Blackthorne--Scene 51

image from pinderest.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-One

Capture

“Breathe next to me--and I will capture a piece

of your soul along with mine.”--Marikit Camba.

1(sound cue) more snare drum over horses nickering.

2(overhead crane shot) The stallion raced around the corral trap

as the three mares made a fuss & pulled against their ropes. The

Appaloosa bucked, jumped, kicked out his hind legs & then raised

up on them, wild-eyed punching at the dusty air.

3(medium wide shot) Buck & Johnny Eagle standing quietly behind

the pole gate.

4(tighter wide shot) the stallion calmed down finally, & stood regally

alongside his pinto bride.

5(close-up) the Appaloosa’s eyes calming, but his nostrils still

flaring, as the Indian’s scent seemed to defuse his anxiety.

6(sound cue) piano & harmonica.

7(medium close-up) Johnny’s face, aglow with excitement.

--God’s heuvos, that is one damn fine horse!

8(two-shot) angle on Buck--Hey, brother, it worked. Chatawa is ours.

9(two-shot) the stallion whickered, bobbing his head, the muscles bulging

in his leopard neck. The pinto mare only had eyes for him, but she did

glance sideways at the men.

10(tight two-shot) angle on the Eagle, over Buck’s shoulder:

--No, he is all yours, jumping right out of the clouds for you, folding

back his wings, mist still steaming off his spotted rump. You know

he has great medicine & a warrior’s heart, & one day soon he will

be pleased to carry your big bones. It is my honor to help break him.

11(sound cue) slide guitar blues lick over castanets.

12(medium two-shot) angle on Buck--Well, he’s not mine yet; only

the arroyo wind has been his rider. I will have to earn my claim on him.

13(tighter two-shot) angle on Johnny--With his spirited tonatas at stud,

you will build the finest rancho in the territory. He will sire magnificent

colts. Bronson will shit himself with raw envy.

14(medium wide-shot) Johnny slipped under the bottom pole & stood up,

his yellow hair lariat slack in his right hand.

15(tight two-shot) angle on Johnny’s face--You see his split ear? You are

a lucky hombre, boss--he’s been Nez Pierce trained. Appaloosas like him

have already been tamed & ridden, but never broken. This one has let

loose of his fear. He is just waiting to meet his new Master.

16(sound cue) harmonica, clarinet, & Indian branch flute.

17(close-up) Buck’s huge smile.

18(medium wide-shot) the stallion stepped out in front of his

staked mares, stamping his right front hoof--but there was no

sign of anger in him.

19(overhead crane shot) the three mares strained to bunch up 

as Chatawa & the Eagle squared off.

20(cut to medium two-shot) as Johnny began to walk slowly

toward the stallion--Sure, I know, hellfire stud, these are your

women. We will not hurt them. They will stay with you as your

companions. We will not hurt you either. No, no--we will give

you love. Do you remember love, Chatawa?

The stallion held the Indian’s scent in his nostrils, & upon hearing

his Indian name, he began to quiet down again.

21( medium close-up) angle on the Eagle over the stud’s shoulder:

--Yes, I am talking to you, brave boy with the ass like thunderclouds,

do you remember love. gentle hands, the smell of bison?

22(sound cue) coronet over pounding buffalo hooves.

23(medium two-shot) Johnny’s voice as narration--There is a buffalo

right there; you & he will be grande partners. You two prairie giants

have seen plenty of those big humps crashing to earth, huh?

24(angle on the Eagle) continuing to move slowly toward the stallion,

his rope now looped--Chatawa, do you see this rope?

25(close-up) he tossed the loop onto the ground near the stud’s hooves.

The great horse flinched, but stood his ground.

--That’s right, just an old rope, not a snake, harmless. It smells of horses,

mesquite, buffalo crap, sweat, & me. Johnny gathered up the rope, &

took a step closer.

26(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & kettle drum.

27(two-shot) in slow motion; the dappled stud lunged at him, but Johnny

was ready, quickly side-stepping & flicking the wide lariat loop over 

Chatawa’s head, then swing-wrapping it around a breaking stake, all in

a cicada click. The horse stopped, & stood tall.

