he

looked beyond, to the evening sky, also on fire

as the sun of blood smeared across the prairie’s

rim behind the house, fleeing west from the

fists of darkness pressing against it. A blood

moon made its entrance.

14(sound cue) piano & violins.

Johnny, with his cheeks wet with tears: My Buck.

Buck: Yes.

Johnny: It hurts.

Buck: I know, compardre, I know.

Johnny: Not my wounds, no, they are numb. The

pain is in my heart as I watch all your dreams and

hard work go up in owlhoot smoke. 

Buck, one tear rolling down his blood-stained cheek:

They are loco if they think this defeats us. Hell, no.

Together, we will dream new dreams, better dreams.

Johnny: Uh-huh, together, new dreams.

Buck held him in his arms in silence.

But for now, let me treat some of these holes in

your tough hide.

Johnny: Yes, go. I will be right here when you 

return.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Death Song

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Death Song

“I don’t know why Batty saved my life. Maybe in 

those last moments he loved life more than he

ever had before. Not just his life--anybody’s life;

my life. All he wanted was the same that all of

us want. Where did I come from? Where am I

going? How long do I have? All I could do was

sit there and watch him die.”--Rick Deckard,

BLADE RUNNER.

I once faced death

without warning,

and experienced an

out-of-body scenario.

I recognized

My Higher Self

as a translucent entity,

standing in front of me

as I held it by the wrists.

Somehow I sensed

it was on the brink of departure.

It seemed to be struggling

with a decision; should it

return to my meat shroud

or abandon me, leaving

a soulless empty vessel.

As a reflex, I clung to

homeostasis, and pulled back

on the spiritual figure,

jerked it back to within me,

or it rejoined of its own accord

and the cosmic euphoria

of that significant re-morphing

convinced me that I actually

had something to do with it. 

In that metaphysical nanosecond

I understood another jagged piece

of my existence puzzle.

As Batty sat on that roof

in the rain, reciting his death song,

after a small pause, he said,

Time to die. 

This is a moment

we all shall share,

human and android alike,

the gateway, the veil,

the crossroads,

the shining time of transition.

Whatever we shall discover

on that journey, can not be

shared with those we left behind,

or those who shall come after us;

more’s the pity.

Remember what Tyrell said to Batty:

The light that burns twice as bright,

burns only half as long.

Will we ever really know if

androids dream of electric sheep?

When we get around to creating replicants,

and they become sentient, 

will they develop a digital soul,

some holographic spark of divinity?

When we play God,

what will it cost us?

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Harvest Elegy

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Harvest Elegy

“What we plant in the soil of contemplation, we shall

reap i\n the harvest of action.”

--Meister Eckhart.

Growing up near farms,

I learned that Fall 

is the major harvest period.

The apple and pear orchards

burst with fruit.

The mustard fields

smother the hillocks

in school bus yellow foliage,

pungent from an acre away.

Fall wheat and rye sway

in rhythm with national pride.

Several kinds of corn and maize 

grow taller than sunflowers.

Potatoes, cabbage and lettuce

mantle their fields

in verdant fat wide leaves.

Of course, nature can be

a harsh bedfellow, when

insect infestation, drought or flood

interrupt Harvest’s bounty.

Corn fields, after the crop

has been picked, make me sad.

The broken and trampled stalks

remind me of dead soldiers

on a battlefield.

Even though I realize that

this is the barrenness of harvest

or pestilence, before the left overs

are plowed under, the spirits

of the dead cry out to me.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Houston, We have a Problem

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Houston, We have a Problem

“I prefer peace, but if trouble must come, let it

come in my time, so that my children can live

in peace.”--Thomas Paine.

Considering the state of the Union,

how can we ever be united again?

We know that Divided we Fall,

though we are complicit in that division.

Yes, Democracy dies in darkness,

but this time it’s not the Democrats

who’ve spawned the autocratic shadow.

