Abdication

image from time.com

Abdication

“The politician is only too happy to abdicate in

favor of his image--because the image is much 

more powerful than he could ever be.”

--Marshall McLuhan.

Presidents should serve, never rule.

No true Republic has ever had a king.

Like Hamilton, I’d like to challenge Trump to a duel.

Presidents should serve, never rule.

Obviously, Trump skipped Civics in school.

No true Republic has ever had a king.

Presidents should serve, never rule.

No true Republic has ever had a king.

Glenn Buttkus

Triolet

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

The Fall of Rome

image from timemag.com

The Fall of Rome

“If you must break the law, do it to seize power.”

--Julius Caesar.

When I was in college,

I played a Roman

general in CALIGULA.

I had my girlfriend

give me a permanent

for the part, since my

hair had always been straight.

The next morning when

we took the red rollers out, 

I had a ton of curls.

Looking in the mirror,

I freaked. I looked like

little Lord Faggleroy.

I begged her to take out

the curls on top, leaving them

on the sides and in the back.

Oh, now you want an impermanent?

She reversed the process,

burning my scalp, and

reclaiming my straight bangs.

I did finally enjoy the look

and the play, but it put

the Romans in my head

like a pop song. They had conquered 

most of the known world, ruling

for centuries; until their empire fell,

crumbled into tourista dust.

By the 20th Century, Italy had

become a joke.Even the absurd

rise of Mussolini and Fascism

could not return things

to its former glory.

History teaches us

that the one consistency

mankind enjoys is

imminent impermanence.

The Greeks,

        British,

        French,

        Spanish,

        Dutch &

        Germans,

everybody took turns

at ruling huge chunks

of the world.

America is still a young country,

and our imperialistic impulses

have been kept on the down low,

in Cuba, Europe, Asia and the Middle East.

Of course greed has always been

the prime motivator, but we’re now

restricted by technology, when

atrocities become breaking news

in mere minutes. It has become

much more difficult to conduct

clandestine operations.

Led by the Trumpeteers,

wounded by partisan wedges,

much of the world has

taken chaos to its bed,

has made hate a mantra,

and gobbles stupidity for breakfast.

I sincerely hope,

like the thief who’s swallowed jewels,

that this too will pass.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Fish Guts

image from pinterest.com

Fish Guts

“The corridor couldn’t have smelled stronger of 

fish guts if we had been inside the fish.”

--Arthur Golden.

Sometimes politicians

are like an onion,

that looks great

on the outside,

but it is ten

kinds of rotten

in the center.

As we peel back

the layers,

the putrid stench

of lies, cons

and fish guts

assaults our senses;

the truth can stink.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille; exactly 44 words.

Posted ,over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Episode 109

image from pulpcovers.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 109

Scramble

“I must not stand back shivering from the danger--

no, I must jump with gusto and scramble through

it as well as I can.”--Og Mandino.

1(sound cue) piano and guitar.

2(medium wide shot) Buck, Wallace, and Sheriff Hop

picked Johnny up carefully, and moved toward the

wagon. Doc Sweeney had arranged the pillows and

blankets by the time they reached it. They gently

placed the Eagle onto the low wagon. Buck got up

next to the Doc, as the four of them scooted him

all the way in. Doc slid a pillow under his head.

3(close-up) Sweeney: Damn it, his belly wound is

starting to bleed again. Hart, get over here. (to Buck)

We need to get a move on.

4(two-shot) Buck: I could drive.

Sweeney: No, it’s better if you take Salina, and follow

us in my carriage.

5(three-shot) Hart trotted up out of the darkness.

What do you need, Doc?

Sweeney: Johnny’s bleeding again. We need to 

leave right now.

Hart climbed quickly up into the seat, unwound the

reins, and put his foot on the brake.

Sheriff (to Wallace): Henry, you go with them; just

leave your horse--we”ll bring it to town. Billy and I

will nose around, take a tally and meet up over

at the Doc’s in a couple of hours.

Salina gave her father a hug, and he got up into

the freight wagon. The blacksmith swung the pair

north, and started for town. Hop walked with Buck

and Salina over to the doctor’s carriage. As the

couple climbed up into the sleek black carriage...

Hop: Mr. Buck, please do me a favor.