28(medium close up) Johnny: You see, you are not hurt.

The Indian bent down & ripped out a handful of sweet bunch grass, &

tossed in near the stallion. Chatawa immediately began to munch the

treat. Johnny unwrapped the yellow rope & dropped it in the red dust.

29(medium two-shot) Johnny leaning against the inside of the poles,

& Buck with his ams folded over the top one.

--It grows late, boss. Let’s unstake his ladies & let them all calm down

over night. We will continue in the morning. I tell you, he has such

great spirit; I’ve never seen greater.

--Buck: And he knows love. That will be our key with him-his heart.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Where are the Doves?

image borrowed from ibankcoin.com

Where are the Doves?

“The 20th Century was the most murderous in recorded history.

The total number of deaths associated with wars exceed

187 million people.”--Eric Hobsbaun.

As Miss Kentucky replied to the judge’s inquiries for the Miss 

America crown, “I just wish for world peace & brotherhood.”

     As John Lennon & the Beatles sang, “Just give Peace a

     chance--all we need is love.”

           As the stoned rebellious hippies used to chant, “Make

           Love, not War”, flashing the peace sign.

                  As Gandhi used to say, “There is a sufficiency in

                  the world for man’s need, but not his greed.”

                      As Christians preach, “Love thy enemy”.

                             As poets write Poetry for Peace”,

I look at the unassailable data, the sad & hard truths, 

that human nature proves to be more bellicose than

it is peaceful--& this creates strife between siblings,

spouses, sports teams, neighborhood street gangs,

state & federal legislators & paralyzingly partisan 

politicians--& when scrutinized we find, to our dismay,

that there is no actual down time without conflict, chaos,

& cataclysmic events.

Yes, facts do lie, misrepresent & distort the truth,

                depending on which part is taken out of

                           context, before it becomes perverted,

                                   or re-channeled to better fit the selfish

                           needs of the pollsters & politicians 

                                   & professional manipulators--but I tell

you that rock hard data exists relative

                           to wars & their deadly consequences,

                staining the pale pages of history

                           with the blood of both the warriors

                 & the innocents caught up in the warfare.

1900    the Boxer Rebellion  (35,000)

1904    Germany vs. Nambia  (65,000)   

1904-05  Japan vs. Russia  (150,000)

1910-1920  Mexican Revolution (250,000)

1911  Chinese Revolution (2.4 million)

1903-1923  Ottoman Empire vs Italy, Armenia, & Greece (3 million)

1914-1918  World War I  (20 million)

1917-1921  Russian Revolution (5 million)

1918-1920   Russian Civil War  (1 million)

1928-1932   Chinese Civil War  (2 million)

1931  Japan vs. Manchuria  (1.1 million)

1932-1933  Soviet Union vs. Ukraine (10 million)

1936-1937  Stalin’s purges  (13 million)

1936-1945  Spanish Civil War (1 million)

1939-1945  World War II  (55 million)

1950-1953  Korean War  (3 million)

1964-1973  Vietnam War  (3 million)

1966-1969  Chinese Cultural Revolution (11 million)

1975-1979  Khmer Rouge, Cambodia  (2 million)

1977-1988  Soviet Union in Afghanistan  (1.3 million)

1991  Gulf War (85,000)

1996  War in the Congo (4 million)

2003-2011  Second Iraq War (160,000)

2011-2015  Iraq & Syrian Civil Wars (700,000).

Today Presidential candidates posture & squabble with each

other a full year before we elect a new President--but who is 

talking about making plans for peace?  Fear is the daily 

companion, & terror is the watch word & reality. Politicians

are panicking, playing right into the lethal radical Islamic 

plotting--the Holy War is upon us, another World War looms.

Innocent blood is just beginning to flow.

The beautiful doves are being slaughtered by the hawks.

The peaceniks are being battered & shouted down.

Where in the murderous midst of the bloodshed & carnage

is the hope, even a faint whiff of Peace? If it is there, I cannot

find it. I think it will have to just appear, materialize out of the

abysmal darkness like a magnificent white unicorn accompanied

by divine trumpetry & edict. On that triumphant day, I swear,

I will whole-heartedly embrace it. 

Why must War precede

Peace? Why is Peace so fleeting?

God only knows, not I.

  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"

The Gloaming

image by mary kling

The Gloaming

“The gloaming has begun. We’re in the darkness, & we

know this has happened before.”--Thom Yorke.

OK, this happened--I’m sitting here staring at a body of water

that is moving. Is it a river, a bay, the Sound, or the ocean? It

seems familiar. Have I been here before? I seemed to know

the way. It is not frightening.

Why am I all dressed up? A nice gray flannel suit, just like

Gregory Peck. Oh, that’s hilarious, I can remember that movie

but I don’t know my own name. Hell, it will be my luck that

my name will be stupid anyway, like Archiebald, Horatio, Dudley,

Efrem or Elmer. What day is this? Have I just come from church

like a lost lamb? Or am I a minister? No, I swear too much to be

a decent holy man. That’s it, I’m a defrocked priest, slumming at

some Protestant church, with three wise wives in three different

cities, telling them all that I’m a traveling bible salesman, when

actually I work undercover for the government, probably the CDA.

I’m really hungry. I can see it’s late afternoon or early evening. When

did I eat last? Do I have a wallet with cash & ID in it? No, my pockets

are empty. I have strong hands with rope-like veins, but smooth palms,

no callouses--maybe an artist, writer, business or con-man?

If someone comes along should I ask them if they know me? Am I

a dangerous man? Have I hurt people? Do I have children or grand-

children? I see a wedding ring, but I have no recall of a wife. Am I

a widower?

Why am I weeping? I don’t see any blood, or feel any pain--yet, for

Christ’s sake, I can’t quit crying. If I don’t stop pretty soon, someone

will notice & start asking me questions--but hell, then again, I might

get something to eat, or get to go for a ride somewhere. 

Lost in the gloaming,

gray ash falling tenderly;

no light to guide you.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub "Haibun Monday"

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger!

Image by Mary Kling

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger!

“I think history is continuous--it doesn’t begin or end

on Pearl Harbor Day or 9/11. We have to learn about

the past, but never be imprisoned by it.”

--Richard Holbrooke.

Four blood red chairs face the bay. Bob’s wife leaves them that way.

Bob had a tradition of meeting with three of his Navy buddies every

December 7th--since they were all Pearl Harbor survivors. They 

started this getting together, this ceremony in 1960.

They talked about the curse of Seven, attacked on a Sunday, both

the seventh day of the week & the month, as seven battleships

were moored in a nice line like sitting ducks, and the first wave

of Japanese zeroes came in at 7:55 am.

Bob had been on the Nevada. It left its berth & made a break for the

open sea, but it was attacked & damaged so severely, it had to beach

itself. Danny had been on shore in the barracks, since his ship, the

Pennsylvania was in dry dock. He had been getting ready for church.

Joe had been on the Oklahoma, that was hit by several torpedoes &

was so severely damaged, it listed to port & tipped over upside down.

He had been beneath decks in the stern. Ten nightmarish hours later,

the welders opened up an escape hole for some of them. Harry had

been on the California--hit  by several bombs it remained afloat for

three days before it sank. He had been a deck gunner, & his crew

shot down four zeros to thunderous applause.

By 1990, it was just Bob & Joe left. They didn’t talk much, just sat

there staring off to the West, hardly looking at each other. Joe died

on 09/11/2003. Bob sat alone for a decade more, smoking his Lucky

Strikes, drinking a beer, & his wife enjoyed listening to him talking

boisterously to his three pals, all yakking it up like they had fifty

years before. Every year on December 7th, she thinks she can still

hear them faintly on the wind. 

Four empty chairs face

West toward the Pacific, &

memories reside. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub for Haibun Monday

Persia Becomes Iran

image from commons.wikimedia.org

Persia Becomes Iran

“In 1935, Sir Malcolm Campbell drove an automobile

at over 300 mph.”--Associated Press.

Sweating in September--& hell’s bells, we’re eating

watermelon.

“How about that Babe leaving the Yankees for

the Braves?

How about Braddock beating Baer for the heavyweight

championship?

“I’d rather listen to radio shows.”

Have you heard this new guy--Bob Hope?

“I heard Ezra Pound met Mussolini.”

I’d rather hear Fibber McGee & Molly.

Glenn Buttkus

A Flash 55 for With Real Toads

Depression

image from John Guttman  1935

Depression

“During the Great Depression, audiences loved the funny men,

laughing their worries away. So I decided to become one.”

--Jerry Stiller.

“Come on, buddy-boy--forget about Mary-Lou. She’s a bitch

anyway.”

“I know, but I was in love with her.”

“Never trust a trapeze artist.”

“Maybe I’ll get a real job, & quit this horseshit clowning.

“It’s 1935. We’re in a Depression. You’re a dwarf. Get real.”

“Ah, it’s all crap. I hear Babe Ruth is retiring too.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted for Mama Zen over at With Real Toads

Inspiration on Rye

image from pinderest.com

Inspiration on Rye

“We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to

accept the one that’s actually waiting for us.”

--Joseph Campbell.

Yeah, it’s two a.m. 

          in Sin City, as the twin moons of March

                         hiss like licorice lawn sprinklers--

          it’s all swamp gas & maple syrup sweetness

                         there in the cobblestone alley, where

the blasphemous bricks babble Beatles’ tunes

          from their Caucasianist album & the red-velvet

          cake dumpsters love to perform chest-bumps &

                                                     French-kisses, spilling

                                            their left-over pizza crusts &

                                       Chinese food that always tasted

                                 like Syrian kerosene when you

                                 touched them.

Bobalina’s Bistro-Club & Pub                     opens up just as

                                 everyone else is closing their 

                         joints down. The door marked 

                 THE DAMNED is illuminated with sticky

          sheets of firefly nipple-honey, slathered

on so thick that it sounds like a wet

          weasel tail to the casual touch.     It is 10’ wide & 3’ tall,

                                           just off the alley, where the back

                                           is the front, & easy to hear for all

                                           the hippest trolls, those churlish

                                           children of the night, appearing

still-born & anxious 

out of spinning shadows     that felt like warm ice-water when

                        someone passed through them,

                        where a hundred angry voices,

                        clenched like a cocaine fist, were

launched from three dozen pie-holes

baking up bombastic bacon-wrapped

ballads & herring-soaked hirsute hosannas

as smug hyenas in beaver top hats & cork

boots banged their long silver wallet chains

in the pious piss-puddles adjacent to the exit

where everyone entered.

I’ve heard through the juicy peach that the juke opened up in the

late 40’s, financed by Holocaust survivors, & rapidly became the

club of choice for a lot of the sad Beat Poets, who readily admit

that all their best poetics were first carved into the men’s

room stall doors with dull carrot stilettos, with many of their

wurst-words transcribed into hand-stitched burn marks on

the rough underbellies of laughing purple loaves of Russian

Rye, that still lurk crucified on bloody nails in the nameless

dark passage ways, unnoticed, unless some silly customer

wants to use a flashlight as a microphone, or lights up a fat

doobie with a WWII Zippo, always hearing that tell-tale click 

that tastes like a chocolate carbuncle drenched in lighter fluid.

Bukowski had furious fistfights in the alley. Burroughs had sex

with Siamese twin typewriters while munching on black meat

muffins. Ginsberg ran naked, howling in pain, sporting a two

foot red dildo that was inserted in his butt. Kerouac constantly

recited bad haiku, that always tasted of rancid saki, & never 

made any profit. Most of us young Turks hung out there all

night, every night, taking turns sitting in Picard’s swivel chair,

mumbling, “Make it so.”

Poets find their own

inspiration in the odd

corners of chaos.

                           

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub MTB