Candy Apple Morning

image from fineartamerica.com

Candy Apple Morning

“There is no way that a writer can be tamed, rendered

civilized, or cured. The only real solution is to provide 

the patient with an isolation room, and poke food into 

him with a stick.”--Robert A. Heinlein.

He sat in the attic

on a sangria plastic chair,

near the one window

with its maroon curtain

pulled to the side.

His cheeks were blushed

from an excess of Merlot

the evening before, and

his eyes were blood-shot

from weeping.

Discarded and sequestered items

were scattered, stacked and boxed,

bathed in sunrise smoldering rays;

a crimson Elmo lying on its back,

waiting patiently for its tummy rub.

An overflowing box of Legos,

with the brick-red pieces

bright and cheery.

His father’s favorite red flannel shirt

folded neatly and moth-eaten, one

sleeve hanging out of the

berry-colored Costco box.

A ceramic current-hued tea pot,

chipped and sad, lidless and tilted.

A raspberry jam jar filled with

paper clips and red rubber bands.

A twisted-up pair of child’s

burgundy pajamas, dotted

with numerous chili cats.

A long string of lipstick red pop beads

hanging off the edge of a tall mahogany

framed dressing mirror.

A Bell quart jar of plastic

red roses, inhabited by

two dueling cherry red ants .

A large strawberry colored Little Pony

with pinto bean mane and tail.

A bulging box of Christmas decorations,

plastic candy canes, blood-red snowflakes,

stars, bells, and balls.

A pair of festive current and green

holiday socks with alternating stripes.

A cranberry glass ash tray

with vintage match covers in it.

A large ball of chutney yarns

with knitting needles sticking out of it.

A Ferrari-red metal model

of a ’68 Mustang, missing

a front wheel.

He stood up, cracked his

ruby-rashed over-washed knuckles,

peered outside at the empty streets,

and made his way to his bedroom,

with it’s unmade bed, with tomato-red

cotton flannel sheets, where a first edition

of Ben Hur in its Persian-red cover awaits.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Wild Child

image from pinterest.com

Wild Child

“The world is a fascinating place for humans like me.

I’m busy building magic, while half the world is

building wars.”--Nikki Rowe.

Day or night, longitude or latitude, the hour, country,

time zone, karma, hemisphere, ethnicity, parents,

helix lottery, due date, and alignment of the stars--

these are just some of the things to consider when 

you are determining who you are, which is a lot

simpler than figuring out why you are.

I am a Gemini, the wild child of the zodiac. A year

ago I wrote a poem called Twice Born. My two

faces of Cantor and Pollux are conceived back to

back, at first unaware of each other; like the back

of your neck, these faces belong to those around

you, who ultimately will hold up a mirror for your

perusal. At that point you become sentient of your

blessed duality as earthy intellectual, and you

realize being two-faced is a positive asset.

I share my sign with John Wayne, Laurence Olivier,

Bob Dylan, Johnny Depp, Morgan Freeman, Colin

Farrell, Marilyn Monroe, Queen Victoria, Anne Frank,

Nathan Hale, Paul McCartney, Clint Eastwood, 

Lou Gehrig, Judy Garland, Henry Kissinger, Che

Guevara, Wild Bill Hickok, Bob Hope, Jim Thorpe,

Geronimo, Jerry Stiller, Ralph Waldo Emerson,

Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, Mark Wahlberg,

Paul Gaugin, Venus Williams, Brooke Shield, JFK,

and to my chagrin, Donald J. Trump.

The Ides of March are

Gemini, cradled between

winter and the spring.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Twice Born

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Bat out of Hell

painting by Eric Lacome

Bat out of Hell

“James wanted to streetlight me, so that the bats

would circle me like I was the center of the world.”

--Sherman Alexie.

I never have been very fond of bats,

those hideous flying creatures of the night.

Then again I am a lover of cats,

especially if they don’t scratch or bite.

For me a bat is just a flying rat,

though a flock of them is a real sight.

They say Covid-19 was started by a bat.

No pandemic has been started by a cat.

Some bats are actual vampires

that vastly prefer human blood.

Sadly, not Big Pharma or church choirs,

not snake oil elixir or blessed magic mud,

Not holy healers or very large fires

can cure the deadly Corona crud.

It is frightening to review daily Stats,

hard to imagine when things will be alright.

Glenn Buttkus

Couplets

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Half Mast

image from pinterest

Half Mast

“There’s a boat on the reef with a broken back,

and I can see it very well.”--Elton John

The streets are so empty,

it feels like we are living

in a science fiction movie.

The wind carries litter

throughout the concrete canyons.

Great, gas is finally 

under two bucks a gallon,

and now

there is no place to go,

nowhere

in the entire world.

It’s like we are reliving

a Nazi horror story.

We stand by the thousands

next to mile-long,

freshly dug pits,

naked, with our eyes closed,

knowing that millions will die.

Our economy keeps tanking,

as bad as the Great Depression,

but at least in the 30’s

the only pandemic

was hunger and poverty.

Who will govern

after this ghostly corona

has fully blossomed,

when the chamber doors

are chained,

and the tall white columns

begin to gather ivy?

It is not logical

to be told

that the way to win this war

is to do nothing,

duck and cover,

scrub your hands

until your knuckles bleed.

In a few days,

or a month,

it’s projected that all our hospitals

will be overrun,

the mobile military medical tents

and converted empty buildings

will all overflow,

and the sick and dying

will lie first in the hallways,

and then in the streets;

plague rats on a gut wagon.

Everywhere,

the flags are flapping

at half mast,

and I can see them

very well.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Magicians Unite

image from amazon.com

Magicians Unite

“I believe something very magical can happen

when you read a good book.”--J.K. Rowling.

Is it magic

when a four year old

sits down

and plays Mozart?

Is it magical,

after forty years

of searching,

to find your soul mate?

Does it take

a magician

to make Trump

disappear?

If it’s true,

find that damn Magus

real soon.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille: exactly 44 words.

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Panty Pink Caddy

image from J. Hardy Carroll.

Panty Pink Caddy

“Singles hitters drive Fords. Home-run hitters

drive Cadillacs.”--Pete Rose.

Mrs. Robert Rogers bought me in the Fall of 1958.

I’m a 20 foot 1959 Cadillac El Dorado four-door

sedan, painted bright pink. My tail fins and quad

tail lights still turn heads. I have a 390 V-8, with an

automatic transmission. I have the Cadillac chrome

steering wheel, wire wheels and white walls.

In 1999, I had 200,000 miles on me, rings were shot,

and my tranny was slipping. She hadn’t licensed me

in three years. She opened Rock-n-Rogers Diner that 

year. She had me hoisted twenty feet off the ground.

I can dig it. I enjoy the view.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at Friday Fictioneers

Blackthorne Episode 111

image from pulpcovers.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 111

Lead Hunt

“I want to paint a picture some day that is so

realistic it will creep into people and mushroom

like a soft-nosed bullet.”--O. Henry.

1(sound cue) snare drum brushing and harmonica.

2(medium wide shot, overhead crane) Twenty hands

reached out from the crowd to help. Buck carried him

under his shoulders. Johnny’s head rested against

Buck’s chest. Three other large men helped to carry

Johnny up the steep stairs to the doctor’s office. Doc

Sweeney unlocked the door And swung it open.

3(cut to interior) of the doctor’s office. Sweeney 

stepped in and held the door. The four men carried

Johnny into the room.

4(medium close-up) Doc Sweeney: Put him right

there, pointing at a linen-covered operating table

in a small inner room.

5(sound cue) rough boots on the stairs, and men

talking low over violins and piano.

6(medium wide shot, overhead crane) The men 

placed Johnny on the sparkling white linen as they

would a child. The Eagle’s eyes were closed, but

there’s a REM movement in the lids, as Johnny

was on a dreamscape spirit quest. Salina stood

next to Buck.

The place was full of bystanders, but for the

moment, all were silent. Doc Sweeney made his

way through the throng, his leather satchel open

under his arm. He had taken off his jacket, and his

sleeves were rolled up.

7(close-up) Sweeney: Salina, there’s a big stove 

out there, will you start a fire and heat up a big

basin of hot water?

8(medium close-up) Salina: Sure, and I’ll assist

you if you wish.

Sweeney: Excellent, you be my nurse tonight. I

don’t have enough hands for this job.

9(two-shot) Mr. Buck, you look very handsome

with that dried blood on your temple, but why don’t

you go clean up at my sideboard. There’s soap

and water there.

10(sound cue) harmonica and guitar.

11(cut back to medium overhead wide shot) 

Buck gently pushed his way through the clot

of anxious faces, and began to wash up.

12(medium close-up) He looked at his

reflection in the swivel-mirror attached to the

oaken sideboard. He was surprised to see the

exhaustion in his face.

13( cut to the operating anteroom) the Doc had

finished putting out his instruments, on a sterile

silver standing tray. He picked up a pair of shiny

nickel-plated scissors, that had a diagonal head on

them. He began cutting Johnny’s shirt off. It was

so caked in dried blood that it sliced like burlap.

Without looking up, he said: Would you mind

clearing the area for me; I’m feeling a little

claustrophobic. There’s a lot of space in the 

waiting room.

Buck and Wallace herded the crowd into the 

waiting area. Salina was busy building a fire

in the tall pot-bellied stove at the west corner

of the room. Buck approached her. The chairs

filled up fast. Many had to stand, shifting from one

foot to the other, making hushed small talk, 

swearing and praying.

14(sound cue) soft piano and banjo.

15(wide two-shot) Three hours later Buck sat in

an overstuffed chair, staring into a large painting

on the wall. A seascape, with angry waves crashing

onto a black beach, with the tiny white specks of

flocks of sea gulls dotting a cerulean sky, a stark

beach without rocks, one pair of footprints in the

black sand, and the faint visage of an island in the

mist on the horizon.

Henry Wallace sat across from him in a large white 

chair, his hoary head in his hands, his eyes closed.

But for them the room was empty.

16(shot over Buck’s shoulder) He could see into the

operating room. Sweeney was working on Johnny’s

knee, scraping the bone, searching for more lead

fragments. Buck could hear the scalpel scraping

on the live leg bone, like evil fingernails on a

schoolhouse blackboard.

17(sound cue) Indian branch flute.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub OLN