Buck: What’s that, sheriff?

6(sound cue) Banjo and harmonica.

7(two shot) Hop: Don’t go after Bronson, until I

get back to town.

Buck: You’re asking a lot, Joe. If it was ordered

by him, if he sent these men, my blood will boil.

Hop: If he’s guilty, he’ll be ready for you.

I’d prefer that you don’t get killed before

we get to the bottom of all this.

Buck: Perhaps you’ve noticed--I don’t kill

easily.

Hop: If Cash sent these men to attack you,

he is desperate, feels his back is to the wall.

If you let me help you, your chances of success

will double.

Buck: Bronson dictates the law in these parts.

Hop: He thinks he does. But he seems to be

several cows over the line. If we prove him to

be guilty, I promise you I’ll take him to Silver

City myself, and you can shove him into the

prison wagon.

Buck, eyes meeting the sheriff’s: This is a big

step for you..but I have to say, you sound pretty

convincing.

Hop: The time is right.

Buck: Alright, I’ll do my best to wait for you.

8(sound cue) guitar blues riff and castanets.
9(medium wide shot) Hop stood there watching

them pull away, a coal black carriage rolling into

the black of night.

Hop: Billy, what’s the count?

Deputy: I count six so far.

Hop, sotto voce: And two more hunks of charr from

the fire makes eight; Christ.

10(sound cue) French horn bleat.

11( medium wide shot) cut to the travelers.

Buck caught up to the freight wagon below the great

boulder, halfway through the four bends. He and 

Salina could make out their shapes in the ebon

shadows of the trees. The brake on the freight

wagon clunked, metal on metal, each time Hart put

his boot on it. The stars were clear, and there was

almost a full moon. When they rolled out onto the

flats, the moonlight was bright, and they had no

trouble staying on the road. The freight wagon 

plodded along slowly. He could hear faint mumbling

on the night air. The couple were silent. Salina had

hooked her left arm in his right. She could feel the

muscles flexing as he handled the two-up pair.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub OLN

Star of Fire

photo by Jimmy Chuck Smith.

Star Of Fire

“If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly,

our whole life would change.”--Buddha.

Hello.

You’re probably not

used to conversing with your plants,

so this would be a good time to start.

I am one of your favorite flowers

but you don’t know much about me.

I am Astrantia,

often nicknamed

Masterwort,

Melancholy Gentleman,

and Hattie’s Pincushion.

You like me

because I’m a hardy perennial

that grows happily in moist soil

in the shade of trees. 

I’m considered floriferous and vigorous.

I adore all pollinators

and I attract butterflies.

We have been cultivated

in Britain and Central Europe

since the sixteenth century.

I have distant cousins

that grew in Shakespeare’s garden

near his cottage in Stratford.

I am among 8-9 species,

and my splendiferous blossoms

come in shades of pink, red and white.

I have been labeled Star of Fire

                                 Star of Beauty

                                 Star Of Africa

                                 Star of Love &

                                 Star of Claret.

I blossom in late summer

on tall wiry stems, with

rounded buttonhead flowers

and star-shaped colorful bracts.

I sport aromatic roots,

mine have a ginger odor,

and palmate leaves.

My dried stems and leaves

are used for herbal medicine.

You have a fondness for pink flora,

so not surprisingly, that’s my hue.

Hot dry summers make me wilt,

but a wet Fall perks me right up.

Wisely, you’ve planted me

near a small stream,

and in the shade of your elms.

So now, when you pass me,

or fuss with me, give me a wink

and a smile. I have spoken up first,

so don’t be afraid to stop by

and have conversations with me.

Believe me, it can get lonely

with taciturn gardeners.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Munchkin's Dirge

image from amazon.com

Munchkin’s Dirge

“There is a sacredness of tears. They are the

messenger of overwhelming grief, of contrition,

and of unspeakable love.”--Washington Irving.

In 1965, my sister had five children. The youngest

boy was named Marc. He died of SIDS at three 

months old. My sister’s mother-in-law blamed her for 

the death; claiming neglect. 

Funerals are rarely fun, but this one was 

heartbreaking. The white child’s coffin was so tiny,

like a pet store box for a white rabbit. Marc’s

siblings,  dressed in their starched funeral suits, 

were bored and confused. They fidgeted and 

complained. The youngest boy held on to a 

Spiderman doll. 

My sister sobbed like she was attending Christ’s

crucifixion. The minister droned on about how God

had called this cherub home early. Suddenly, I too

was sobbing uncontrollably. Time seemed to slow

down, and I found that some moments are caught

between heartbeats, moments that conjured images

of other innocent dead children from famine, war, and

abuse, moments to curse God for his shoddy

shepherding.  

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

Posted over at dVerse Posts Pub

Jackass the Ripper

image from time.com

Jackass the Ripper

“Reason obeys itself, and ignorance submits to

whatever is dictated to it.”--Thomas Paine.

Most of us were shocked, even embarrassed, 

when Trump stole (won) the Presidency in 2016,

because every poll labeled him a joke and a loser,

even he did not believe he could win, yet way too

many Hillary-haters who had voted for Obama,

dropped their votes into Trump’s shit-stained lap,

catapulting a cosmic moron, a Populist pussball

into the most important job in the free world, which

he pissed on immediately as he launched his

larcenous litany of pernicious and asinine lies,

acting like a madman taking over the asylum,

projecting his ignorant world-view, his immoral

behavior, his racist, xenophobic, misanthropic,

wanna’ be autocratic, treasonous, Godfather

complex onto the blindfolded lemmings in

America, gathering to himself a cunning cadre

of dishonest bought henchman and most of the

shell-shocked fearful subservient sychophantic

Republicans, hiding behind the new ruling that

a sitting President can not be prosecuted and

that he is permitted to use the DOJ, CIA, and

the FBI as his personal lap dogs and thugs, to

strong-arm, silence or manipulate anyone with

the temerity to stand up to him, spending two

years attacking the Mueller Report, laughing

at the nine counts of abuse of power it outlined,

declaring it an exoneration, paying no attention

to the hundreds of lawyers who signed a letter

stating that if he wasn’t the President, if he had

been anyone else he’d have been put in prison

scoffing at the 23 women who are united in a 

law suit accusing him of rape and harassment,

disregarding the dozens of pending litigations

regarding his questionable business practices,

successfully hiding his tax returns--all this

overshadowed by his belligerent bellicose bullying

on the world stage, his insane saber rattling and

his propensity for threatening nuclear annihilation

of Korea, Syria, and Iran, because many believe

that in one of his immature blind rages he could

actually start WWIII--and even if he failed to do 

that, it’s painfully evident that he desires to

become “President for Life”, and he is not

afraid to handcuff Lady Justice, pardon Roger

Stone, continue to add to the coffers of the

very wealthy, to sell out the middle class, to

gang-rape Lady Liberty, to disembowel the

sacred cow of Democracy, to outlaw freedom,

the press, and all forms of dissent, finally

ripping the throat out of the Republic.

  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Blues for Baldwin

image from time.com

Blues for Baldwin

ME: Hey, Mr. Baldwin, I really appreciate you taking

the time from your eternal sleep to jaw with me.

JB: Dig it. I’m just pleased that February has been

designated as “Black History Month”. I would have

preferred August, my birth month.

ME: Is it true you wrote a play when you were ten

years old?

JB: Yup, and one of my teachers directed it for me.

She wanted to take me to see real plays, but because

she was white, my family wouldn’t let me go.

ME: They say that when you were a kid, you spent a

lot of times alone in the library.

JB: You think your pain and your heartbreak are

unprecedented in the history of the world, but then

you read. It was books that taught me that I was

connected to all peoples.

ME: What was your religion?

JB: Nothing. I am a writer, a poet. I like doing things

alone. The hypocrisy of religion angered me. My father

was a preacher. I was behind the scenes, and I knew 

how the illusion was worked.

ME: When did you realize that you were gay?

JB: Hell, man, when I was still a teenager. That’s why

when I was 24, I moved to France, where I could be

free as an artist and as a man.

ME: Celebrities seemed to flock to you.

JB: Not really. I mean I went to school with Brock 

Peters and Bud Powell. At my place in Paris I got

to know Miles Davis and Nina Simone, Ray Charles

and Josephine Baker. Later I hung out with Sidney

Poitier and Harry Belafonte. After I learned to speak

French, I became friends with Yves Montand.

ME: Did you return to America very often.

JB: I lived most of my life in Europe, but I came back

to the states in 1957 and 1963, to get involved in

Civil Rights. I was real proud of my Time cover in

May of ’63.I met Marlon Brando that year.

ME: But you’re buried in New York City.

JB: Yeah I died in France in 1987 of stomach cancer,

but they brought my body home for posterity.

ME: You can see that black folks still have to fight for

their equality. How do you feel about this? 

JB: We can disagree and still love each other, unless

your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and

denial of my humanity.

ME: How do you feel about America today?

JB: It’s a jive time with an ignorant racist in

the White House. You all need to tighten up

on that shit--but I still love America more than

any other country in the world.

ME: What do you think about how tribal and

divided we are at present?

JB: Believe it or not, this too shall pass, and black

folks are going to have a big say in things. I

imagine that one reason people cling to their hate

so stubbornly is because once hate is gone, they

will be forced to deal with their own pain. People

are trapped in history.

ME: What kind of changes do you think we need

to work on.

JB: That’s a bullshit question, man. You are out

in the world, you and everyone else can see what

needs to be done. It’s just that most of us are about

as eager to be changed as we were to be born.

ME: I can see you’re not a Trump fan. How do you

feel about how he treats anyone who disagrees

with him.

JB: Yeah, he’s something else, 16,000 lies and

counting. You have to understand that from his

ignorant feeble point of view, any victim who is

able to articulate their situation is no longer a

victim; they become a threat.

ME: Thank-you for spending this time with me.

JB: My pleasure.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Fillet of Stupidity

image from time.com

Fillet of Stupidity

“Collective fear stimulates herd instinct, and tends

to produce ferocity toward those who aren’t 

members of the herd.”--Bertrand Russell.

Phil,

who lives

in Philadelphia,

has had his fill

of narrow-minded

xenophobic reactions

to the South Korean

film PARASITE

sweeping the Oscars

last night.

Twitter lit up

with bitches and moans

about director Bong Joon-ho

speaking in Korean.

This is just

damned ignorance.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne Episode 108

image from pulpcovers.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 108

Help Arrives

“Not for ourselves alone are we born.”

--Cicero.

1(sound cue) A pair of wagons and several horses.

2(medium two shot) a night choked with stars, a full

moon, everything dipped in silver clinging to their

long shadows.

3(tight two shot) Buck woke up, and he could hear

help coming for a long time. The night was very

still, punctuated by cicadas. 

4(sound cue) piano and harmonica.

5(medium wide shot) They rolled in out of the darkness.

First came Doc. Sweeney’s carriage; Salina rode with

him, her hair wind-blown, her eyes damp. Bob Hart, 

the blacksmith followed them, with silver road dust

swirling on the freight wagon’s metal wheels. Henry

Wallace and sheriff Joe Hop rode alongside. Hop’s

skinny deputy rode in the bed of the freight wagon,

holding onto a shotgun, sitting on a colorful pile of

blankets and pillows. Johnny lie unconscious, as if

peacefully sleeping, the small smile still on his lips.

6(tighter medium shot) Buck did not stand up to

greet them. He sat up, his arms still around Johnny.

Salina leaped down from the black carriage and

rushed to Buck’s side. She knelt down, and Buck

stroked her cheek. She hugged his hand to her

breast. They did not talk.

The doctor reined up, and stepped down. He was

an elderly man, short and stoop-shouldered,

sporting white bushy mutton chops under his

battered derby

7(Three-shot) Doctor, whistling: Holy Christ, it’s like

Lincoln County all over again. Billy (to the deputy),

light that lantern and get your bony butt over here!

The doctor put down his satchel and opened it.

Wallace held up Buck’s lantern. Christ in a wheel

burrow, shake a leg, Billy.

Buck: He’s still alive. I can feel him breathing.

Doctor: Sam Sweeney’s the name. I’m the 

sawbones here. I was going to meet you

tomorrow.

Wallace squatted down alongside Buck: How many

of the sonsabitches were there?

Joe Hop stood behind them, staring at the smoking 

embers left of the house and barn. Billy came over

with the new lantern, and the Doc began examining

Johnny.

8(sound cue) guitar and clarinet.

Buck: I don’t know, a half dozen or so. I think a 

couple of them are Texas Toast in the fires.

Joe Hop: Did you recognize any of them?

Buck: No, but I was kind of busy killing them.

Actually I got here when it was almost over. 

Johnny dealt with most of them by himself.

Wallace: This was all Bronson’s doings.

Hop: You know, we’ll have to prove that.

9(two-shot) Buck, to the doctor: How is he?

Doctor: He’s in a coma, but damn, I have never

seen a man so shot-up and still breathing. He

must be one tough hombre.

Buck: Can we move him?

Doctor: We’re going to have to. He needs an

operation and I can’t do it in the yard.

Buck: Are you positive? We could take him into the

bunkhouse, and send for the things you need.

Doctor: Try to calm down, son. This man is in shock,

and for now the bleeding has stopped. Yes, he’s

packing more lead that most men could stand. But

he has a much better chance at pulling through if

we can get him to my surgery suite.

Buck: My mind is shell-shocked, but my heart tells

me to trust you.

Doctor: Good decision. I'll give him something for

infection, and we’ll put him in the wagon, and wrap

him in blankets. I’ll ride in the back with him to make

sure he doesn’t get too jostled about.

10(sound cue) snare drums and coronet.

Joe Hop: Light up a torch, Billy. Let’s locate all

these bodies, and drag them all out into the yard.

Let’s line them up like cord wood, and see what’s

what.

The deputy went to the wagon to get a torch.

Johnny moaned as the doctor examined the wound

in his solar plexus.

Doctor: Let’s move him now.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thor's Day

image from comicfan.com

Thor’s Day

“I am Thursday’s Child, not born on Monday,

Tuesday or Wednesday, no,no--but nothing could

prepare me for your smile.”--David Bowie.

Thursday is a workhorse,

like Tuesday,

but it’s harness has gold bells,

and it is majestic as a Clydesdale.

It’s never blue, or humped,

or something to thank God for.

Being retired,

every day feels like Saturday,

but there is something magical

about Thursday. It stands out

in bolder font; for me

it is the massive gear

at the top of a rollercoaster,

and from that apex,

we drop into a three day thrill ride.

It has a rich heritage.

Quakers call it Fifth Day,

most of us call it Fourth Day.

It was named after the Norse God of Thunder;

Thor, Thunor, Donar, and Thundraz.

Roman’s named it for their god Jupiter,

God of sky and thunder,

Jupiter’s Day, lovis Dies.

The Thursday before Easter

was the day of the Last Supper.

40 days after Easter

is the day Christ ascended to Heaven.

In Islam, the prophet Mohammad

fasted on Thursdays.

In America, the fourth Thursday

in November is Thanksgiving Day.

Perhaps I am Thursday's Child myself,

and it might be my death day.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Ice Bear Cometh

painting by Mark Adlington.

The Ice Bear Cometh 

“ ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast’ and it

is as necessary to life as the act of breathing.”

--Lewis Howard Latimer.

I used to think that only radical Muslims wanted to

return society to the ignorance and tumult of the

Middle Ages, but this winter we have witnessed

democracy receiving a gut shot, while the party

of Lincoln has turned their backs so they don’t

have to watch her bleed out.

My three-year nightmare is continuing, while the

madness of King Trump deepens, rotten to the

core, and it springs like a rabid carcinogen toward

all the vital organs of the Republic. Tiny Trumpian

ice cycles try to freeze my eyes shut. Dystopian

snow banks outside are already piled up over the

top of my doors and windows, and all I have is a

teaspoon to dig myself out with.

Housebound, I dream of the Spring that is to come,

but I see all the blossoms and bounty blacken with

authoritarian blight, while the cantaloupe skies swirl

with malicious locusts, bats and flying monkeys. What 

could spring me from this bear trap insanity--not the

next equinox, not even the sun of summer. I hope

that a tuft of emancipation awaits me in November,

when I will reach out to an Election that may already

be tainted, twisted, manipulated and violated by the 

dark denizens of MAGA. One clean pristine vote

tossed into a maelstrom of malice and 20,000 lies

Polar bears are hungry,

coming indoors now to sate

their taste for humans.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub