Timothy Leary Is Dead

image borrowed from bing

Timothy Leary is Dead

“Think for yourselves, & always question authority.”

--Timothy Leary. 

It was 1968,

           San Diego, CA.       I was in the Navy, struggling

                                      to keep myself from being shipped

to Viet Nam.

Timothy Francis Leary was

coming to town;            a one night “Lecture Performance”

at a local theater. I felt that I had go to see him,

                                     this man that a few months later

President Nixon would call, The most dangerous man in America.

Leary,

a Harvard Psychologist & Professor,

                 used hallucinogenic drugs

                 like Lycergic Acid Diethylamide,

                       peyote/mescaline &

                       psilocylin mushrooms,

                 claiming that they all had therapeutic potentials

for incredible breakthroughs in Psychiatry.

“Turn on, tune in, & drop out.”

were the tagline on the posters downtown.

Leary, I thought could walk the walk,

having spent time behind bars in 29 different jails

as testament to his principles.

I had done my research on non-drug induced

                        states of consciousness;    meditation,

                                                                   trance,

                                                                   yoga,

                                                                   religious ecstasy,

                                                                   dreams &

                                                                   out-of-body experiences;

that to have a psychedelic experience, one needed

to understand that it was not the drug

                       that produced the transcendent event--

                       it merely was the key

that unlocked & opened the mind; freeing

                       the central nervous system

                                                       of its ordinary patterns.

Sure, when I arrived at the Theater,

                   I was offered those LSD sugar cubes,

                                         the dried magic mushrooms

                                         & the green chunks of peyote--

but I passed on all of them.

The place was packed, & the overwhelming

stench of unwashed hippy bodies

& marijuana smoke nearly choked me, spiced up

                    by two Buddhist monks in yellow robes

                    swinging their incense burners, while

three sitar players set the mood.

Leary entered to cheers,

walked regally to center stage

all dressed in Nehru-white,

and plopped down into the Lotus position,

                     which he maintained for two hours.

                     Ram Dass sat on his right, while

                     Allen Ginsberg sat on his left.

Between musical interludes, he spoke wonderfully

about metaphysical postulates, 

          scientific principles,

          Fascist politics & Life.             When at last he stood up,

                                      I leaped to my feet,

                                      fascinated, intrigued, entranced,

                                      ready to go AWOL,

                                      ready to drop out,

                                      ready to become a disciple.

But he turned & strolled off stage with his entourage 

not noticing me or my enthusiasm,

                                      my voice lost

                     in the middle of that great stoned throbbing throng.

He walked off stage into

the welcoming arms

of the the San Diego PD--

                & I had to reconstruct & reconfigure

                my soaring synapsis’ before

returning to NAS Miramar. 

               

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Blackthorne--a 55

image borrowed from bing

Blackthorne--a 55

“From birth to age 18, a girl needs good parents;

from 18 to 35 she needs good looks;

from 35 to 55 she needs a good personality;

& after 55 she needs a lot of cash.”--Sophie Tucker.

Sheriff Hop

seems to be

a badass;

Deputy Marcus

appears to be

a prick;

Barber Barnes

is gut-shot--we

hope he’ll survive;

Rod Buck

is staring into the barrels

of his own weapons,

hands on his hips,

eyes defiant;

Storekeeper Wallace

is speaking up for Buck--

& we have yet

to meet his daughter.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted on over at dVerse Poets OLN

Archways

image borrowed from bing

Archways

“Why do you speak to me of stones? It is

only the arch that matters to me.”--Kublai Khan.

Castles will surely crumble, but their stony bones laugh

at Time’s attacks.

*********************************************

Twilight comes to Tacoma, where rich men’s yachts

are foreground for museums.

***********************************************

Union Station, once a terminus, now just

a federal hogan.

************************************************

The window was an old skeleton, wearing new glass

as cloud mirror.

*************************************************

I found a pipeline being a bridge over oblivious waters.

**************************************************

An old Dodge logging truck can become sculpture,

left to the elements.

**************************************************

Water towers have just become hen’s-tooth scare

as covered bridges.

****************************************************

He was a forgotten king pretending to be

a young wayward prince.

*****************************************************

A solitary shoe becomes a clue about a careless

missing child.

*********************************************

Some statues seem to be screaming silently:

seen but never heard.

**********************************************

You must realize that all silver clouds do not have

Rolls Royce on their undersides. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read these American Sentences to you?

Concerto For Time Bandits

image borrowed from bing

Concerto For Time Bandits

“Old Time--his factory is a secret place, his work

is noiseless, & his hands are mute.”--Charles Dickens.

TIME: A non-spatial continuum in which events occur in

apparently irreversible succession from the past through

the present to the future.

The White Rabbit dashes about the Queen’s maze

                             staring at his large pocket watch:

                  I’m late, I’m late

                  for a very important date--

but like a gerbil spinning on his exercise wheel,

                             he went nowhere fast,           in a conflict

                             with inertia, caught forever

                             within the thorny parameters of the Now;

a prisoner,

a victim,                painfully aware that victory does not

                             always go to the swift--

just ask Tom Tortoise. 

Each of us squats comfortably

                              on our very own section of this planet,

                                                 trying valiantly to understand

                                                 hemispheres,

                                                 longitude,

                                                 latitude, & all those damned

Time Zones.          I reside in the Northwest, my wife is visiting

family in Texas, & as I write this she is two hours ahead of me,

                              while my oldest daughter in Maryland exists

three hours ahead--& so it goes traveling East  

                              ripping through zone after zone

traveling in an unbroken circle

                              until you bump into the butt of your own shadow,

arriving right back where you started; while some bush pilot

                              in Alaska struggles an hour behind me.

            When I traveled to Australia from California,

            dipping deep into the upside down reality of the Southern

            Hemisphere, speeding 8000 miles in 18 hours, I arrived

in Sydney the day before I left, & hey, when I returned, I arrived

            in LA 2 hours before I departed. 

Sometimes I find it to be fun to stop by a Clock Shop,
& stand in the actual moment

completely surrounded by thousands

of clicking, clanking, squeaking, whirring & twitching

springs & wheels housed in hundreds of time pieces--

                each a microcosm unto itself, a mechanical

miniature universe, inhabited by

                a vast population of dust mites, & while

our imagination has been focused so microscopically,

                 we take the opportunity to peer even further

                 within to a sub-atomic world

                 where a grain of sand

would appear to loom as large as Ayers Rock,

                 where Time stands still--

and that doesn’t even scratch the surface

                 of attempting to master or understand 

                            Time,

even while dropping into a whirlpool or worm hole,

                  folding back the edges of dimensional reality,

                  rocketing unimaginable distances

                                  while violating the laws of physics,

without even considering the metaphysical postulates

that beyond the Veil, Time does not,

                                           can not exist--

where Past, Present, & Future cohabit a linear continuum,

where

       the mysteries

                       of Life all

                                  become beautiful

                                                          pods of clarity.

So, what the hell time is it, you ask?

Well, you are standing in the pivotal center of it,

& it is later than you think,

& earlier than you would like it to be. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Yes, Alice, Poets Do Have Balls

image borrowed from bing

Yes, Alice, Poets Do Have Balls

“A dress makes no sense unless it inspires men

to want to take it off you.”--Francoise Sagan.

Brian came

           as bad boy Banksy, wearing

                              Ray Ban silver goggles, paint-smeared gloves

           with no fingers, with his mohawk

                                                 moussed straight up, with

                                                 red tips like cock Chanticleer;

he had three 10 foot wide canvasses

                               already painted like the sides of buildings,

& he was busy with his paint cans

                                               creating graffiti art

                                               that had Israeli fighter jets

dueling with Hamas rocket launchers,

                    while Obama & other heads of state

                    stood by wrapped in their country’s flags.

Claudia came as Zenobia,

                    the rebel Queen of Tadmor,

                                    paramour to Simon, the son of Barrabas,

                     tall & tanned, shirtless, & on her arm;

her gilded crown was offset

                                    by a large ruby in her navel, accenting

                                    her tight & toned tummy. She held court

over in a corner in front of her easel,

               where she painted watercolor caricatures

                                    of the guests. 

Bjorn came as hero Gideon Sunback, who

                        invented the modern prototype

for the zipper, wearing

                        a very tall felt top hat &

                        a  very tight red leather jump suit

that was covered with 100 multi-colored zippers, whose

              heads tinkled like fairy tunes

                                    as he pranced around giving

out those delicious Marabou Swedish chocolate bars. 

Glenn came as a Thracian gladiator,

           with a wide leather belt barely encasing his bulk,

his bulging waist trussed but still ample, his hairy

            chest properly salted with age, with leather wrist

                                    straps laced up with cat gut,

carrying a small shield on his left shoulder,

                                       & a short rubber-tipped Roman

gladius on his right hip, working

                  the room, saying to everyone--

                  “Hi, I am Spartacus, how you doin’ ?”

Gay sat on plush red & yellow cushions playing her guitar,

                            warbling Joni Mitchell,

                                          Joan Baez &

                                          Carol King tunes, dressed

like a hippy goddess in a bright tie-dyed khafkan 

                             & a long earthen brown flowing skirt,

with fresh flowers in her hair; with a small crowd

                             of admirers gathered at her bare feet. 

