Is This The End

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Is This The End?

“The killer awoke before dawn. He put his

boots on.”--Jim Morrison

I swear GOD is

   a politician; his explication and

         rebuttal to our accusation that he

               could not possibly love us as much as

         he claims--otherwise why do we 

   have to face death with every

breath--why in hell do unspeakably

tragic things happen regularly to

good people--you know, like concentration camps,

                                              bullies & batterers,

                                              genocide.

                                               patricide,

                                               dire hopeless poverty,

                                               serial killers,

                                               plagues,

and way too many assholes in charge of everything

--is that hey, man was given

free will & a road map from

the Get, and simply all those

who choose to disregard        morality,

                                               honesty,

                                               decency,

                                               equity,

                                               equality,

                         & the rule of divine law

                are just choosing to exercise

            their God-given right

        to be themselves in

the humane heart of an

extant Celestial Democracy;

dig it. 

The kicker, the egress from all this negative stress

is that a titanic ton of us choose to believe that yes,

all things wear out, so there will be an end to our

husk, but our essence joyfully shifts, skipping and

singing rap hosannas to our next adventure as 

easily as one travels through a revolving door. 

So, as this poem ends,

actually, the poetics only pause;

this pregnant portion of my poetic

continuum will be finished for now;

I tell myself that these words will find

closure, that my depleted creativity

will have to be recharged before the

next prompt, the next Muse’s call

for my response--that as a poet, my

words will live on, unstoppable, 

regardless of what may happen to me

--that is until Morrison’s naked Indian

spirit guide shows up in my dreams;

feathers tied to his phallus, wearing

blood red warpaint, and he walks right

up to me & says:

“Dude, don’t be stupid;

we both are aware that right

now--this is the end.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

My Friend Fear

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My Friend Fear

“A man need not fear death, but rather never

beginning to live.”--Marcus Aurelius.

Fear wears

a bad reputation,

since most of us

have learned

that to be fearful

of something,

and reveal it

to others,

is a sign of

weakness

and cowardice--

but the truth

is that fear

is our friend;

albeit hyperactive,

and often

somewhat

illogical.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Scene 67

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-Seven

Slaughter

“History is comprised of one slaughter after

another. We talk about it, but no one is really

listening.”--Fred Ward.

1(overhead medium-wide crane shot) Buck lying 

on his buffalo pelt making preparations--the ten 

bison grazing 150 yards from his hillock. He 

would be firing down onto them.

2(sound cue) two cellos, jazz snare brushing.

3(medium close up) Buck loosening the copper 

thumb screw & adjusting the aperture disc to the

first notch, slowing bringing the Sharp’s front sight

even with the backbone of the largest cow. He

waited until she turned broadside.

4(tight close up) his eyes, left one closed, the right

one steely & unblinking.

5(close up) he squeezed off a shot with the thick

trigger.

6(sound cue) the thunderous clap of the Sharp’s

lethal discharge, echoing for a moment.

7(medium close up) the bullet hit a little low, tearing

her lungs apart--her legs caved in a second later as

the lead passed through her a kicked up dust on the

other side of her. Her brown bisonic bulk thudded 

into the knee-high grass.

8(close up) her head on the ground, eyelids closed,

gasping for air as thick red foam dripped from her 

black lips.

9(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & banjo.

10(medium wide shot) Time stood still for a moment 

as the small herd froze in shock.

11(medium close up) Young Buck jammed another 

tall brass cartridge into the Sharps.

12(medium wide shot) The albino patriarch danced 

and leaped about, straining to locate the hunter, 

sniffing the air, pawing the ground, grunting and 

bellering & moaning in fear, raising dust. The other 

bulls & cows formed an oxen circle, butt to butt, 

heads down

13(medium crane shot) behind & above Buck. We 

can see the buffalo in the distance as the hunter 

pulled down on one of the younger bulls and 

squeezed off another shot.

14(sound cue) the Sharp’s discharge over coronet.

15(medium close up) the young bull suffered a 

spine shot, and his hind quarters went down,

making him appear to be sitting. The old albino

roared & headed straight for Buck, gathering speed,

its tufted tail erect like a lion.

16( medium close-up) Buck fired again, sending a

fifty caliber message toward the charging bull. 

17(medium wide shot) The bullet struck the bull in 

the chest at sixty yards, shooting for the lights, thus

ripping a hole in its lungs. The albino went down like

a tree had fallen on it, skidding to a halt in the dust.

The other bull broke formation & headed for a nearby

gulley--four cows & one calf followed, rolling up white

dust midst their panic.

18(angle on Buck) loading another cartridge into the

smoking Sharps.

19(sound cue) cello, piano & harmonica.

20(cut to an overhead drone shot) Six bison running

away, Buck prone on his pelt, the albino down, and

one older black cow standing still near it.

21(medium close up) The cow stood as a statue, 

with the albino calf between its legs, confused, both 

waiting for the white patriarch to get up.

22(sound cue) another loud shot from the Sharp’s.

23(medium wide shot) Buck had gut-shot the last 

bull at two hundred yards, knocking him down--but 

then it jumped up again, dragging his entrails. The 

young bull stopped & stood, its shoulders quivering, 

glassy-eyed--the world a red mist, with blood every 

where in the yellow grass. The others stopped 

running, & trotted in small circles around the bull.

24(sound cue) bass fiddle & snare drum over a loud

rasping bellow.

25( medium close-up) Buck’s eyes jerked to the right.

   

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Trout Hunting

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Trout Hunting

“Fishing is much more than fish.”

--Herbert Hoover

I was twenty

as I pole-axed 17 miles

of trail, massaging the steepness

like a polished gigolo,

sieving the sweet, cold

creek water, flexing my kidneys,

flushing my cramping molecules

with rushing ice-cubed swallows,

pre-salmonella,

pre-smog,

pre-registering the hike--

burying my eyes in frozen bliss,

as the August sun spanked my brain,

and the fifty-pound wooden Trapper Nelson

pack kissed my spine.

I fished with my Remington .22 pistol,

its chromed hot barrel flash-barking

pleasantness as it spat brass,

hitting several curious fat rainbow

trout in the head, as I gauged the shots

relative to the parabolic bending of light.

So my grandfather and I had flesh rainbows for

dinner, their brightly colored sides blackening in

bacon grease, bubbling to a charred crackle, its

meat pope-white in the golden light, fin deep in

the cast iron frying pan--no fishing pole in sight

there in that verdant twilight, midst ankle-high

clover in a angelic valley at the foot of a glacier.

Later Mt. Stewart

squatted to join us around

our smiling campfire. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at   dVerse Poets Pub

Pluviophile

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Pluviophile

“The way I see it, if you want the rainbow,

you have to put up with the rain--Dolly Parton.

The heat has turned Navy gray,

clouds cover day.

I heard the rain,

coolness the gain.

Temps at ninety in the Northwest

are not the best

way toward comfort,

much sweat to court.

My eight tomato plants do smile,

sipping awhile--

me on the deck,

breeze on my neck.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Minute Form"

The Sanctuary

image by glenn buttkus

The Sanctuary

“Each of us has an inner room, a sanctuary where

we can visit to be inspired.”--Glenn Buttkus

It was an old bachelor’s apartment

      with liver, onions & fish still prevalent odors

adhered to the paisley floral wallpaper,

      with cigarette burns & tattered rips

freckling the 50’s turquoise carpet,

      with what might have been blood stains

under the narrow single bed,

      with very tall ceilings that were pock-marked

      with greasy popcorn plaster bumps,

an asbestos-ridden affect from the past, rife in

every dirty cluster,

       with ornate steel steam radiators against

two of the walls, dark blanched spots behind them,

        with a small kitchen that had several cupboards 

too high to reach without standing on a chair,

        with a squat noisy refrigerator that had a deeply

dented door & bent rusty shelves,

        with a cracked porcelain sink that had dark

mysterious stains & no plug,

         with a large bathroom, resplendent

         with an ancient lion-legged bath tub, and a 

six foot tall narrow vertical window

         with smoked glass to provide privacy.

From the alley outside, one could see the cheery

wrought iron barred gate that covered that window,

as if there were valuables or treasure inside, and 

the red ladder for the fire escape, within easy reach

if egress was ever a necessity.

The price was right--this

apartment would suffice as

a writer’s sweet den.    

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Flicker Fun

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Flicker Fun

“All writing is about the same thing--dying; about

the brief flicker of time we have here.”

--Mordecai Richler.

Flickering

indicates motion

more than life.

Movies

flicker fast

fast enough

to appear

as clear images.

Insects

& bird’s wings

flicker

so rapidly

they hum.

I imagine that

at the point

of death,

reality flickers

ever so slowly

before

it finally

fades to black.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44