Blackthorne-Scene 46

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Forty-Six

Allegro

“No love, no friendship can cross the path of our destiny

without leaving some mark on it.”--Anais Nin

1(two-shot) angle on Johnny: Yeah, Bronson is the one-eyed king

in these parts, but you & the ranch check his power.

2(reverse shot) over the Eagle’s shoulder:

--Buck: You do not care about the danger?

--Johnny: Danger? Shit, it has always been our companion. Do we

ever see the scorpion in our boot? No, thats why we shake them

out every morning. No, what I care about is horses, women, & fishing.

--Buck: There is a small lake on the north meadow.

3(sound cue) water lapping & lune laughing.

4(close-up) Johnny: I know, I used to fish it with your father, catching

fat trout, drinking mescal, & talking about you, & those who were

gone; you know, your mother & brother.

5(close-up) Buck: Christ, I almost drown in that puddle, teaching myself

to swim.

6(two-shot) angle on Johnny: Your father used to call that lake, Sarah’s

Pond, the place of tears.

--Buck, with a sad smile: He became very sentimental as the place fell

down all around him.

--Johnny: Bronson has been using that lake for watering his herds. If

you try to stop him, that water will writhe with blood.

7(sound cue) coronet & harmonica.

8(medium close-up) Buck: Maybe not, maybe King Bronson will parlay

& pay me for that water.

9(two-shot) angle on Johnny: Good plan--& hey, you are doing a fine

job making a positive impression on El Hefe bendejo.

--Buck laughed: Too true, brother, too true.

--Johnny: How will you share the water after you build your own herd?

--Buck: Yes, let’s talk about my horses.

1(shift to a wide-shot from overhead drone). A huge Appaloosa stood

as solitary sentinel on a hillock, the wind ruffling his mane. He was a

magnificent stallion, twenty hands high, bulging forearms, a thick neck

& broad shoulders. His left ear was Nez Pierce split. 

2(sound cue) gunshots & horse’s hooves.

3(close-up) The stallion’s eyes.

4(cut to wide-shot, flash back) a sea of grass, empty frame.

5(sound cue) guitar strumming chords & tom-tom thumping.

6 Horse & rider enter the right side of the frame, an Appaloosa

with an Indian brave on its back, running in a fantastic lunging

gallop.

7(cut to medium-shot) in slow motion dollying toward the pair.

Crying Wolf wore a short-waisted blue cavalry jacket & leather

leggings, with black & red war paint on his face, & the stallion

had two red bellicose hand prints painted on its muscular withers.

8(cut back to wide-shot) at normal speed, with the Indian galloping

toward the left of the frame as a squad of cavalry troopers ride in

on the right, firing their Spencer rifles & Colts as they pursued

them.

9(sound cue) a volley of gunshots, their echo cracking across the

screen from one Dolby speaker to the other.

10(cut to overhead drone shot) with the troopers in the foreground

& the Indian pulling away from them a hundred yards in the distance.

11( cut to a stationary shot) the Appaloosa & rider gallop toward

the lens, passing it, as they dropped out of the frame, with the blue-

coated troopers riding hard on their heels.

12(sound cue) another volley of gunshots.

13(close-up) two bullets hitting the Indian brave in the back, slumping

him forward. He straightened up just as a rifle shot hit him in the head.

There were two bloody gashes in the horse flanks from the rain of

lead. The Indian let go of the mane, flinging his arms in the air.

14(sound cue) Crying Wolf’s war whoop.

15(medium close-up) The brave was flung off the fleeing horse’s

broad flecked back, hurling through the air before colliding with the

ground, his life shot away.

16(medium wide shot) as the troopers reined up, with a couple of them

continuing to sling lead at the riderless steed.

17(medium close-up) the great stallion was galloping, pouring on the speed,

leaping like a bull elk, rushing out of that field of death with bullets chewing

up the ground near his flashing hooves, their thunderous ricochets pounding

in his velvet ears.

18(sound cue) seed rattle, saxophone, & castanets.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN

Dime Comics

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Dime Comics

“The only way to make sense out of change is to

plunge into it, move with it, & join the dance.”

--Alan Watts.

Last Friday was the 14th anniversary of 9/11, & there were folks--

police & fire chiefs, generals, politicians & the like, on CNN, who

were very concerned about all the high school students that now had

to “learn” about the WTC, the 2000+ deaths, & the two other planes--

the one that hit the pentagon, & the other that the brave passengers

brought down in a Pennsylvania field.  When I was a kid in the 50’s,

we all had to “learn” about the Holocaust & Pearl Harbor.

The stone fact is that Change is inexorable, like it or not, even though

we boomers still wax nostalgic about public phone booths, dial phones,

balloon tire bikes, shoe skates with keys, real steel in car bumpers,

muscle cars, B&W television with rabbit ears & test patterns after

midnight & only 13 channels, a time before JFK & MLK were assass-

inated, our anger at Nixon & the decade-long bloodbath in Viet Nam--

when we drove stick shift coupes & loved Ethyl--& most importantly

when comics were still a dime.

My grandfather saw the first

cars, planes, atomic bombs, tv sets

& computers in his lifetime.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets "Poetics"

Cocteau's Stone Bitches

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Cocteau’s Stone Bitches

“The poet doesn’t invent--he listens.”

--Jean Cocteau.

Audacity trumps pomposity 

               when a poet dives

               headlong & naked           into the steaming crotch

                                          of a stone(d) diva,

who flirts with marble eyes,

               making love without arms.

      

                                         Onyx bitches are always hard

                                     on the tender flesh folds

                              beneath a poetic scrotum;

yet lusty poets poke stone                with phallic fervor,

                hurting themselves

                while demonstrating their devotion,

suckling granite breasts

like berserk cherubs

who have become

too fat to fly

because the rich rock milk

                                              caused their fucking wings to fall off.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on Real Toads

80 words exactly for Mama Zen, writing to Cocteau's silent film THE BLOOD OF A POET.

Getting Old

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Getting Old

“Unless you know where you are going--

it’s damn hard to get there.” --Earl Carpenter.

How are you?

Earl: Well, I don’t know exactly how to answer that, except to say

that perhaps as I travel through life, as I encounter problems,

somehow I solve them. When I truly consider my stultified intricacies

of tension at the cosmic level, fully realizing that my prototypical

zygotes & scurrilous soma-tomes inhabit a primordial lagoon where

impulse relates to omnidirectional drifts that isolates them from an

inexplicable exogamy--you know, looking at my little life from a purely

esoteric point of view, I must arrive at the conclusion that yes, I’m

actually feeling much better than I did before I got to feeling worse

than I do now.

How do you feel about getting old?

Earl: All of us, & I mean each & every damned one of us, must accept

the inevitable fact that nothing in this world remains static. Yesterday,

it seems, the Old were once Young too. So harsh as it may be as a

fact, the Old have to make room for the New. I laugh at those crusty

duffers who refuse to accept their old age, searching for the fountain

of youth, making bargains with the devil to gain the appearance of

youth, dying their hair, having plastic surgery, discarding older spouses

for younger ones, jogging, cycling, hitting the gym; just making fools

of themselves--climbing a mountain then having a heart attack, doing

a hand spring, then breaking an ankle, moving heavy furniture, then

hurting their back, deluding themselves, playing games, while every

moment moving closer to the edge.

Come on, the law of Nature dictates that the old must step aside, get

the hell out of the way to make some room for the next generation--

but it would just be stupid if old people did not pass on into oblivion.

We do have the wisdom, however, to realize that our time on earth

is but a short, albeit interesting privilege.

I’ll tell you something though, I will never let my apprehension regarding

death to drive me into such a state of desperation whereby I would

suddenly embrace religion. I have read the bible, the koran, the teachings

of Buddha--& there are no answers, no solutions in them. No one ever

gets out of life alive, but I do believe we do get out fully intact as souls.

Your spirit is a form of energy, & energy can never be destroyed--it just

changes into something else.

So, grandson, my sage advice is just relax, & completely inhabit every

moment you have, paint a picture, write a poem, catch a fish, go

hunting for your food, hike blissfully into forests, stand up to your

knees in the ocean. Christ, each of us must face the sting of death

at the end of our days, & jump off into some other dimension, the

unknown. Death is merely a doorway, a portal, a transition, & when

it is your turn, come & look me up so that we can continue our

conversation.

                          Death, I fear not your 

                          sting, for God resides within, &
                          the Universe beckons. 

Glenn Buttkus

Earl Melbourne Carpenter (1898-1988) was my grandfather.

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

Daydreams of Democracy

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Daydreams of Democracy

“Remember democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes,

exhausts, & murders itself. There never was a democracy

yet that did not commit suicide.”--John Adams.

Just forget all those smarmy “ISMS”--you know, the

Communist, Socialist, absolute, absentee, academic,

agnostic, altru, anachro, boss & brute.

Let us just concentrate on & try to understand

all the “CRACYS” we are confronted by--

aristocracy,

     adhocracy,

            autocracy,

                 bureaucracy,

                        gerontocracy,

                                  hypocrisy,

                                           plutocracy,

                                                   technocracy, &

                                                               theocracy;

                               For these all rhyme with Democracy

                      & Leonard Cohen said “It’s coming to America”.

               I guess the moldy, yet molten, inquiry, as centuries crust

         upon centuries is when in God’s name is it going to

actually happen?

Democracy is from the Latin,

which derived from the Greek term, demokratia,

from demos--the people,

plus kratia--power & rule.

I am reminded of Abraham Lincoln, standing up to his knees

in blood & death on the battlefield at Gettysburg, speaking

about       “a government of the people,

                                       by the people, &

                                      for the people.”       

A grand sentiment & statement that soon inspired Marx, Engels, 

& Lenin, a pretty progressive notion from a Republican who would

too soon be assassinated by a self-righteous Confederate zealot.

As school children we were all taught

that the supreme power in this country

was vested in the people--but we were

not taught that “the people” referred to

would be those who were wealthy enough

to employ lobbyists & purchase politicians,

no, hell no, we were taught through the ages

that our damn democracy supposedly guaranteed

“the absence of hereditary or arbitrary class distinction”.

Are we truly the leading proponents of this sacred democratic

credo in the world? Is this a land in which everyone is treated

equally & enjoys equal rights? Or is democracy a mirage, a

construct of smoke & mirrors, an illusory dream some of us

had that never has come to fruition? Come on, we are aware

that free elections cost us billions, that the electoral college,

hanging chads, police blockades at polling places, gerrymandering,

deceit, greed, graft & machinations can steal elections, & that

elected representatives can set up political posses that help

them stay in office for shameful multiple consecutive terms.

Sure, comedians & poets & malcontents can poke fun

at the privileged pinatas of political posturing,

but most of us have to wrestle with the

trickle-down edicts from on high

       that pugnaciously preserve the status quo

                    while gang banging the middle class

                         as it creates an almost invisible, never

                               spoken about poverty class that now enjoys

                                       a staggering membership of

                                             45 million people.

               Democracy sounds so 

               Sweet to the ear, but when will it

               Be more than a word? 

      

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub Poetics

Chains of Citizenship

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Chains of Citizenship

“The Holocaust forces us to examine the responsibilities

of citizenship, & confront the powerful ramifications of

indifference & inaction.”--Tim Holden.

When it comes to the rich & famous, you either love them or

hate them--there’s no middle ground. Bloated egos, apathy,

cruelty, greed, dishonesty, felony, & stupidity all top my own

list as capitalist credentials for my personal negative responses.

Too damn many politicians & public figures fit the suppressive

mold. I cringe whenever any of those bilious blowhard billionaires

want to bust up unions, or attack/consume social security, medicare,

veteran’s rights, women’s rights, & immigration. My conservative

friends inform me that I am way too liberal--that openly supporting

a Socialist Democrat is unpatriotic, that my beatnik-hippie attitudes

have never been acceptable, that further the fabulous nearly sainted

1% who control most of the commerce of the planet while dictating

& gleefully enforcing the fascist policies we are expected/forced to

abide by, allowing them to declare & profit from illegal & unpopular

wars, to cause massive oil spills, to openly oppose raising the 

minimum wage, to be in bed with the pharmaceutical corporations

& the merciless military industrial complexes, to frack us with

impunity, to spend 75 cents of every tax dollar on the defense budget

--& on & on & on, & we are to believe/accept that their powers are

favored by God Almighty Himself--and that we discontented ones just

need to shut up about it, quit protesting, ranting, complaining, bitching,

& exercising our Constitutional (& God-given) rights. Good luck with

that all ye assholes.

Fear there will ever

be gaps between the Elite

& the rest of us.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub "Haibun Monday"

Blackthorne--Scene 45

image borrowed from zag.wikidot.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Forty-Five

Pact

“My husband & I did not sign a pre-nuptial agreement--

we signed a mutual suicide pact.”--Roseanne Barr.

1(two-shot) angle on Johnny:

--Deep sadness, yes, but beneath that bitter bark there is

still a son--a son that will breathe life back into ruins, who

will put magnificent horses back into those lush high meadows

at Antlered Buck.

2(reverse shot) angle on Buck:

--You’re telling me that at the end my father dreamed of horses?

3(sound cue) castanets & soft snare drum.

4(medium close-up) the Eagle: Yes, he dreamed so hard, he died

with hoof prints on his face.

5(close-up) Buck, his eyes becoming moist, his gaze far away.

6(two-shot) angle on Johnny: But do not think of that, he is in the

ground, food for the flowers we have planted in your family plot.

You are the last Buck; everyone else has left before you. You are

alone now, just like me. 

7(sound cue) harmonica & horse’s hooves.

8(medium two-shot) Buck was quiet for a moment, drumming his

strong fingers, staring hard into the black agate orbs of the Indian. 

Finally, he said: Will you work for me?

9(sound cue) coronet & snare drum bap.

10(medium close-up) as the thick knife from the Eagle’s left hip bit

deep into the top of the scarred table next to Buck’s hands.

11(quick cut to two-shot) nearly in the same instant, the buffalo

hunter came out of his chair, knocking it over backwards, the Colt

Thunderer cocked in his right hand, leveled at Johnny’s chest.

The Eagle rose slowly, his chair squawking as he stood up, never

losing eye contact, walking boldly up to the extended horns of the

buffalo, stopping when the barrel of the pistol aimed at his neck.

He calmly pushed the powerful pistol out of the way & thrust out

his calloused brown hand. 

12(tight two-shot) angle on Johnny Eagle:

--As I have said, I am your man. I will proudly stand & fight beside

you, watching your back, being your companero. 

13(sound cue) Indian branch flute & piano & hawk’s scree.

14(close-up) the fat hammer on the silver Colt clicked as it came safely

down, & with a flick of the wrist, it was re-holstered. There was a

firm handshake. 

15(cut to overhead crane shot) all the Charros in the cantina re-holstered their

weapons. 

16(medium close-up) Mateo: Jesus Christa, you hombres play rough.

17(sound cue) Laughing, loud voices, some clapping, & guitar strumming.

18(two-shot) angle on Johnny: Mierda, you are rattlesnake quick for a big man.

--angle on Buck: As are you for an old one. 

They both sit down, with Buck picking up his chair. They sipped in silence.

Buck spoke first: You might say I’ve had a busy day.

--Johnny: Uh-huh, we heard about the wild buffalo raging loose in Bronson’s

pussy-pen of putas. 

--Buck: Then the barber got himself plugged. 

--Johnny: Yes, Mr. Barnes, a good man. I hear that he will live.

--Buck: I have to say it though--it ain’t going to be a Sunday picnic working

for me. Bronson has a small army of gunslingers.

19(medium close-up) Johnny: Sometimes I can hear my death song on the

winds of dawn; just the melody--no words yet. 

20(close-up) Buck: Yeah, Pard--me too.

21(sound cue) seed rattle, harmonica, & cello.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub OLN