Blackthorne--Episode 105

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 105

Tenacity

“ Don’t give up your dreams--cling to your vision

with all the tenacity you can muster.”

--Orison Swett Marden.

1(sound cue) cello and harmonica.

2(two shot) Buck rose up and tramped off through

the long shadows of twilight toward the bunkhouse.

3(close-up) Johnny’s eyes reflected the flames still

in front of him.

4(dolly back to a one-shot) His arms were folded

around his belly like a bat folds up its wings. His

shoulders slumped, his head was down.

5(expand to a two-shot) 

6(sound cue) footsteps, creaking leather, and tin

against tin--Buck returned, whistling a tune, loaded

down with a saddle, a lantern and a burlap sack.

Buck: Hell, we got everything we need.

He opened the sack and pulled out a blanket, a pile

of rags, disinfectant, and a half bottle of whiskey.

Buck: You know, I never did like that barn much--

didn’t spend much time in the house either. If I

was to ever take a woman, it might be strange to

try and make a home in that house.

Johnny: Hey, I hear you, but that’s bullshit.

Buck: No shit about it, Pard, carefully peeling

back the shirt around the wound in the Indian’s

shoulder. That house was full of death and

sadness, and that barn was full of rats.

7(cut to close-ups) Johnny: What will you do?

Buck: Rebuild.

Johnny: I meant tomorrow.

Buck: I will keep my appointment with Bronson.

8(sound cue) piano.

Johnny: You will kill him?

9(two-shot) Buck poured some disinfectant onto a

clean cloth and dabbed it into the shotgun wound.

Johnny did not flinch.

Buck, after a moment: Maybe.

10(close ups) Johnny: I will not die.

Buck: A mean sonofabitch like you? Christ, no,

not today. He gently grasped the Eagle’s wrists.

Let’s take a look at your belly.

11(two shot) Johnny allowed his hands to be

lifted. Buck bit his cheek as he peered at the bullet

gash in the plexus, but his eyes remained calm.

Johnny: Is it bad?

12(sound cue) violins and branch flute.

Buck: Amigo, it is not good--but the bleeding has

stopped. Let me bandage it.

Johnny nodded. Buck tore several strips of cloth

from an old cotton shirt. Johnny held his arms up.

His shoulders quivered. Buck began to wrap the

strips around him, but an eagle’s talon that hung

around his neck got in the way.

Johnny: Take it.

Buck carefully removed it, and held it.

With it could go your luck .

Johnny: Crazy talk, boss. I will be stove up for a

month, no more. You wear it while I heal up. It will

be good medicine for both of us.

Buck nodded, and put the talon, suspended on its

leather lanyard, around his thick neck.

Hold your arms up again.

Johnny did. Buck wrapped the thick strips around

Johnny’s waist, and tied them tightly. He wrapped

the old warrior in a red horse blanket, and tipped

his head back gently onto a saddle that was 

propped up behind him. He eased him back like

he would with a sick child. He held the bottle of

whiskey for him, tipping it up, letting Johnny gulp

down three scalding swallows.

Johnny: I tell you this killing is the only thing that

Bronson understands.

Buck: I will see him tomorrow. If these were his men,

I will tear his heart out and eat it in the middle of

the street.

Johnny: Jesus, boss, you know these men were sent

by Bronson!

Buck: We killed every one of them, so I can’t ask.

Johnny coughed, then rasped: I piss in the milk of 

his mother.

Buck: I shit in the milk of his grandmother.

Johnny: He must not win.

Buck: I fear there will be no winners in this.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Bramble Berries

image from organiccrops.com

Bramble Berries

“He who sows brambles will reap thorns.”

--Spanish Proverb.

There was a time, when I was a kid,

a child not a goat, when picking

blackberries was a family affair.

Although, in praise of goats, it is widely

known that they are the best solution

for eradicating pesky thorn bushes.

They are a very sturdy plant. You can mow,

chop, burn, crush or dig at them, and they

will spring back when your back’s turned.

Most neighborhoods have a vacant lot,

or neglected corner where blackberries

can thrive, where the ripe fruit awaits.

They can grow in poor soil, ditches, steep

hillsides, and hedgerows; even in a

wasteland, and could devour a football field.

A dozen of us would show up in long-sleeved

shirts, jeans, and high leather boots, for

protection from the blood thirsty thorns.

We brought gardening gloves, and ladders

to drop over the six foot bushes, a handful

of band-aids, machetes, and sharp clippers.

We carried colorful plastic buckets and

rinsed-out coffee cans to hold our freshly

picked multi-pounds of bounty.

My grandparents called them cane berries,

because of the thick stalks, and they pointed

out that blackberries were not real berries, for

they were made up of seeded drupelets, cousins

to raspberries. My grandfather was fond of saying

that raspberries were a feminine fruit, where the

berry slips off the stem, leaving a cavern in the

middle, but blackberries had to be plucked,

and their erect stems remain intact.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Poem written in the style of Ted Hughes.

