Blackthorne Episode 118

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 118

Interruptus

“First, let me finish--then interrupt.”

--Brian Spellman.

1(sound cue) snare drum and French horns.

2(medium wide shot) Someone’s bullet ricocheted

off a tall brass spittoon and broke off a section of

the huge crystal chandelier in the middle of the

ceiling

3(sound cue) Voice over, Fuck you! a gunman

yelled.

4(close-up) A Spencer .50 caliber slug tore through

the table in front of Buck’s face, and a wood sliver

stuck in his chin, splitting the skin. He plucked out

the splinter.

5(sound cue) Voice-over, Buck: You missed my

eye, asshole!

Blood dripped off his chin.

6(medium wide shot) One of the men to Buck’s left

popped up and fired his shotgun. 

7(close-up) Buckshot tore up a floor divet next to

his boot heel.

8(cut to medium one-shot) Buck stood up, took aim

and retaliated with an angry pair of his own shotgun

shells. The hired gun did not duck in time, and Buck’s

bullets tore off his face and pulverized his head.

9(medium one shot) The big Indian swore as a fire-hot

Spencer slug grazed his ankle. He bobbed up with his

smoking Winchester, joining Buck. Buck fired twice, and

the Indian fired three times, his lever action a blur. 

10(sound cue) the thunderous report of their weapons

intertwined over strident piano chords.

11(cut to medium wide shot) One of the crack shots with

the Spencers upstairs didn’t duck fast enough, and a

.30-.30 slug hit him in the hand, and the shotgun blast

hit him in the shoulder. His buffalo rifle spun to the floor,

and he went down on top of it, lying flat, shivering,

gripping his mangled arm with his good one.

12(sound cue) Voice over: Hold your goddamn fire

Buck! Someone’s voice blasted into the saloon from

the street outside. It was Sheriff Joe Hop.

13(two-shot) The gunfire stopped. Buck and

the Indian swung their hot barrels around to

cover the front door. Buck rammed four more 

shells into his shotgun.

14(sound cue) Voice over: Are you in there,Thor?

was the inquiry from the darkness. It was Cash

Bronson.

15(close up) Buck’s face.

16(sound cue) Voice over: What the hell was Cash

Bronson doing here?

Joe Hop: Hold your fire, we’re coming in.

17(sound cue) guitar blues chord and harmonica.

18(medium wide shot) The Sheriff stepped through 

the double doors brandishing his own scattergun.

Bronson walked in close behind him, his hands on

his hips, his Smith & Wesson holstered. Deputy

Billy, tall and lean, followed Bronson in. his Colt

in his hand.

19(medium close up) Cash surveyed the damage to

the room with a slow sweep of his eyes. Shaking his

head, he whistled low.

20(sound cue) Voice over: Is that you, Cash? called out

Paul Bronson from behind a door.

21(Medium close-up) Bronson: Yeah, Paulie, it’s me.
You can come out now. Get your butt down here.

22(wide shot) From the relative refuge behind 

turned over tables, like prairie dogs after a stampede,

heads popped into view. Buck’s shotgun was still

smoking. The Sheriff took a step toward him. The

Indian still had his carbine leveled at the three

newcomers.

23(three-shot) Not so fast, the Indian said.

Sheriff: Tell your amigo to lower his piece.

4(sound cue) piano.

Buck nodded. The Indian lowered his .30-.30.

and the deputy clicked back to safety with his

pistol.

5(cut to crane wide shot) Paul Bronson

appeared at the top of the stairs. He was holding

hands with the fiery-haired harlot that he liked to

batter. She stood there with wide eyes, and a hand

over her mouth.

Glenn Buttkus

Open Li

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub OLN

Salty Nipples

image from pinterest.com

Salty Nipples

“She is water, powerful enough to drown you, soft 

enough to cleanse you, deep enough to heal you.

--Adrian Michael.

When I think of mermaids and selkies,

I get caught up with the romantic tales;

that female top half with green eyes,

beautiful faces,

wonderful long tresses,

and magnificent breasts.

After many lonely months at sea,

many a sailor dreamed of these

gorgeous girls with gills.

Some of these aquatic sirens

could assume human form,

for procreation and predatory

tendencies.

We’ve all read the shimmering legends

of merfolk living in the lost city of Atlantis.

Mermen are less mentioned,

but they are supposed to be the offspring

of a human male and a mermaid,

like Triton and Aquaman.

Sadly, there is an empirical side to me

that nullifies the fetching folklore,

I mean, yes, originally we all came

from the sea, but we adapted very slowly

from amphibian to mammal,

from gills to lungs,

from evaginations to invaginations.

For a creature to have the capacity,

the will to change to human form

with a snap of their fins, transports

them into the realm of fantasy.

Besides, it just pisses me off

that if a man falls in love

with a sexy mermaid, his reward

was his own drowning.

I liked it better when the woman

who fell in love with the Merman

in THE SHAPE OF WATER,

was given gills, so that she

could frolic and copulate

forever in the deep.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Daddy, Can You Hear Me?

image from warposters.com

Daddy, Can You Hear Me?

“We cannot invade America. There would be a rifle

behind every blade of grass.”

--Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto.

As a poet, I have mentioned divers aspects of my

life. I am comfortable with my past laid naked, an

open book, personal fodder for  poetic musings.

On paper, legally, I was not a bastard. My mother

was married when I was born. After my mother’s

early death at 39, it was revealed that her first

husband was not my real father. After two more

marriages, I piled up three stepfathers. My real

father remained anonymous for 75 years, like

a bottomless pit in my chest. 

On my birthday a year ago, after submitting my

DNA as a lark to Ancestory.com, I was contacted

by a woman who claimed to be related. We met,

and compared our life stories; and shazam, the

aching mystery of who was my father was solved.

There were five sons in her Pellegrino family. My

Father had to be one of her four uncles. The eldest,

Frank, turned out to be my Dad. As a soldier, he met

my mother while passing through Spokane in 1943.

He survived the war, and ironically lived less than 30

miles from me for five decades, until his death in the

90’s. I am 68% Italian, and I now have a new family.

I proudly have a portrait of my father in his paratrooper

uniform hanging over my desk.

My Dad was a war

hero, spending June ’44

fighting in Europe.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

351 Cleveland

image from motortrend.com

351 Cleveland

“They say you only go around once, but in a 

muscle car, you go around two or three times.”

--Tim Allen.

The first time that I

glanced out the kitchen window

and saw the raspberry

dawn’s rays dancing on its long

hood and down its raked fastback,

I was stunned by my

1973 Mustang, muscled

black on black, resting buff on

raised-letter radials and chrome

magnums, its polished sleekness

stretched skin-tight over

thick channeled Detroit steel.

On city streets and

fast lanes on the freeway, I

had to always rein it in.

I loved the glimpses

I would catch as it glided

across the cold face of

glass buildings. It was Pantara-

bred pumped iron. In traffic

it sliced like a shark

midst schools of lesser vehicles.

At twilight I would

drop down through the darkness of

tall trees in my raven cruiser,

scattering fat gravel,

with deep notched treads, embracing
the golden stardust

that winked deep

into is ebon wax.

Glenn Buttkus

Imagist poetry

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub MTB

Drum Me Three Times

painting by Neal Peart. 

Drum Me Three Times

“As soon as war is declared, it’s impossible to hold

the poets back. Rhyme is still the most effective drum.”

--Jean Giraudoux.

Moving

as an old

white man,

I may have

faulty rhythm,

but in my ears,

I’m a premier percussionist.

In a Rock mood

I feel

the snare,

the toms,

with my foot

tapping the bass.

When

light-hearted,

I hear

the Conga

and bongos.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Man With a Plan

image from Visual Verse.

Man With a Plan

It was 1880,

and the journal Science was first published,

financed by Thomas Edison, 

the Australian police captured outlaw Ned Kelly,

and P.T. Barnum and James A. Bailey

combined their circus troupes.

George Kellogg was a consummate animal lover.

He opened a small pet shop in Portland, Or.,

where Edison’s ship, the S.S. Columbia

completed its maiden voyage.

At first, George only carried dogs, cats, & birds;

from mutts to pure-breds,

from Tabbys to Siamese,

from Magpies to parrots.

By the second year his shop

stocked exotic snakes and rodents.

He became quite wealthy,

and he opened another shop

up north in Seattle, but it was a disaster,

closing down in six months.

Too many lumberjacks, seamen and roughnecks

up there, thought George; but the truth was

there were just too many

snake and rodent haters up there .

Glenn Buttkus

Kim Russell inspired me to write this and submit it

to Visual Verse; smile .

Posted over at d'Verse Poets PubOLN