Thank our Founding Fathers

that some of us are not cowering in the shade.

Conflict can crop up between

Dads and their prodigy, and politics

can be fodder for the conflicting views.

It’s not the age old battle between

morality and capitalism that’s to blame;

rather it’s the immoral, greedy, ruthless,

spewing of raw sewage that spurts

out of the White House, the rancid circle

of collusion, spinning shiny deflections,

with the Republicans circling the wagons

that leads us to snarls, clenched teeth,

vendettas, investigations, and litigations.

We hope, we pray to be led out

of this quagmire, 

    this steaming stinking swamp,
    this chaotic cacophony,

    this fucking nightmare.   

  

Glenn Buttkus

Polyptoton

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Inquiring Minds

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Inquiring Minds

“I will wait for you like a lonely house till you see

me and live in me again. Until then my windows

will ache.”--Pablo Neruda.

When will all the glaciers return?

When will the endless wars

in the Middle East

turn into peace?

Where will you find a bell

that will ring

in your dreams?

Where is any

pragmatic plan

for dumping Trump?

Where do all

the extinct species

go to hide?

Isn’t being

in Trump’s cabinet

like following an elephant

with a shovel?

Is Jesus actually willing

to stop the next

Great Flood, or will he

just become

the King of Waterworld?

When the New Civil War

is full upon us, and

thousands are dying,

who will step in

for Lincoln?

Do cockroaches care

that young black men

are murdered 

on their way home

from the store?

When RBG dies,

will the Supreme Court

become ludicrous? 

Why not build a base on the Moon,

before trying for Mars?

Isn’t driving while intexticated like

playing hopscotch on the freeway?

Why does the rise of technology create

clueless, detached, selfish young people?

Will the angels rebel against all those

Evangelicals for  Trump?

With only a skeleton crew still aboard 

the Trump Train, what keeps it on the tracks?

There is a lot of heavy lifting to be done

in all sectors, should we call in the poets?

 Glenn Buttkus

Posted over atdVerse Poets Pub

All We Need

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All We Need

“Love looks not with the eyes, and therefore

winged Cupid is painted blind.”

--William Shakespeare.

Cupids missiles

are carried

in the cutest 

quiver, they’re

covered in 

red fox fur.

The love darts

are very sharp.

and are dipped

in cherry treacle.

Some arrows create

a quiver of lust;

others create

a perpetual love quiver.

Then we are all in.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne Episode 103

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 103

Bulletspeak

“Thoughts are the gun, words are the bullets,

the bullseye is heaven.”--Douglas Horton.

1(sound cue) French horn and kettle drum.

2(tight one-shot) Buck fired both pistols at once.

3(cut to overhead wide drone shot) and both

brigands went down like twin tin ducks.

4(two shot) one was dead, shot through the

temple, the other was wounded just above

the kidneys. He rolled over and fired back at

Buck.

5(sound cue) two loud simultaneous shots.

6(tight one shot) Before Buck saw the gunman’s

smoke, the Thunderer had thrown a bullet at him.

7(close-up) a sledge hammer hit Buck on the 

side of his head.

8(sound cue) Coronet, one loud long note.

9( cut to overhead crane shot) both men 

lurched forward, thudding to the dirt.

10(medium one-shot) When Johnny saw Buck fall,

he raised up, his shoulder open to the bone,

his forearm numb, his left knee cap crushed,

his rifle pointing at nothing.

11(close-up) Johnny: BUCK !!

12(one-shot) the Eagle felt his guts explode

as a rifle slug tore apart his abs. Johnny

clenched his teeth, dropped his Winchester,

sinking to his knees. Both hands went to his

screaming bowels, holding them in, keeping

them from rolling out into the dust.

13(medium wide shot) The firing stopped. 

Johnny could hear the chickens, the windmill

creaking over the ranch well, and the sound

of the bunkhouse front door opening.

     The gunman from the bunkhouse walked out

slowly onto the porch, his rifle cradled over his

left arm, and a pistol in his right hand. 

14(sound cue) guitar.

15(medium close up) He was a big man, with a

dirty face and a shapeless hat.

16(medium wide shot) He took a few steps into

the yard, his eyes riveted on Johnny, waiting for

the Eagle to reach for the gun at his elbow; but

Johnny just sat there, his eyes to the ground,

holding his guts in. The brigand raised his pistol.

17(sound cue) three shots, fanned almost as one,

blasted across the yard.

18(one-shot) one bullet hit him in the throat, piercing

a hunk of chewing tobacco--one slug struck him

near his heart; blood splattered into the air. The third

hunk of angry lead hit him in the left eye. His body

leaped backwards, like someone had jerked him

with a rope. He pirouetted to the ground like he had

been run over by a stagecoach, dead in the dive.

19(cut to one-shot) Buck stood in the corral, blood

running from the gash in his temple, down over the

side of his face, the Thunderer and the Navy Colt

puffing faint blue smoke.

20(sound cue) piano and harmonica.

21(close-up) the sweat and blood stung in the 

corner of his eyes, and he couldn’t focus on

anything. He shook his head violently. It didn’t

help. He stumbled over to the corral rails, and

leaned against them. He holstered the 

Thunderer, returning it to its cage. He tossed the

Navy Colt into the dirt. The left side of his face

stung as the heat from the flaming ranch house

danced across it. 

22(wide shot) He stared at the house. The flames 

sprang hundreds of feet into a poppy red sky, as

the hungry fire consumed the barn and the house.

23(two-shot) the palomino carriage horse, his

gentle eyes on Buck, sat with his legs under him,

still harnessed to his dead companion.

      Buck struggled over to Johnny. The Eagle did

not look up, kept staring at the ground holding his

stomach. Buck knelt down, wiping the blood from

his eyes, shaking his head as more rolled in from  

the wound. The fires raged behind them.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at  dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Purple Majesty

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Purple Majesty

“If there actually is majestic poetry in my book about

the sea, it’s simply because no one can write

truthfully about the sea, and leave out the poetry.”

--Rachel Carson.

There can be

a majesty

in so very many things--

mountains do top my list, 

living as I do in

the Pacific Ring Of Fire

volcanos.

Kings, Queens and royalty

occupy the bottom of my list,

for they are merely

just iconic shadow memories

as they cling to tradition

with their fingernails.

Their fabulous wealth and status

are ludicrous and ridiculous,

even silly.

If I were King of the World,

I would disband

all the royal families;

they would scurry from me

as the aristocrats did during

the French & Russian Revolutions.

I would return their wealth and property

back to the people.

Asshat Trump would love

to be called Your Majesty,

instead of    Your Miserableness,

                    Your Malfunctionalness,

                    Your Mafianess,

                     Your Misinthropicness, and

                     Your Minimalness.

                      

Trump is leaving a shit stain

on the future pages of history

that will never be able to be

spun or beautified.

There is so much more out here

that can be labeled as majestic;

a person’s kindness,

                  love

                  loyalty,

                  faithfulness,

                  devotion

                  heart,

                  talent,

                  creativity,

                  imagination,

and as Eliza Farnham said,

the majestic mistress, the soul.

To me,

my incredible wife

has a majestic soul.

She is our family’s Matriarch,

and completely my soul mate.

She lights up a room

when she enters it,

and she floods our hearts

with an unmatched love.

A buzzard is not

majestic, but still it has

an important role.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Good Indians

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Good Indians

“It almost seems that nobody can hate America

more than Native Americans. America needs new

immigrants to love and cherish it.

--Eric Hoffer.

Columbus Day--BFD. Most of us know that

Columbus did not discover America. He never

set foot on it. He made four voyages across the

Atlantic, and he made landfall in the Caribbean,

Central America, and South America. He was 

searching for a trade route to the East Indies;

that’s why he named the indigenous people he

encountered Indios. The Mongols had cut off

access to the Silk Road.

The American tragedy was not a new one.

Throughout the entire globe, as conquerors,

and colonists discovered the indigenous

populations, they murdered, abused, robbed,

raped and enslaved them. Indigenous tribes

were called many things, Natives, Aboriginals,

Originals, and First People. Several thousand

years of residency meant nothing to the new-

comers and outlanders. In Seattle today we

celebrate Indigenous Peoples Day--fuck

Columbus.

Working for the VA for decades, I found out that

working with Native American Vets took special

skills. Annually they send some employees to

attend a week long Native American Sensitivity 

Training. I attended a session in 1997. It was held

at Camp Chaparral, on the Yakima Reservation, on

the east side of Mt. Adams.

We gathered daily to hear Vets testimonials regarding,

alcoholism, education, wife battering, drugs and

suicide. I entered a sweat lodge and passed out during

hour two. I found my niche in the Artist’s Hogan. I 

made sketches and drawings of Pow Wow dancers and

gave them away as gifts. One of them is still framed

and hanging on their Wall of Respect. I became an 

honorary member of the Yakima tribe. I made several

good friends. We stayed in touch for a couple of 

years, but then we let the bond slip away, quietly at 

night on a warm Spring breeze. I could hear the 

haunting flutter of a branch flute as it departed.

Eagles nested in

a tree outside my window;

I gave them good names. 

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

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Beautiful

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Beautiful

“When’s the last time an actor has assassinated a

President? It’s been a while--perhaps it’s time.”

--Johnny Depp.

The career and persona of

   John Christopher Depp III has

      fascinated me. From his stint on the

              series 21 JUMP STREET, when he

      became a teen idol, to his 40 year

    career playing geeks and misfits,

he still found time for straight

dramatic parts in PLATOON,

                            FINDING NEVERLAND, 

                            DONNIE BRASCO and

                            DEADMAN.

The camera loves him, with his dark

handsome features, pouty lips and

chick magnet eyes. Women sense

what they think is his vulnerability,

sad lost soul, and bad boy posture.

Beautiful men are branded as very

effeminate by most other men.

                              Born in Kentucky, he

                     claimed a Native American

             heritage, It’s probably Cherokee
     several generations ago. This caused

the Cherokee Nation to challenge his claim,

as they had done with Johnny Cash, Elvis

and Burt Reynolds.

I used to feel the same

way. My family claimed I had a great great

grandmother who was Cherokee. Recently

I had my DNA checked, and the only

        aboriginal blood I have belongs to the

                Inuit of Eastern Asia. Johnny luck-

                       out when a female fan, who is

                               Comanche, adopted him.

His career has been quirky and completely

unorthodox, but regardless, he became a

huge success. He is the third highest paid

actor in the world. He has been

nominated for 10 Golden Globes,

and has won one.

He has been nominated

for 3 Academy Awards.

His movies have grossed

more than 14 billion dollars.

His love life has be a whirlpool,

with several wives,

and dozens of girlfriends.

He has been accused of

battering many of them.

He admits to spending

40K a month on drugs & booze,

which doesn’t faze him, since

he’s worth 75 million.

He is a talented musician as well.

He formed a rock band, which

he at first called TONTO’S GIANT NUTS.

Today the band is called

                           THE HOLLYWOOD VAMPIRES.

Undoubtedly, he is one of the most

unique, bizarre, and mysterious

artists alive. I can dig it.

Glenn Buttkus

Ekphrasis

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Pop

My grandfather.

Pop

“More and more, when I single out the person who

most inspired me, I go back to my grandfather.”

--James Earl Jones.

Earl Melbourne Carpenter was born in Colville, WA.

in 1897. He grew up on a farm, raising apples and

watermelons. Twice a week, his Dad would load up

a wagon with fruit, drive it ten miles to town to sell 

the produce. Earl was the only son, so he always 

accompanied his father, eager to see the elephant, 

and get a candy cane. Colville swarmed with farmers,

ranchers, miners, and lumberjacks; all jobs that
young Earl would later try on for size.

There was no middle name on his birth certificate,

so when he was 18, he gave himself the name

“Melbourne”. He had read about Australia, and

dreamed about going there some day, and doing

some homesteading. He never made it there, but

he kept the dream alive.

I made my appearance in 1944, and he became a

grandfather at 47. Before I was born, he moved the

family from Spokane to Seattle, driving a Model T

Ford, pulling a trailer. In 400 miles it broke down a

dozen times. He always called this his Steinbeck

period, “It was pure Grapes of Wrath time.”

During the Depression, midst soup lines, erratic

unemployment, and fist fights with cops and thugs

while on picket lines...he became a progressive,

joining the Communist Party. This haunted him

later during the McCarthy witch hunts.

He made a living as a house and bridge painter,

joining the union. Heights never bothered him.

He thought he could make a fine steeplejack.

In his spare time, he was an artist, painting

Western landscapes in the style of Charlie Russell.

In his life he painted hundreds of these, getting

a modest reputation.

When I was about ten, one day I took stock of him,

becoming more aware of who he was in the world.

He had always been a laborer, and had muscular

arms and shoulders. He was six feet tall, combed 

his hair straight back (always smelling of Rose hair

oil), always wore glasses, had false teeth, and wore

a thin mustache in the style of the 30’s movie stars.

He had piercing hazel eyes. He had big powerful

hands. It was fascinating to watch him working on

an oil painting, as those big hands delicately held

thin camel hair brushes.

He was always more like a father to me than just a

grandparent. He was very aware that I had no idea

who my biological father was. My mother had passed

away by the time I was in the Navy. It was my

grandfather who wrote me twice a week. After he died,

I was surprised that he had kept all my letters, for I

had kept all of his letters to me as well. Today, all of

our letters are mixed together by date, and are stored

in a metal brief case that he had kept his oil paints in.

As an actor, I

travelled to Australia for

work; he just loved it.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Liar in Chief

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Liar in Chief

“Things come apart so easily when they are held

together with lies.”--Dorothy Allison.

We have

a presidency

set in lies.

I’d like to set

my time machine

for December 2020,

and discover who

has been set in office.

I’ll tell you what,

my mind is pre-set...

Vote Blue,

No matter Who.

we just have to

Dump Trump.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Episode 102

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 102

Pistoleros

“A shootout is not a gunfight of honor, it is the 

work of backshooters.”--Jessica Savitch.

1(overhead drone shot) wide shot, Johnny behind 

the tree, Buck behind the carriage; silence between

gunfire.

2(sound cue) guitar strumming over Voice Over:

Buck: Are you still with me, old one?

Muffled horse cries.

3(cut to medium close-up) Johnny: I am shot to

hell, but they cannot kill me.

4(jump cut) a ranch cat screeched and hissed as

it bolted out of the bunkhouse.

5(sound cue) fiddle and Indian branch flute.

6(roving overhead crane shot) Neither man spoke

for a long moment. The barn roared and crackled

with flames. The horses were silent. The ranch

house began to blow out windows. Bullet casings

clicked as they were shoved into cylinders and

rifle breeches. 

7(close-up) Buck: Sonofabitch--you were too right!

8(medium close-up) Johnny, clenching his teeth,

reloading his Winchester, but saying nothing.

His wounds were beginning to stiffen up. The

front of his shirt was blood-soaked.

9(sound cue) snare drum and banjo.

10(medium one-shot) Buck: Cover me! He began

running, crouching as he ran toward the house.

Firing resumed suddenly from many directions.

