Burbs Blurb

painting by Jason Brockert

Burbs Blurb

“I live in the suburbs, outside the terrible cities.

The suburbs are the final battleground of the

American Dream.”--Harlan Coben.

As a boomer,

I have witnessed the creation

of the suburbs,

as the returning servicemen

from WWII got married and

wanted to move out

of the crowded city

neighborhoods that they

grew up in, raw boned,

playing stick ball & skate hockey,

dodging traffic, bloodying their

knuckles on those mean streets.

I fondly remember those glossy ads

in Life & Look & the Saturday Evening

Post for that new sensation--

suburban housing developments located

in outlying districts, billboards of smiling 

families so very happy to reside in

a rambler home behind a white-washed

pocket fence on wide tree-lined streets

with two-car garages & separate bedrooms

for the kiddies, walking distance from lovely

parks & safe schools, rife with milkmen,

postmen, & door-to-door salesmen.

70 years later, disillusionment has set in.

We are tired of mowing lawns, stressful

commutes to work--tired of the damn

cookie-cutter ticky-tacky blandness of

the housing, new developments stretching

clear to the horizon, blurring city limits,

becoming a sea of lights from the air,

creating traffic snarls, road rage, and

general apathy, as franchises sprung 

up on every other corner & strip malls

& vast shopping malls clog empty lots.

So many turn their eyes back into the

inner cities, embracing urban renewal,

embracing apartment & condo luxury

minus the tedium of yard work & worries

about new roves, sump pumps & gardeners.

Everything comes full circle if you live long

enough & happen to notice it.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

Feeling Free

image from fineartamerica.com

Feeling Free

“All my life I thought air was free, until I bought

a bag of chips.” --Anonymous

Yeah, true that--the best things in life are free--

and so are the worst. Some feel that the mere

sight of a .357 Magnum pistol is a joyous moment--

but for those who are raped, robbed or murdered 

by it--not so much.

A steep forest trail that winds & rambles in & out of

golden larch & majestic fir deep into the foothills can

seem exhilarating--unless you’ve become, or always

were disabled; for us that trail is the gorgeous woman

we’ll never make love to, the red Ferrari we’ll never

drive, the mansion we’ll never own.

A lovely deep pond at twilight, serenaded by lunes and

bullfrogs, its cattails swaying, its lily pods jiggling like

the breasts on a jogging woman’s track team seems

intoxicating until the hungry swarm of mosquitos &

gnats descend upon you, & a chill wind slaps you

in the face.

Many wonderful

things cost nothing, but bee stings

ruin morning meadows.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

Goddess Descending

expressionist painting by Kurina Llergo Salto.

Goddess Descending

“Art! Who comprehends her? With whom can one

consult concerning this great goddess?”

--Ludwig van Beethoven.

It was the late summer of ’68.

  I was getting out of the Navy, even

       though the war in Viet Nam was still

           raging on. A week before my discharge, I was

       enjoying a halcyon late afternoon high

  up along the Angeles Crest, leaning hard

against a red-barked jack pine,

like the ones you see on Bonanza,

    partially napping while peering out over a gray-blue

                           noxious smog cloud that mantled the 

                           cites below, slowly turning golden red

                           from California sunshine, beginning to

                      look like napalm, like the zealous

                 spark in Charlie’s eyes as he rushed

               over our deadly concertina wire while

             we barely slept, hugging our rifles and

          whispering our mother’s names.

I was lulled into floating

in some kind of honied

mist, propelled by warm currents, paddling in deep

                                     champagne, bubbles rising

                                     like schools of wishes, when

I first saw her, dropping

down in sensual descent

directly in front of me, her eyes closed, her long blond

                                     tresses floating provocatively, 

                                     reaching back up the surface,

with some kind of pink chiffon Grecian dress swirling

and billowing around her

like a randy parachute, her ample breasts partially

                                      exposed, her long naked legs

                                      undulating slowly.

She was a dream girl,

               a mermaid,

               a silkie,

               an apparition, but somehow emanating a

               tragic sadness, appearing joyous, lusty, 

               but with a tinge, a vibe of suicide.

                                  I awoke with a start and a snort,

                            as if I had not been breathing, and

              found two red & black Monarchs fluttering,

         perhaps mating, on my face. Taking a

      moment to regain my bearings, her

features seemed etched into the

      scarred chambers of my soul, her

          presence was palpable. I witnessed her

                opening her eyes in my mind, and

                             they were violet-green. She cupped

                             her breasts in front of my lips,

brushing her nipples across my mouth

as gentle as dove’s wings

Who the hell was she--a portent,

                                     a herald.

                                     a warning,

                                     a messenger, or

                                     a succubus,

                                     a demon,

                                     an angel or

                                     spirit guide?

I got to my feet & shook off her wondrous hold on

me, grabbing her sweetly but firmly in my trembling

hands before flinging & releasing her out into the

cerulean-blue sky that framed the Sierras.  As I

headed down to my SS Impala awaiting me, I felt

stronger, lighter, enriched--even

loved.

Golden goddess poised

in a daydream, touching me;

my heart fortified.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Heartless

image from businessinsider.com

Heartless

“Most people who appear heartless are just

protecting themselves from more pain.”

--Sonya Parker.

Homeless ain’t what it used to be.

     too many families now--he thought, 

              lying on a bench in a tiny urban park,

     staring up at lighted windows in many

apartments; his brown paper sack 

wrapped around a tall bottle of

Thunderbird beside him.

Alcohol had ravaged his body,

destroying the vigor of yesterday,

attacking his weakened heart and

several other organs.

He tried not to blame her, but there was no

disputing that she had shredded his heart

more than a decade before. She lived in that

corner apartment on the third floor in the old

Chestnut Arms right across the street. He lie

there, his breath a ragged, fetid, malodorous

rasp beneath the brittle bones in his chest, 

almost alive, but closer to being just a dried out

husk barely covering the rot within.

He was with Sadie now, who always 

found a way for them to get wine--in

a crowded dangerous homeless camp

under the 410 freeway. She knew where

he was this Valentine’s Eve--below Kate’s

                window, hoping to get a glimpse

                of the brave woman who had once

                loved him, booze & all. Their son

                had died at three, and so did their

marriage. He had crawled inside a bellicose

battalion of brown bottles, She divorced him

& moved on to a new life. She had three kids

now, had married a carpenter.

Christ, a carpenter, He always chuckled when

he thought about it. He used to be a car sales-

man when he still had a life. His old patter, con,

smile & personality kept him out of trouble for

several years--but one dark morning he realized

all that had abandoned him too. Joy became a

dream bitch, not real, like all those young women

he saw on the streets. He became a thief,

                                                        a thug,

                                                        a mugger &

                                                        a felon.

There was this man he had robbed for thirty bucks

several years ago, who had been seriously injured.

His street name became Mac the Knife. He tried not

to think about it. He knew he wouldn’t last another

year--which released him from worry.

Broken hearts, like can-

cer, have their own agenda;

never a good time.

                      

 Glenn Buttkus

posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Espiritu Santo

image from medjugorje.org.br

Espiritu Santo

“Without the spirit of God, we are nothing--

ships without wind--useless.”

--C.H. Spurgeon.

I was

raised in Seattle--

then

was gone

for a decade;

returning

I found only

sadness.

No one

had a ghost

of a chance

to buy

over-priced

property--

and I found

myself

chasing ghosts--

because

friends & family

had died or

moved away.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q26

Blackthorne--Scene Fifty-Eight

image from horseartists.blogpot.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Eight

Resignation

“What is called resignation is really confirmed

desperation.”--Henry David Thoreau

1(sound cue) blues guitar slide.

2(close-up) Bronson smiling--showing his teeth.

3(medium crane wide shot) above & behind the 

three horses in the corral. Buck is walking toward 

them. Bronson is dismounting from his palomino in 

the background. Johnny is moving now, falling in 

behind Buck.

4(reverse crane shot) above & behind the men.

Buck stopped at the pole gate, fiddling with the lariat.

5(sound cue) piano & banjo.

6(medium close-up) Buck, his face rife with stressed

resignation.

7(close-up) the face of the stallion--Chatawa.

8(two-shot) Johnny catches up with Buck. They both 

stand for a moment with their arms over the fresh 

poles.The men, all walking their mounts close up 

behind them.

9(close-up) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder:

A sad fucking day.

10(sound cue) Indian branch flute.

11(close-up) Buck, over Johnny’s shoulder:

Today, we choose life. There will be another day when

we will have to speak with our guns.

12(sound cue) Voice-over, Bronson: Come on, fellas. 

Let’s get this transaction over with.

13(two-shot) Buck & the Eagle exchange a look.

14(close-up) Johnny: Let me do this, my Buck. Keep 

your rope. Chatawa is still wearing the one I gave him.

15(close-up) Buck dropping the coiled lariat over a 

fence pole--the sun made it shine golden yellow.

16(sound cue) French horn & harmonica.

17(two-shot) angle on Johnny as he climbed over the 

make-shift pole gate, landing in the dust on the inside.

18(medium close-up)  Chatawa raised his gorgeous

head.

19(medium wide shot) the stallion trotted half the 

distance to Johnny. The rails filled up with Bronson & 

his men.

20(three-shot) Bronson & two of his wranglers.

21(tighten to a two-shot) a cowpoke to Bronson:

Damn my soul--that is one beautiful hunk of

horse-flesh.

22(medium close-up) Bronson: A solid observation, 

young Chet. We’ve been chasing this phantom for

several months--and now, here he is.

23(medium wide-shot) Johnny bent down & plucked

up a fat handful of bunch grass & held it out in front

of him.

24(medium close-up) Johnny: Apologies, Chatawa,

our courtship was very brief, & there will be no love-

making. I will not be the one to ride you first. You 

have to leave with these men.

25(sound cue) saxophone & snare drum brushing.

26(overhead crane shot) Johnny begins to move 

toward the great spotted stallion,

27(reverse shot) behind the Eagle as he gets nearer

to the Appaloosa, The stud stood very still, keeping 

his eyes on the men at the rails. He raised one hoof 

several times.

28(sound cue) the two mares nickering.

29(two-shot) Johnny stopped right in front of him, 

offering up the sweet dewy prairie greens. Chatawa 

accepted the grass & munched it down. While gently 

petting his neck, Johnny bent down & swooped up 

the loose end of the rope.  

30(close-up) Buck’s face, his eyes moist.

31(overhead crane wide-shot) Johnny led the stallion

toward the gate.

32(sound cue) guitar strumming.

33(wise-shot) behind Johnny, seeing the wranglers

sliding out the fresh-cut poles of the gate.

34(medium close-up) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder:

How do you like that, boss? He’s gentle as a mule,

after he tried to stomp the crap out of us yesterday.

35(medium wide shot) Johnny handed the rope to

the young wrangler.

36(sound cue) snare drum baps & coronet blast.

37(medium wide shot hold) Chatawa erupted into a

gallop, dragging the cowpoke off his feet. Men jumped

out of the way in five directions. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Bromance

image from thedailybeast.com

Bromance

“Just smile & look pretty, baby.”--Paul Wesley.

I was shaken by the news--Pence cast the tie-breaking

VP vote, leaving a sour taste in my teeth--more proof

that the Trumpian authoritarian regime will call all the

shots, using every sort of dirty Kamikaze tactics 

straight-up, in our faces, despite our anger and other

stirred emotions.

My wife & I are teachers. We feel that Devos is nothing

more than hair of the dog, another arrogant ignorant

billionaire wanting to drive Education on the rocks. Less

than three weeks into Trumpville and my soul is already

hammered, my heart is in dangerous cardiac--twist.

To all those other-directed patriotic voters who have now

put Benito Baloney into power, I say you have certainly

named your poison. The vessel of Liberty s heroically 

fighting against this dark storm, with many more than

three sheets to the wind, valiantly trying not to have a

rendezvous on the rocks.

There can be no real

tonic for poor judgement, just

regrets and last call. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub