Numb Peach

image borrowed from bing


"Every man's memory is is private literature."
--Aldous Huxley

Numb Peach

NUMB PEACH is my best

remembrance of mulberry times,

lava lamps, jade earrings;

dark days too, spawn of

helter skelter, Manson lore,

sienna sinews torn;

coconut cigars,

onyx rings on all fingers,

feline eye shadow;

willow wreaths in hair,

LSD imps run amok,

alto sax riffs cool;

thistleless tulips,

rye bread dunked in hot milk,

tumbleweed blues chords;

elbows of ivy,

eucalyptus tea daybreaks,

opal umber dreams.

Glenn Buttkus

May 2012.

Posted over on Rosemary Mint-Thursday Melting Bonus

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Paleo-Troll

painting by frank frazetta

Paleo-Troll

Lying 

under the low bridge

outside of Hemet on

the “Pine to Palms” highway,

on a soft desert evening,

drinking 

his fill of another half gallon

of Maraka Cherry Wine,

feeding

the trio of rooks he lived with

Wonder Bread balls, 

examining

the brochure he 

had picked up in town

informing

him that he slept near the 

“Valley of the Mastodons”;

dreading 

the emergence

of his inebriate self, and

the inevitability of

hearing 

that herd of shaggy brutes,

those mammoth spirits

trumpeting 

stentorian and lusty

deep in the warm darkness,

causing

him to anxiously sit up again

in his dirty surplus sleeping bag,

clicking

on the dented three-cell flashlight

he kept at his side;

comprehending 

very little as to how some

nut-sized limbic desperado

called Almond Amygdala was

triggering 

his many midnight

paleolithic panic-attacks,

making

tranquil Mt. San Jacinto

that was

looming

up between him

and a million stars--

blocking 

out the lava pool of headlights

streaming over San Gorgonio,

pretending

to belch noxious

volcanic fire, until

passing 

out, falling into canyon

vino veratas, before

waking

to another cicada

mariachi band;

trying

not to throw up, hardly

hungry, always cranky

and completely

amnesic. 

Glenn Buttkus

May 2012

Posted over on Monday Melting 16

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Jukebelly

painting by justin bua


Jukebelly 


Blues man, blues man,
I can see you now,
midnight in the juke womb,
kerosene lights blazing
like your eyes through the smoke
close by the river
all the way out of town,
you getting the youngsters on their feet
twirling, spinning, hugging, shaking and smiling,
as you sit there strong in your spot,
strumming that old acoustic six-string,
smacking it on its bare butt,
lifting your bulk off the stool
with each vigorous slam;
the slide jumping around the frets
like a mad and ravenous metal insect,
eager to bend those chords, to blend them whole,
making that guitar wail, throb, and shiver,
making passionate love to it
like it was a pretty woman,
first gentle—then hard—
for those precious hours you serenade us 
with your deep delta delicious raspy voice,
punctuated poignant with kissing your shiny harp,
letting your busy tongue coax
the sweet sadness out of it—damn,
we are neither black nor white, no, no,
we’re just folks, part of the people
sharing one huge smile as we thump our feet,
pound our legs,
getting married to the rhythm you thrust out
into the hot smoky night.


Glenn Buttkus 


March 2009



Posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics


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2Retaliate

image borrowed from bing

2Retaliate

never lie down in abysmal darkness,

badgered by bullies, under damn duress.

Darwin may have figured it out all wrong,

for one can survive with bars from Pan’s song

humming on our pursed lips, while turning cheek,

owning our pain, not accepting the meek

label forced raw upon our puerile person;

we search for compassion, find mostly none,

we open our arms, aching warm and wide,

allowing their bile welcome access inside;

we know we are not a flesh-bone doormat,

so we change bellicose to pesky gnat;

we retaliate with a genuine smile

as contagion, de-fusion for a while.

Glenn Buttkus

May 2012

the more better Clarian Sonnet

Posted as well over on dVerse Poets-FFA

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Retaliation

image borrowed from bing

Retaliation 

Never be pushed into abysmal darkness,

badgered by bullies, under duress.

Darwin may have figured it wrong,

one can survive with Pan’s song

on our pursed lips, while turning cheek,

owning pain, not accepting the meek

label forced raw upon our delicate person;

we search for compassion and find none,

we open our arms warm and wide,

allowing their bile access inside;

we know we are not a flesh doormat,

so we change bellicose to gnat;

we retaliate with a genuine smile

as contagion, de-fusion for a while.

Glenn Buttkus

May 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets-FFA

My Moment

image borrowed from bing

My Moment

I see the sun breaking bright and cold, 
between the shoulders and knees 
of big bellied black clouds--
will rush to stand in the spotlight.


Glenn Buttkus


May 2012

Climbing Mountains

painting by cornelis bega

climbing mountains

Climbing mountains. 
Searching for the fountain of youth. 
Searching 
for that big rock candy mountain. 

Buying beer. 
Buying cars. 
Diet pills.
Too good to be true. 


Just around the corner. 
Lottery tickets. 
The eternal quest for the easy fix.
Magic, magic, magic.
The land of milk and honey 

Long neck bottles of beer.
Take a swig of this. 
The first taste is free.
Shang Ree Lah di Dah.


Doug Palmer