Pilgrim's Prayer

image from wikipedia.com

Pilgrim’s Prayer

“Thankfulness may consist merely of words.

Gratitude is shown in acts.”--Henri Frederic Amiel.

In our home, as in many others, before we partake of

the Thanksgiving meal,  we go around the table and

allow everyone to share what they’re grateful for this

year. The little children are grateful for receiving 

sweets, treats and toys. The older children are 

thankful for Jesus, friends, and good grades. My

three daughters are thankful for their spouses, and

the spouses in turn are grateful for them. My wife is

grateful for her nine healthy grandchildren. I am very

thankful for my patriarchy and my wife. We say grace,

and then get after the holiday feast.

But I often wonder what each of us is truly grateful for--

our health, another dawn to greet, another day above

the ground, personal and professional success, how

many Facebook friends we have, our modest levels of

notoriety, the means to buy a new car every third year,

a mild winter, fellowship, loving pets, the greenest

lawn on the block, retirement, stimulating hobbies,
projects, and the like?

Beneath my own bombast and stentorian tones, I am

grateful for being able to live in a country where strong

dissent is both tolerated and stimulated. Even though

it feels like we are living through the Plague Years, and

the Hundred Years War, like with all things, the Trump

Era will pass, the light in Liberty’s torch will burn more

brightly, stability will stamp out chaos, and the American

Dream will be reinstated for immigrants. 

Can the zebra be

grateful for providing a

fine meal for a lion?

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Emperor of Oz

image from theaterbythesea.com

The Emperor of Oz

Dorothy: How can you talk if you haven’t 

got a brain?

Scarecrow: I don’t know--but some people

without brains do an awful lot of talking.

Candy Man    can,

                               but      shouldn’t,
even though     super strong

                         MaryJane             cupcakes

  cannot cure                            Trumpitis,

              those political       spin lesions

brought on by paroxysms        of        POTUS

shenanigans.

We must

      invest our hope,

           convoluted                   

                as the may be     cuz maybe 

Nancy Pee    

                can give      WE         of the

                     ambuscado,

the recipe for         french-fried freedom

                                 and equity

once damned Donald      takes

         several bites out of the       Giant

              imPEACHment,                       and

the New Normal    can be more like      the

Old Normal, except        different/better,

     much preferred   to the    political pablum

          that is spewed out of

                                             pundit pie holes,

because this time    it’s more than  the

                                             fe-males

bleeding out of every o

                                    r

                                     i

                                      f

                                       i

                                        c

                                          e-- Hell, no,

Jack!  Finally we must witness the congregation

of Republican scarecrows singing:

                  If I only had a brain...

Glenn Buttkus

This is my "imitation" of Edward Estlin Cummings,
who is known for his radical experimentation with
form, punctuation, spelling and syntax.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Demon Dancing

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Demon Dancing

“My demons and I are not compatible; never have

been, never will be.”--G.G. Allin.

Beyond surreal,

I watched her

turn her head all the way around

like a barn owl.

She had goat’s eyes,

all yellow with vertical pupils,

and had moldy pink horns for ears;

then she projectile-vomited

several quarts of thick green mucus

that steamed and smelled

of urine and dead rats.

She spoke in a low rumbling rasp,

Your mother was fucked

by idiots and mad men,

you pencil-dicked fudge-packing faggot!

She rose up off the filthy bed

and spun in mid-air,

flinging feces in all directions,

before descending to her scabby knees,

grabbed my rosary, and began

masterbating with the cross, screaming:

This is what Jesus really needed,

the taste of a young twat!

I tossed holy water on her,

and it burned her face like acid.

I yelled: In the name of our savior,

Jesus Christ, I demand that you abandon

this innocent girl!

Her demonic laughter was chilling.

We are legion, and we are beyond

your pathetic reach, pedophile priest!

Then I opened my eyes,

and my digital clock read

in red hot numbers--

midnight.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Corner Boy

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Corner Boy

“Danger doesn’t lurk around every corner, but it

does hang out waiting for fear to show up.”

--Anonymous.

I’m 14, making

300 bucks a week.

There may be

easier ways to make money

than standing on a corner

selling crack, but

I can’t think of one.

Hearing the crack 

of gunfire,

I reach for my Glock,

I don’t need school,

just bullets.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Exegesis

image from Wikipedia.

Exegesis

“Nations are born in the hearts of poets, and die

in the hand of politicians.”

--Muhammad Iqbal.

Sometimes

during daydreams,

REM or meditation,

I visualize my Higher Self,

my Soul Spark

as Gardharva,

there in Bardo,

wearing my rainbow

that reflected my past lives,

contemplating whether
I should move out, or back

into the cosmic continuum,

as spiritual guide or counselor,

or should I return once again

into the breech of another lifetime

on this plane of existence.

Choosing

to return to the fray

and adventure of humanity,

my HS would begin mapping

out the spread sheet of my next lifetime.

My most recent past life

had been one of

privilege, wealth and physical beauty.

My next venture,

it was decided, would be

one that included many obstacles

to surmount, some integrity to regain,

to be Caucasian, hirsute, poor vision,

poor skin, an imperfect immune system,

a cauldron for discontent,

and a fairly high IQ.

Then my Gandharva

would zero in on my mother,

a 16 year old free spirit,

who had an abortion at 15,

who was a singer and musician.

It was 1943, in October.

She was dating a paratrooper.

They’ve already had sex several times

in the back seat of his big black ’41 Buick.

Tonight was the spiritual target

for my conception.

It went well,

and my Higher Self

joined with a fertilized egg.

I developed within the womb normally,

and nine months later I was born,

at 12 minutes after midnight,

on June 14, 1944.

It was said that

I was born standing up,

looking for trouble.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Once You Go Black

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Once You Go Black

“Darkness is immortal, but the blackness itself

is also pure and blazing and fierce.”

--Carl Sagan

Cats see real good

in the dark,

so do owls.

They have vastly different

pupils and retinas

than we do.

Our own pupils dilate

in the dark

in order to capture

as much light as possible.

That’s why it’s such a shock

to walk from a darkened theater

into a bright sunny day.

More specifically,

it’s the rods in the retina

that give us the capacity

for night vision.

It is, of course,

the visual cortex

in the brain

that interpret and define

the wayward pixels

sent to it.

But the ebon chaos

that we are immersed in daily,

creates a kind of darkness

that we have difficulty penetrating--

day for night reality.

I say if it’s darkness

we are having,

let it be extravagant,

so that more people pay

attention to it, and we will

be forced to work together

to bring back the light.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Here's Glenn

Here’s Glenn

“Clarity comes from looking inside your own heart.

Who looks inward first dreams, then awakes.”

--Carl Jung.

Glenn,

consider this

an intervention,

and understand that you

are a difficult person to counsel.

Like other Geminis,

you have a strong opinion

on everything, and you

express yourself

with a heightened passion.

You are quick to anger,

your version of 

an angry face,

and an angry voice

intimidates people.

Remember that employer who said,

You can’t help yourself--you intimidate

everyone. You even intimidate me,

and I own the damn place.

There are people,

friends and family,

who fear you,

but still like you,

even love you;

yet you’re not a bully.

So you are a rare bird,

a red Cardinal midst

a murder of Crows.

You used to force-feed

your opinions and ideas,

running roughshod

over other’s views.

To your credit, presently

you have become a better listener.

You have always had problems

with authority, perpetually balancing

insubordination with excellent work ethic.

You are a screaming liberal, And you

present yourself as a blue-collar intellectual,

always taking the side of your fellows,

which has prevented you from rising in the

ranks. 

Your decade as a professional actor was not

wasted, but real success eluded you because

you got in your own way. You tend to exhaust

those around you with your unfiltered

enthusiasm, and overbearing personality. Yes,

you are smart, but MENSA has never tried to

recruit you.

You can be generous to a fault, and then flip

to being a sarcastic hard-ass. You have always

been a malcontent, a loose canon, and your

superiors have had to struggle to cope with you.

On the positive side, it is inspiring to witness

over many years how you manage despite your

disability. You seem to still extract joy within

your endeavors, and find purpose in your many

pursuits. Keep channeling your rage into your

creative and artistic spheres. In can be said

that you have made your mark in this world;

continue to do so.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Black Hamlet

image from stratfordstage.co.uk

Black Hamlet

“The process of delving into the black abyss, for 

me, is fascinating.”--H.P. Lovecraft.

Within

the great cosmic black maw,

there exists

an onerous overwhelming darkness,

stretching to forever.

One has to search

for any trace of light.

But residing near a star,

light is always intense,

so much so

that prolonged exposure

leads to burning of the skin.

The sunnier the Clime,

the darker the aboriginal

becomes, creating

the black races.

I have always thought it odd

that the less attractive

pale white-skinned races

consider themselves superior,

which is an ethnic absurdity.

From a metaphysical standpoint,

in the geno-lottery,

any of us could have been

born black.

In America

we would have progressed

from being colored

to definitely being black--

even after the wondrous 

several decades of mixed coupling,

the divers shades of brown

all count as black.

In Spanish we are negro.

In French it’s noire.

In German it’s schwarz.

In Italian it’s nero.

In Swedish it’s farg.

In Russian it’s svet.

and in Greek it’s mavro.

It’s all Black,

regardless of the language.

Admittedly, we are still on a journey

to wash the shame out to the word,

and paint over it with pride.

I believe that one fine day

we will reach that objective 

on a global scale.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Once Upon a Dunce

artwork by Torren Thomas.

Once Upon a Dunce

“There are three kinds of men--those who learn by

reading, those who learn by observation, and those

who have to pee on an electric fence.”

--Will Rogers.

Truth

needs to be

the central keep

of our moral castle.

Yet, today

it is more keepsake

than mainstay.

Most would agree

that Trump

is not a keeper;

unless it’s 

Keeper of the Royal Lies.

It’s quite the chore

keeping political poetics

light-hearted.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub