Down at Mickey's

image from pinterest.com

 Down at Mickey’s

“A poet could write volumes about American diners,

because they are so beautiful.” --David Lynch.

On Saturday nights,

in our small town

we all used to hang out

at Mickey’s Diner,

a remodeled

Northern Pacific dining car.

Before specific hamburger restaurants

were invented in the late 50’s, diners

and drug stores were the only places

one could get a hamburger.

There was just something

so Art Deco about those

converted railroad car diners

that showed up after WWII.

Mickey’s had been built

in 1946. 

My Dad use to take me there,

just me and him,

as a treat after

one of my little league

baseball games.

I was a pretty good

first baseman.

Parked all around Mickey’s

were thrilling shiny cars.

Parked amongst the pre-war sedans

were ’57 Impalas,

         ’54 Bel Airs,

         ’56 Roadmasters,

         ’53 Packards

         ’58 Oldsmobile Rockets, and

         ’55 Lincolns.

These cars were trimmed

with tons of bright chrome,

steel bumpers and massive grills,

each with its unique hood ornament,

matching the brilliance

of the stainless steel trim

on the dining car.

Ike was President,

and the pounds of chrome

on every door, and 

the behemoth V-8 engines,

and the twin glass packs,

announced to the world

that 10 miles to the gallon of gas

was OK, and America was

the most prosperous country ever.

Inside the diner, a row

of chrome-necked red stools

were bolted to the floor 

in front of a stainless steel bar.

The grills and fryers were

in plain sight. 

The booths, all plush

with their red Naugahyde covers,

lined the window side of the car.

I preferred sitting in a booth.

I always ordered

a cheeseburger, curly fries,

and a chocolate shake.

They used real ice cream, 

and they left the chrome canister

with the left overs in it.         

The .19 cent burger places

that replaced the diners

never had the magic and allure

that the diner cars had.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub MTB

We of the Fungi

image from pinterest.com

 We of the Fungi

“There are thousands of little mosses and fungi that

are seen mostly as unsightly objects, but when seen

with the eyes of a poet, they become radiant of 

beauty.”--Henry David Thoreau.

Welcome to the Kingdom of Fungi.

My name is Malcolm Mushroom.

My best pals are Timothy Toadstool,

                            Yancy Yeast,

                             Robert Rot,

                             Marion Mold, and

                             Mildred Mildew.

We denizens are often 

          misunderstood, and often 

                  survive unnoticed. Our colonies

                       range from microscopic to mammoth.

                   You think you know us, but believe

            me, we have secrets that predate

recorded history. Until recently

Botanists considered us to be

plants, but actually we are of

a separate kingdom from both

plants and animals, and we lean

most toward animal characteristics.

                                        We are complex co-creators.

                               We are the principal decomposers

                      of all organic materials, and ecosystems.

                 We, kind of like you, are heterotrophs--you

              know, incapable of making our own food. We

           are unidevourers, liking to chow down on both

        plants and animals. Our love-life is both sexual 

and asexual. 

We are whelped

from 3.8 million species,

and you have only studied

and labeled 148,000. That leaves

a lot of mystery between us. Some of

our more fecund varieties secrete psychotropic

compounds. The hippies and philosophers really dug

us, like pigs and their truffles. We consider our

selves triple erotic, but we are told we

are eutarotic. 

We can tolerate that some of us

can be a food source for you,

but like any of your other neighbors,

we can be friendly, or

we can kick your ass.

So don’t forget

to acknowledge 

our complexities,

and respect

our properties.

We of the Fungi,

thriving beneath your feet, wish

you the best of health.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

                              

Kiss of Death

painting by Pablo Picasso

 Kiss of Death

“Death that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath

hath no power yet upon thy beauty.”

--William Shakespeare.

The Pandemic

          has forced us

                 into a gulag.

                           confinement,

                           isolation,

                           deprivation.

                           spider holes,

feeling like          incarceration.

Even

our life partners

are wary

of any real

embrace.

We

are living

the Plague Years.

Freezer car

morgues

fill up

hospital

parking garages.

Now

vaccines

produce

smiles.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at  d'Verse Poet's Pub

Blackthorne Episode 129

image from westernpulpcovers.com 

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 129

Defiance

“It is better to die on your feet than to live on

your knees.”--Emiliano Zapata.

1(medium wide shot) Hop struggled to his feet,

swaying back and forth to keep his balance,

biting a hole in the center of his pain. He

shuffled over to a cupboard near the stove. He

rummaged around in some canned goods, and

came up with a new bottle of whiskey. Returning

with difficulty to his desk, he plopped into his

chair with his broad back to the brick arch.

2(sound cue) harmonica.

3(medium close-up) He pulled the four six-

shooters from their battered holsters, and lay them

all in a line. He checked their loads, their cylinders

spinning and their hammers clicking. He picked up

one of the shotguns and cradled it on his lap. He

bit into the whiskey cork, jerked it out, and spat it

across the room. It hit the steel door, making no

sound.

4(cut to the darkened cell) Buck had his back to the

adobe wall. The rough edges of the fresh bullet holes

poked through his shirt. His flat-brimmed hat was 

pulled low over his eyes. The cell door remained wide
open. The fancy clock on the northeast wall read

12:30 am.

Buck: I wonder how Johnny is?

5(sound cue) soft piano chords and Voice Over:

Hop: He’s the toughest goddamn Indian I’ve ever

known. He’ll pull through. I’d worry about myself if

I were you.

Buck: Fuck you very much, constable.

6(cut back to the Sheriff, close-up) Hop: Not tonight,

sweetie. You better get some shuteye. We will get

on top of things in the morning. I might could swear

ole’ Bob Hart as deputy for a while, and the 

Marshall will be here one of these days.

7(voice-over) Buck: Good night, Joe.

Hop: uh-huh.

8(cut to close-up) Buck opened his eyes. It was a 

pewter-gray dawn, those last few moments of

darkness before morning usurped it. Damp air

blew in from a small barred window. Acrid fog

mixed with horse and chicken droppings wafted

past him.

9(camera dollys out slowly revealing the cell)

Buck slowly raised his head. He listened

10(sound cue) a wagon passing by, horses

milling about, a distant rooster crowing, over

soft guitar chords. The old clock ticked.

11(close-up) the clock read 5:00 a.m.

Buck walked quietly out of the cell.

12(cut to wide-shot) Hop was slumped over in

his tattered chair. His body rocked gently with

the rhythm of his breathing. His white ex-cavalry

hat hid his eyes.

13(close-up) Buck reached into the back of his tight 

leather britches, and his hand closed on the snub-

nosed Derringer. He extracted it, and pointed it in

Hop’s direction.

14(medium wide shot) He moved stealthily toward

the desk. He was abreast of the stove, three yards

from the sheriff, when Hop said clearly without

looking up: You get your butt back in that cell.

15(sound cue) the clack of a hammer being cocked.

Buck: I don’t think so.

Hop: You bastard! waking up.

Buck: You just sit easy. I don’t want to shoot you. I

figure I owe you for last night.

16(two-shot) Buck moved to within a yard

Hop: I don’t want to get shot again neither--even

with a girlie pea-shooter like that. Where the hell

did you find that?

Buck: In my boot.

Hop responded by pumping a shell into his shotgun.

17(sound cue) coronet bleat and drumbeat.

Buck: Don’t be a damned fool.

Hop: You’re the damned fool if you really think I’m

going to just let you walk out of here.

Buck: If you don’t, I will plug you.

Hop: I think you’re bluffing.

Buck: Put yourself in my place. Would you be bluffing?

The two men were motionless for a long moment.

Hop dropped the shotgun onto the desk. It clattered

against the Sharps. Hop snarled: You really piss...

Buck struck him on the side of the head.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN

Mossad's Eagle

image from MRIfirearms.com

 Mossad’s Eagle

‘“We saw the lightning and that was the guns, and 

then we heard the thunder and that was the big guns”.

--Harriet Tubman.

There is an Eagle from the Middle East that has no

wings. It is a big frame revolver that has the stopping

power of a buffalo rifle. It is the most powerful hand-

gun in the world. It was created for the elite Israeli

military--the Desert Eagle Mark XIX Action Express

semi-automatic pistol that chambers a 325 grain .50

caliber cartridge--the largest centerfire cartridge of any

magazine-fed self-loading pistol.

This is a pistol with rifle DNA, like the M16, it uses a 

gas-operated ejection/chambering mechanism, 

secondary to its massive load, and this softens the

recoil to that of a Glock. The Eagle is 10.75 inches

long and it weighs 4 1/2 pounds. The grip is formed

for two-handed shooting. It comes in basic black, 

hand-brushed chrome, bronze, or a gold titanium

nitrate coated finishes. 

There is a Playboy cover with Pamela Anderson

holding a pink Desert Eagle. The Eagle is very

expensive; around $1,742.00. It has not been

picked up by any other military. It is basically a

celebrity handgun, and does not have any real

practical utility. Jeffrey Epstein had a brace of

them. It takes big hands, strong arms, and a big

ego to handle one of these bad boys. They have

used them in 400 action movies and video games.

The Desert Eagle

does not fly; its .50 slugs do,

stopping all prey.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub