The Centurion's Jockstrap Lullaby

image borrowed from bing

The Centurion's Jockstrap Lullaby

“I like nonsense; it wakes up the brain cells.”

--Dr. Seuss.

In the forgotten field

                         of broken tombstones,

                         seven Cadillacs burrowed busily

for tender golden sparrows;   leaving their own feathered fins

                          fluttering around their naked

                          steamer trunks that were covered

with Andy Warhol stickers faded over

Lewis Carroll countries

that only appeared in books by Tolkien. 

The retarded Kenworth sat back

                      on its bronze air brakes

                      happily munching its radial fritter

as kaleidoscope buffalo wings suddenly

                      sprouted, then blossomed

                      on ten tan tortoises who

were really not experienced flyers,

quickly crashing into

                                Lady Liberty’s underpants,

                                the Eiffel Tower’s borsalino, 

                                & the Space Needle’s embattled butt.

There were three prophetic mice

that roared in Minnesota, while

                      three homosexual moose

                      were prosecuted for nibbling

on underage mangos in Montana,

that confused state where only constipated 

                      red armadillos are allowed

                      to drive the invisible state trooper

pursuit vehicles, being forced to wear their natural kevlar

24/7.

I believe that Big Bertha,

the world’s largest mechanical mole,

                                                 collided with two albino Orca

in the men’s room

                    of a Seattle Turkish bathhouse,

                                        famous for being relocated

                                                     to Bend, Oregon secondary

to public lewdness, 

indecent violent viola concerts without a permit,

& for wearing lacy women’s girdles

as holiday headgear.

I postulate that nonsense

makes plenty of cents,

            even though we know

that pennies never did immigrate from

            Heaven, Alaska,

            & one day soon will not come from anywhere,

but rather will be roughly rounded up

            like ghetto Jews by jack-booted thugs

trained tenaciously in secret at Ft. Knox--

            & all those holy Lincoln heads will be marched off

to the Federal Ovens,

            first to be incinerated, & melted down,

before being reconstituted as a fully funded shining Colossus,

an 85 story statue created to stand proudly perched

                   across the murky Hudson,

one foot in Manhattan,

                   the other in Springsteen’s cactus garden

in the dense jungles of New Jersey;

that will resemble George W. Bush in

a fetching concrete toga,

                 with twin bandoliers of missiles

                 worn across his concave chest,

                              rows of observatory windows

                              peeking out of his back pockets,

                                            with black beehives for eyes,

                              an elephant’s trunk for a nose,

with patriotic laser beams shooting

out of his clenched fists,

                              both raised over his helmeted head

in gallant defiance;   

                              an olive branch in one,

                              & a carrot in the other. 

             

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this bit on nonsense to you?

Ghost Father

image borrowed from bing

Ghost Father

“It is a wise father that knows his own child.”

--William Shakespeare.

“It is a wise child who knows his own father.”

--Me. 

Glancing back across the entire span

of the 20th Century, having had grandparents

born in the 1890’s, I spend an busy morning

musing over the familial scope 

of my checkered ancestry.

As a kid, a boomer, first born,

independent, creative, 

I was too self-absorbed

to get to know who my mother really was;

pregnant at 15, forced

to endure an abortion

in 1943, when such a thing

was a back room nightmare,

then pregnant again at 16

with me--

she married the first soldier

who believed he was my father,

which he wasn’t;

neither he nor I fully understood this

until 1968, after my mother’s death at 39,

when it came to light

that she had never chosen to share

with anyone who my real father had been;

who must have been some serviceman,

fresh out of boot camp, a tender tryst

on a September eve in the middle

of WWII--some midnight encounter

in the wide back seat of a ’34 Buick,

with a fresh-faced boy headed into combat,

a boy who gave her only a first name--

Curt, Roy, Boyd, Ralph, Johnny, Bobby,

or Tommy; & of course he left her

with me.

Did he ever write her a letter from Italy or France,

or was it just random hormonal ardor, 

lost in the passionate hysteria

of a warm Autumn; two kids sharing

an inexplicable intimacy

for a couple of hours

that manifest itself

into a boy-child?

My realization that my mother’s first husband

was only the first of a long line 

of my stepfathers actually

explained a lot about the lack of connection

I always felt so keenly,

& to the strong connection I made

with my maternal grandfather,

who became my mentor

& father-figure. 

I spent a few decades

during my youth

fantasizing

that surely the Universe

would not leave me dangling,

cast in the thankless role of bastard--

that I would be permitted

on my own, through sheer will power,

to be out in public, some

restaurant, burlesque theater, county fair,

carnival or circus--

& right next to me,

or across from me,

I would catch the eye of some man,

& miraculously I would stare

into my father’s face, 

& we would recognize each other. 

During my 40’s, 

realizations & resignations

banished my childish naivete,

& I had to own this omission,

this voiceless faceless void.

It helped to remind myself

that many sons who knew very well

who their father was--were not protected

from abuse, belittlement, or disappointment;

knowledge of parentage does not carry with it

any form of guarantee that a father & son

will enjoy a loving relationship.

Hell, my Dad could have been

a damaged human being,

turned out to be a psycho,

or a serial killer,

or a race car driver,

or a cowboy,

or a lawyer, 

or the President of American Motors. 

Did I turn out

to be a better man

while carrying my valise

of emotional ignorance?

I guess I will have to wait

for my Life Review

in Bardo

to find out. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Wordsmithing

Image borrowed from bing

Wordsmithing

“ Martin Luther King was the ultimate wordsmith, having incredible

descriptive powers, finding just the right words for the right moment.”

--Tim Roye.

There are those petulant few among us

to whom language

               comes easily;

                           able to read & write

                                       several languages fluently.

How many, I wonder,

                                        to be considered a linguist,

two or ten?

I have always envied them,

for after a brumous lifetime of communicative struggle,

                I am still striving

                to fully explore/exploit

                the vast parameters

of my native tongue. 

I once attempted to memorize

all the “A” words

in the dictionary--

but the task outdistanced me--

                                         my fervor &

                                         my intentions

fell flat,

became flaccid,

                            & b l e w away briskly

like gossamer wildflower chaff on a mid-day breeze. 

The Zealots claim 

that mankind is to blame

for his inability to understand “foreign” languages;

           you know the scene,

there in antiquity,

           after the Great Flood, 

humanity was united & spoke a single language.

                          Several of these groups migrated

                                    to the land of Shinar,

& began to construct a great city,

                                    called Babylon by some,

                                               Babel by others--

       the place, I guess where babbling began;

where those from that homogenous gaggle

decided to erect a behemoth tower

              in the middle of the city,

              a brick & mortar phallis,

thrusting higher & higher toward Heaven daily.

              

               As the story goes 

Old Jehovah didn’t dig their hubris,

               or their probing,

                                 passionate,

                                      penissian 

                                           pariah-al 

                                                 projectile

quickly approaching the buttocks of Heaven’s underside--

I mean more than just irritated,

                     God was pissed off;

                     so much so that he made a appearance

amongst them, which must have been a sight to see,

                     & with a wave of his godhead,

he confounded the speech of mankind.

The fatuous fahtay

dropped their iron utbuhs,

& in a fit of gurgling gepfiss,

they gathered all their kivnek & decepiffs,

loaded them onto their trusty owkvahs

along with the remnants of their zetbuss,

forcing them to abandon their sinful construction site;

to strike out, scatter, spread out all over

the foogah face of the earth, never

to embrace their prideful odemuh tendencies again. 

But Deus maximus est, 

because after that we were allowed

to enrich our new languages

with myriads of nuances,

                     & literature & art & religion

                                                   rebounded & blossomed,

& poetry strode forth in silver armor,

it’s literary lances festooned with Word Banners,

as language became beautiful again,

from haiku & bagatelle

                     to the length of the Iliad,

                     to the lyrical Song of Hiawatha,

from law books to holy texts,

wonderful Words made a comeback--

Thank great Zhygah for that.

As a poor poet worshipping

the vitcheenian magic of words,

I acknowledge that they remain forever

the koemoy of my forays

into verse. 

                                         

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Love Sowing

image borrowed from bing

Love Sowing

“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but rather

by the seeds that you plant.”--Robert Lewis Stevenson.

I once knew

           an old bible thumper

                               who lived in Ballard,

who had been a missionary

                               in Central America.

When I was a callow thirteen,

he showed me a thorny bush

in his backyard,

         saying it had spiritual significance

         because it was a Paliurus Spina-Christa,

the plant the Romans used

to make Christ’s crown of thorns. 

He told me his name was Jude,

& that he considered himself

to be an “organic philosopher”.

“Did you know that man’s seed

              is like that of the black mustard;

              one of the smallest of seeds,

but when cast into fecundity,

              it will grow into a golden yellow tree?”

He showed me a big impressive green house

butted up to a tiny chicken shed,

           yes, he kept chickens in the city--

& in the humid hot house stood

           a dwarf Date Palm plant,

           loaded with fruit;

“Our Lord ate from a tree just like this one.”

& in large dun ceramic pot grew

    a dwarf common olive tree,

    laden with clusters of greenish-black olives;

smiling he gently said,

    “If you ever become a peacemaker, stop by

     & I will give you an olive branch.”

Oddly, he was proud of a tall thick patch of common nettles;

           “These beauties grow everywhere in the world,

              they are one of God’s mysterious miracles, 

for they will sting you almost blind

             if you touch them with your bare skin,

and yet if you pick them with gloves,

            & boil them down,

            their very essence

turns into medicinal teas & salves. 

Near his

         back porch there

                  was this fat rusty wash tub

                                overflowing with lovely flowers

                  growing together,

          intertwined,

their petals shaped like the heads of sea horses; 

“This is my Humanis Tub, 

good & evil, black & white, yin & yang--

Angel’s trumpets sharing space with Devil’s trumpets,

inseparable-creating left-brain right-brain melodies.”

I returned to his place

twenty years later,

ready for my gift

of an olive branch;

but he had died,

& so had his biblical garden,

yet I understood

        that he had enriched

        the soil with his passing,

& my mind with his kindness. 

Seeds of yesterday,

become tomorrow,

& only the seed-keepers

prevent extinction. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear this poem read by the author?

Call Me Slash

image borrowed from bing

Call Me Slash

“Horror movies would not exist unless people

went out to see them--& they always will.”

--Joss Whedon.

Recently I was recruited to write movie reviews on a Horror Movie 

Website. Joining a spirited staff of younger writers, I soon discovered

that the torture porn slasher splatter Indie horror films were the primary

focus of the reviews; which I was cool with.

Back in the turbulent awakenings during the 60’s-70’s, when I was an

actor, as a lark I chose a stage name, Slash Phuque, as a sarcastic

response to the actors named Rock, Rip, & Tab. My theatrical friends

still call me Slash, so now my horror film reviews are written under

that lauded moniker. 

But my new avocational pursuit made me wonder about myself, &

millions like me, right across the age spectrum that really enjoy

graphic violence, nudity, & action in movies; always did. If you recall,

the violence in the movies of the 40’s-50’s was pretty tame, even lame.

Then the cultural revolution in all the arts blossomed in the 60’s, & wham,

we suddenly had nudity in public, mainstream porno theaters, kung fu

& yakuza & samurai & Black Exploitation & Italian Western movies

flooded the screens & altered our consciousness. 

Which transitioned into the 70’s-80’s where mass murderers ran up

phenomenal box office bucks & spawned new horror series that soon

aped the success of the old monsters, the Frankenstein, Dracula, Mummy

films of the past--new characters that were blood thirsty & inexorable, with

names like Michael Myers, Freddy Kruger, Jason Voorheas, Chucky,

Pinhead, Leatherface, & Jigsaw--producing sequel after sequel, clones &

contrived extensions of their personas, where the killers favored cutting

tools like knives, machetes, axes, hatchets, cleavers, & saws. 

The horror eggheads broke down our attraction to, & the popularity of this

genre, & found solid psychological & homo-erotic tendencies to be the culprits;

Catharsis: Where we can find an expression or a release or a confrontation of

many of our primal fears regarding bodily injury, being devoured or buried 

alive, or even from personal, vocational, political, or social fears.

Recreation: Within action splatter slasher horror films we actually can 

experience a physical thrill, something visceral, like a carnival roller 

coaster ride, or driving on bald tires at 130 m.p.h, rock climbing, or keeping 

a python as a pet. 

Displacement: This is the primary one for me, understanding that

audience member's sexual desires can be displaced onto the 

characters in the film--why cops get fired for looking at porn in

their squad cars, why 12 year old kids can watch porn in public

libraries, & their right to do so is protected by law. 

Ever notice that after driving over 100 m.p.h. for a few minutes,

one loses the sense of speed, gets used to it quickly & becomes

desensitized to the actual danger? The same can be said for the

die-hard fans of horror torture porn, where a constant exposure to

explicit violence juxtaposed with explicit sexual scenes seems to

blunt our emotional response to both violence in films, video games,

& even reality--leaving us less disturbed by reoccurring scenes of extreme

violence & degradation directed at women. The Armed Services love

recruiting young gamers, since their reflexes & mental states are

primed & conditioned to be functional within the techno-warfare

they are consumed with. 

Misogynistic

imagery does fuel intense

hormonal responses. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this Haibun to you?

In Memoriam

image borrowed from bing

In Memoriam

“Can it be in a world so full & busy, that the loss of just one

creature makes a void so wide that only the depth of eternity

can fill it up?”--Charles Dickens.

Memorial Day should always be

                       an epochal event,

but out here

in the smog, mid-maze, in full rodent frenzy,

we tend to let the shadow people,

                                          those behind

                                          or in charge          of the media

pile our mental plates with impiety,

                                          impenetrable dark bile,

racism, sexism, saber rattling, & milkbone doggy-lies,

as events & stories are presented to us without warmth;

like the twenty zealots who have camped out

                                      in a corner of the Mojave

for the past year, patiently waiting for the Messiah,

their eyes glazed,

their hopes luminous,

their efforts ludicrous;

like the stupid yet fresh debate regarding

                                       Michael Jackson’s vitilgo, that perhaps

only pedophiles suffer from it--

                                       propping open the doors of ignorance

with green-glass bottles

                                       and teletubbie back packs;

Like Kesha Rogers, a black woman, trying to lasso the Democratic

nomination for the Senate in Texas,

                                       her political platform consisting of

comparing Barack Obama to Hitler,

                                       & ObamaCare to Nazi cruelty:

like Ms. Ann Hornady of the Washington Post writing about

how the Frat-Boy Persona is depicted

                     in Hollywood movie “college allegories”,

                     where kids are all supposed to enjoy unbridled

“Sex, Fun, & Pleasure.”

& that this kind of ridiculous celluloid mindset,

                     might have influenced

                     22 year old mentally-disturbed

Elliot Rodger to embark on his deadly

                      killing spree, his vendetta

against all those “spoiled bitches & college cunts!”

Actor Seth Rogen fired back an angry Tweet:

                       “How dare you even imply that me getting

                        girls in movies caused a lunatic 

                        to go on a rampage!” 

Meanwhile, on a quiet corner of the page,

within a few rushed moments on early morning broadcasts,

          we honored this country’s Veterans,

          who have given “the full measure of devotion”,

a solemn ceremony at Arlington;

          and as I stared at VA Director Shinseki

standing at attention on the dais with President Obama,

I couldn’t help but wonder

why the hell Kate Middleton received more press

yesterday when a helicopter rotor wash

                             blew up her pretty dress

                             exposing her shapely bare butt,

then those hundreds of Veterans

                             dead or dying, 

who sit on damn waiting lists while

                             cowardly bearuacrats cover their own asses,

& the very people we were supposed to be honoring

are rotting on the VA vine

like strange fruit.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?