Victoria came as Florence Nightgale, with

             the crimson red cross

                             on her starched white nurse’s cap,

perfectly matching the red of 

                             the short velvet cape she wore;

sitting demurely at a red card table,

signing & giving away copies of

                              WINTER HAS PAST &

                              THE SIN OF HIS FATHER.

Laurie was in a beach outfit, wearing

           a wide brimmed straw hat, with

           a golden ribbon as its hat band,

over-sized pink sunglasses,

                         sequined lip gloss, with

a well-worn Texas A&M tank top

                         over her green bikini top

& the shortest shorts one could imagine; sitting

              on a blue couch

                         hob-knobbing with everyone

                         who strolled by; talking all about

how she was fixin’ to publish a new book real soon.

Shanyn was there too, dressed up like Annie Oakley,

                           carrying her Red Ryder air rifle, feeding

her Shetland Palomino pony,

                            carrots & oats out of a chrome bucket, offering

free rides to everyone’s kids, her own laugh

                so infectious, the place erupted with the delectable

bubbly laughter of dozens of children. 

Yeah, I think everyone made an appearance.

          Joe was there dressed up like Jim Bridger, letting

everyone play with his black powder muzzle-loader.

          Mary had her three canine companions,

                                Violet,

                                 Basil &

                                 Tulip

all on jeweled leashes, & they were wagging their butts

as they kiss-licked all the newcomers at the door.

          Tony was in a kilt, wearing a ten gallon cowboy hat.

                         Man, when would this boisterous reverie

ever end?         It has been going on for three days

now--it will probably last

                         362 more days.

                         That’s the rumor,

& I’m sticking to it. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets 3rd Anniversary Ball

Would you like to hear the author read this poetic lark to you?

Quartet Quandary

Image borrowed from Bing

Quartet  Quandary 

“There are issues of trust, deep trust, in the way the members

of a string quartet learn to interact with one another.”

--Yo-Yo Ma.

I.

“My life has been a dance that has walked a song 

that was spoken”--Maya Angelou

There can be, 

there is poetry in the naked motion

            of sports heroes,

                models,

                body builders & dancers;

where gluts flex boldly over

                                    undulating thighs,

                                                     bulging calves

                                                                  & expressive feet;

where Abs stand in rigid rows

                                    like militiamen on parade,

where deltoids partner with 18” biceps,

                                     with triceps as wing men;

where hands stroke their lovers,

                      sculpt faces from granite,

                                paint giant flowers that resemble

                                vaginal vessels of loveliness. 

II.

“If you are a dreamer, come in, sit by my fire, for we have

flax-golden tales to spin.”--Shel Silverstein.

I tell you we must dream about Peace even

               while we wield the weapons of War,

               follow orders,

               take innocent lives;

while we witness others among us

               waving Confederate flags,

                            calling our President

                                             a mongrel nigger monkey,

or standing with oaken billy clubs

                            & preventing black Americans

                                             from voting;

while we suffer the staggering ignorance of

homophobic

sexist

racist

misanthropic 

elitist bullies who

         dearly love to keep their boots

                                         on the beautiful necks

                                                                   of white doves;

for Peace is achievable, but it has to be fought for--

     Liberty has never been a mere entitlement;

                        it is reward for our sacrifices.

III.

“The word was born in the blood, grew up in the dark body,

beating, & took flight through the lips & mouth.”

--Pablo Neruda.

And what is the Word--

                          Love, Larceny, Lunacy--

                          Bastard, Brotherhood, Buttock--

                          Equality, Elephant, Evergreen--

                          Hindu, Hate, Horny--

                          Rose, Rhyme, Rigor-mortis--

                          Ferrari, Fellacio, Fire--

                          Cheetah, Callous, Conflict--

                          Breast, Bathroom, or Buick?

And how is the Word communicated best,

               through speech, epithet, prose, or poetry?

And the answer is YES,

               each word a gift, the birth

               of a child, where you are cast as

                                                               Creator,

                                                                Parent, & Pariah

in equal measure.         Yes not No, the sonorous sound of your voice

                               with the breathy hum of your inner harmony.

IV.

" A man can get by for 70 years without a piece of ass, but

he will die in a week without a bowel movement.”

--Charles Bukowski.

My grandfather often used to tell me,

                         “ The day will come, my boy, when you would

rather take a good crap than have

                           a terrific piece of ass.”

Though I am not aboard that boat

               yet, I can attest to the fact

               that Cascara Sagrada

can be a gentle friend when life’s conflicts

                                             lead to a bewildering state

                                             of constipation.

We are certainly not fooling our colons,

                for it is keenly aware of when

                                             we are full of shit. 

                          

                          

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets

Would ou like to hear the author read this poem to you?