11(cut back to roving crane shot) the wrangler

in the woodshed attempted to pin Johnny down,

while the three in the bunkhouse sprinkled shots

all around Buck as he now sprinted; no sign of

life from under the front porch.

     Buck made it to the north side of the house.

Angry slugs split the siding as he ducked behind

it. The gunman in the woodshed appeared, and

squatted behind a tall chopping block, hoping to 

get a better shot at Buck. The Eagle delivered

30-30 lead to his stomach as he crouched. He

stood up. Johnny shot him in the throat. He

fell over the chopping block, and crumpled

into a heap, as his rifle barrel was crammed

into the hot dirt.

12(sound cue) it went quiet again, just the

sound of the wind, and grumpy chickens.

13(wide shot) Buck worked his way along

the west side of the house. He paused at

the south corner. The intense heat from

inside the house penetrated the walls. 

Buck bobbed his way out from the corner, 

both guns cocked and leveled at the front

porch. No one was there. 

14(cut to the burning barn) the barn’s roof

caved in, crashing down, as the greedy

flames leaped higher. 

15(medium wide shot) a gunman, the one

from under the porch, was crawling on his

hands and knees across the corral, holding

his side where Buck had wounded him.

Buck snapped off a pistol shot, and it hit

the man in the butt, knocking him flat into

the horse shit. The man struggled to get

back up to his knees.

16(sound cue) snare drum bap & coronet bleat.

Using both hands, Buck held the Thunderer’s bead

on the man’s head.  Hey, asshole! The slinger

turned his head and a Colt .41 slug made a new

hole between his eyes. 

Are you still alright, Johnny?

The Eagle waved a Yes. 

17(one-shot) Buck quickly vaulted over the corral

rails, then snaked his way over to the body. 

18(one-shot) Johnny fired into the bunkhouse, and gunfire 

was returned.

19(sound cue) castanets & Indian seed rattle.

20(medium close-up) Buck picked up a pistol,

a Navy Colt, off the dead brigand. He continued

across the corral on his belly, with a gun in each

hand.

21(cut to a wide shot) Two men rushed out of the

back door of the bunkhouse. They ran fast & low.

A third man, still inside, kept Johnny pinned

down with rapid gun shots.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Pachyderm in the Parlor

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Pachyderm in the Parlor

“Each and everyone of us has unknowingly

played a part in the obesity problem.”

--Indra Nooyi.

Sustenance

is one of the big words,

like truth, love and liberty,

multi-layered and faceted.

Its definition encompasses space

between starvation and spirituality.

Our absolute need for it

supersedes everything

but our desperate need

for air and water.

I used to do a lot of hiking

and camping out for days

deep in our Northwest forests.

Fish may be caught

and berries may be picked,

but most of our meals

would come from the food

we packed in on our person.

A variety of freeze-dried delicacies,

but when you are hungry from hiking

the processed foods taste mighty fine.

That was one of the rare times

that I would only eat what I needed.

The good air and exercise seemed to

reduce cravings. The week’s provisions

did not include snacks.

Scientists and nutritionists inform us

that our poor food choices

are endangering our health & longevity.

Fast and processed foods, steroid-

ravaged beef, chicken and pork

wreak havoc with our entrails;

fats, sugars, and calories

all act as our adversaries.

Damn, you hit middle age

like a melon against a brick wall,

and you are presented with a new label

in your medical chart--

you have become morbidly obese.

Out of self defense, you take a handful

of chronic meds to combat

hypertension, stroke, heart attack, gout,

asthma, cholesterol, and blood clots.

Come on, we fully understand our dilemma,

more’s the pity, but without the high metabolism

of a manic teenager, we spend painful

decades dieting and binging.

Sadly, we pass on this conundrum,

this legacy of poor food choices

to our children. Shame on us.

Maybe, as some believe, when

Jesus returns at the last moment

to save the planet from global warming,

he can do something miraculous

about our attitude adjustments

regarding sustenance.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub