Blackthorne Review X Ep. 52-53

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenics 52-53

Review  Part X

“Thank-you all for the patience & persistence it takes

in trying to keep up with, & fully grasp, the scope of

this poetic cinematic saga. We’re close to a wrap now

on the requested review of the previous episodes. On

the next OLN, I will post the original Cinemagenic 54,

and (smile), we will be current.”--Glenn.

Fifty-One: Intruders--The scene opens at the men’s

campsite, as the fiery morning sun, a few minutes high, 

has blood red shafts still dancing through the ragged

clouds that hug the foothills. Buck is waking up to the

smell of frying bacon, steaming coffee, bubbling white

beans & sourdough biscuits. Johnny, “Good afternoon,

boss--you about ready for some vittles? Buck nodded

as he stood up & stretched. Behind him was the corral

trap. The Appaloosa stood watching him. The pair of

mares were down on folded legs, munching grass. A

jack rabbit burst out of the brush near them. Cheewa

lunged to the chase. jumping over the fire, spilling

some of the coffee. “Besa mi culo, boss, your dog

nearly trampled our fine breakfast.”  Yawning, Buck

said, “He’s just getting after his own meal. I’m sure

sorry he spilled the coffee.”  Both men laughed, then

Johnny became silent, “You need to wake up, my

Buck--looks like we got company.”  Buck, “Can you

tell how many?” Johnny, “More than four.”  Buck,

“Well, fuck me first thing in the morning.” The Eagle

picked up his carbine & jacked a shell into the chamber.

Cheewa returned with blood on his muzzle, and he

stood next to Johnny, a growling black ramrod. A

swirling dust cloud out on the flats began to fill up

with riders. Buck scooped up his black hat & his

heavy gunbelt--pulled his hat down in front & buckled

the gun belt tightly, pistol cartridges in front, & .50

caliber brass shells on the back side. He slipped on

his battle vest with the red shotgun shells poking out

from his heaving chest. He checked the load in his

Colt Thunderer & the sawed off shotgun. He levered

a big shell into the firing chamber of his Sharps, and

leaned it up on the edge of his fancy saddle. Johnny,

“I count cinco culeros riding down on us out of the

darkness--a pack of pendejos.” The Appaloosa stood

as a dappled statue. The mares were on their feet 

with the red sun blinking through their scanty manes.

The riders approached out of the sun in the East. 

When they were two hundred yards away, strung out in

a Cavalry picket line, Buck asked, “Who is it? Can you

tell yet?”  Johnny, “It’s Cash Bronson”. 

Fifty-Three; Red Riders--The riders emerge over the rim

with swirling dust rolling over them. Buck & Johnny stood

stiff-backed, facing the horde. Johnny, “Cocked & loaded,

boss.”  Buck. “Fucking boy rowdy.” We hear the fire

popping & the dog growling over a slide guitar riff. The 

riders come in at full gallop, the sun rising behind them,

their faces in red shadow. They pulled up hard and fast,

as their horses snorted, nickered & pranced--heaving and

steaming. Johnny recognized all them, his eyes hardening.

Buck thought, “Alright, the honcho in front has to be

Bronson.”  That man sat on a golden palomino. His gear

was Vaquaro-ornate. with wide silver-studded stirrups,

chest halter & skirts. He wore a wide-brimmed white hat

with the sides rolled up perfectly, a stark white shirt--now

dust-smeared, a thick leather string tie pulled through

a silver stallion head bolo, a weathered buckskin vest, 

tight brown denims, and fancy knee-high well-polished

boots--complete with cruel silver spur, the rowels still

spinning. A .44 Smith & Wessen hung on his left hip.

Perfect white buckskin gloves covered his small hands.

He was a big man, nearly as tall as Buck, but heavier.

He was clean shaven & had pasty pale skin, with thick

eyebrows, soot onyx eyes, & a prominent patricians'

nose. On Bronson’s left were three wire-thin jumpy

wranglers--to his right was a very tall lean fellow on

a coal gelding, whose icy green eyes waited for Buck

to notice him. He had a long thin face with dark circles

under his eyes. Buck thought, “Now this piece of work

has to be Thor”.  An awkward minute ambled by, Buck

& Johnny were taunt & ready. Finally someone spoke.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Dazzle Me Deeply

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Dazzle Me Deeply

“If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance,

baffle them with bull shit.” --W.C. Fields

When I feel & hear the powerful razzle 

of twin mufflers from a 500 hp muscle

V-8, I get faint with macho joy.

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

Reading another’s poetry, or even re-reading

my own, when I encounter those words, phrases

or images that dazzle me, I am fulfilled as

a citizen poet.

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

In thirty years, my wife’s eyes, wit, & sensuality

have not lost one iota of their incredible sparkle.

I carry cheap sunglasses for protection. 

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

The dimwitted Donald would like you to believe

that he possesses political razzle, though he comes

across like a carnival barker or grand wizard or

grimy grifter--but for many of us his ersatz dazzle

has all the sparkle of an enormous repugnant

mud pie atop a ton of chicken shit.

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

Fall has the power to

razzle hearts, dazzle our eyes

and sparkle spirits.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Morning Has Broken

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Morning Has Broken

“Morning has broken like the first morning,

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.”

--Cat Stevens.

Morning arrives aboard cottonmouth moments, fitful 

glimpses of consciousness, our old tomcat on the deck 

complaining, the congestion from the tail end of my cold 

complicating oxygen consumption, my wife stirring in the 

bathroom, for post-retirement she now works half-days 

mid-week as a consultant--followed by cortical steroid 

inhalations to control my asthma, with fresh fruit juice 
gulps to clear the steroids out of my throat. My breakfast
routine--soy milk, cottage cheese, fruit & yogurt, with
a steaming cup of Chinese tea, clicks off as the darkness
outside my window embraces dawn, and an overcast
grayness sports pockets of blue sky & those odd rays
of sunshine--as October arrives lethargically midst the
meteorological confusion of our lovely lingering Indian
summer.

The ancient maple

towers majestically--

leaves turning yellow.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Pets Pub

Faith

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Faith

“Faith without doubt leads to moral arrogance, which

is the eternal pratfall of the religiously convinced.”

--Joe Klein.

                                       Faith

                                 a girl’s name

                              could be, or a boy’s

                       --to wear, to carry to defend

                 like a tattooed lace collar, or plucked

                                   eyebrows.

Faith,

for me,

always pops

up false, like a

simpleton’s trembling

smile, or those spinning

metal duck targets in a carnival

shooting gallery.

                                                   Even 

                                                   as a child,

                                                   I found the bright

                                                   zealous eyes of the faithful

to

  be

     empty,

            a sell-out,

                   false & phony,

                           the worshipping

of

big

attractive

lies,

charismatic

con-men

and

very

dangerous

demagogues.

We see that faith

      and subsequent belief systems,

                go hand in hand, go steady like

                      some junior high crush, and that

                   relationship is as fragile as a

               paper mache boat--too easily

          sinkable, unbalanced, unhinged

without wheels, without genuine

propulsion--yet claiming, even

boasting of its stability.

Faith, by definition, is a strong belief in something

of/for which there is no empirical truth, an admission

& a celebration of ignorance--where someone buys

the con, the premise & moves into a compound in

Waco, or a village in Guayana, or travels to Syria

to learn how to kill Infidels, rape young boys, suppress

women, & literally reverse reality, shifting it back into

the barbaric past, or elect a pompous arrogant

billionaire who makes promises of change based upon

sleight of hand & the pernicious greed of the 1%. 

So here I stand, absent of faith in our government,

politicians or the police, with my acrid skepticism

being reinforced daily.

Perhaps faith itself

is not a false journey, and

we must accept that

our personal choices do

demonstrate our need for it.             

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Comparisons

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Comparisons

“Personality begins where comparisons leave off.”

--Shannon L. Alder

Pessimism bitch slaps optimism.

The earth & its moon tend to hide their dark side.

Comparisons are inevitable,

night and day,

yin & yang,

monochrome images juxtaposed to color ones,

perfect smiles vs. broken teeth,

athletes competing with the crippled,

molotov cocktails vs. tiger tanks,

men from Mars--women from Venus;

gods of war vs. nymphs of love,

bare knuckles compared to boxing gloves,

50’s shoe skates vs. roller blades,

dusky moths fluttering beside Monarch butterflies,

a 1949 Packard alongside a Nisson Leaf,

a garden spade vs. a steam shovel,

bare hands vs. an industrial crane,

a wheel barrow competing with a box car,

mountains towering over foothills,

a mud puddle in sight of the sea,

a sperm whale swimming with sardines,

& the Donald pretending to debate Hillary.

Art is so vast, it

surrounds & inspires us to

interpret its face.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Denizens

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Denizens

“God is dead, & we killed him--but his

shadow still looms.”--Friedrich Nietsche.

Can anyone

take a stroll

after midnight.

even in a well-lit

city, without fearing

what lurks in the

shadows--                            that netherworld of

                                             scurrilous foes that

                                             live to hunt.

                                                       rob,

                                                       rape,

                                                       murder,

                                                       defile &

                                                       devour

                                              we who walk in the light?

I doubt it.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Review IX--Ep: 50-51

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenics 50-51

Review  Part IX

“The couple of these reviews only garnered like a half

dozen comments. I understand, but it is disheartening

to work so hard on catching the readership up on the

story so far, only to witness little interest. Of course,

the reviews are lengthy, & most folks don’t want to

read more than one page; there it is--and now to

continue.”--Glenn

Fifty: Deception--Buck & Johnny built a holding corral in

a small alcove in a cliff. They staked out three unbroken 

mares in it. From ten feet or further, the tall sage that was

cut & stacked against the railings hid the corral--it just

looked like an open passage between two large boulders.

Above them, the Appaloosa & his herd stopped to

investigate. The stallion & the mares conversed. The breeze

blew from behind him. He did not smell the hidden men. 

Several of the mustangs were restless in the herd. The

Appaloosa silenced them. The stallion trotted down the

hill & stood at the opening. The tethered mares urged him

to come to them. After a few minutes of alacrity, he came

into the corral, and began nuzzling the mare. The sound of

the first pole slipping across the opening spooked him. He

whirled around & bolted toward the pole, but rapid fire a

second, third, & fourth pole slid into place blocking him--

& there were two men with ropes behind the poles.

Fifty-One: Capture--The Appaloosa raced around the 

holding pen, as the mare screamed & strained against

their lariats. He jumped, bucked, & kicked out hind legs,

then rose up on them, wild-eyed & punching at the dusty

air. Johnny & Buck stood quietly, their faces flushed with

excitement. The Eagle said, “God’s heuvos, that’s one

damn magnificent horse! Buck said, “Hey, brother. it

worked--Chatawa is ours!!” Johnny responded, “No, my 

Buck, he is all yours, jumping right out of the clouds for

you, folding back his wings, the mist still steaming off 

his spotted rump. He has great medicine & a warrior’s 

heart. One day soon he will be pleased to carry your

big bones.”  Buck, “Well, he’s not mine yet, for he has

run wild for a time, & only the arroyo wind has been his

rider.”  Johnny, “With him at stud, you will build the

finest rancho in the territory. Bronson will shit himself

with envy.” Johnny slipped through the poles, & stood

up, his yellow lariat in one hand--then he said, “Do 

you see his split ear? You luck holds, hombre, for he

is Nez Pierce trained. Appaloosas like him have 

already been tamed & ridden, but their spirit has not

been broken. Now he is calm, & he waits for a new

Master.” Buck sprouted a huge smile. The stallion

stood in front of the mares. Johnny, “Sure, I know,

hellfire stud, these now are your women. We are not

here to hurt them or you. No, no, we will give you 

love. Do you remember love, Chatawa.”  The stallion

held the Indian’s scent in his quivering nostrils, &

upon hearing his Indian name, he calmed down. 

The Eagle continued, “Yes, I’m talking to you, brave

boy--with the ass like thunderclouds. Do you remember

gentle hands, the smell of buffalo?”  Johnny pointed

to Buck, “There is a buffalo , right there. You & he will

be compadres. You two prairie giants have seen

plenty of those big humps crashing to earth, huh?”

He moved closer to the Appaloosa, his rope looped

now. “”Chatawa, do you see this rope?” He tossed 

the rope loop on the ground near the horses hooves.

“That’s right, it’s just an old rope, not a snake, harmless.

It smells of horses, mesquite, buffalo crap, sweat, & me.”

He gathered up the rope & stepped closer. The dappled

stud lunged at him, but Johnny side-stepped, & flicked

the wide lariat loop over the horse’s head, then quickly

swing-wrapped it around a breaking post. The horse

stopped & stood tall. “You see, it’s alright, you are not

hurt.” The Indian bent down & plucked out a handful

of sweet bunch grass, & tossed it near the stallion.

Chatawa accepted the offering, & began to munch it.

Johnny unwrapped his end of the rope, & dropped it

into the red dust. Johnny & Buck leaned against the

railings, just smiling & enjoying the company. Johnny

said, “It grows late, boss. Let’s unstake the mares &

let them all calm down over night. We will continue

this in the morning. I tell you he has a great spirit--I

have never seen greater.” Buck said, “Yes, and he has

known love. That will be our key with him--his heart.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub