King Harlequin

image from tombanwell.blogspot.com

King Harlequin 

“Clowns have often had ambiguous and sometimes

contradictory roles to play.”--Thomas Ligotti.

With the Donald marching to victory, how could I stay

in my right mind? For puzzlement now just sits

smugly on logic’s face, while a very dark dirge plays

on speakers unseen, pushing me to my wit’s

demise--where chaos reigns & nothing fits.

Is this all just a macabre nightmarish comedy

where rules become jokes & common sense flits

like a butterfly with shredded wings? A real tragedy

is being performed, but camouflaged to the eye,

a Punch & Judy show, leagues away from being smart.

It does not help to lament, whine or cry,

nor reveal the wounds to your broken heart.

For surely in the future the people will moan

as lies morph into fascism carved in stone.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

The Smithing

image from goodreads.com

The Smithing

“It’s none of their business that you have to learn 

to write--let them think you were born that way.”

--Ernest Hemingway.

Every poem is/can be

                          a lively sprite/creature that

                          independently guides your pen,

                          fingers & thoughts--    r  u  s  h  i  n  g

out onto screen, paper, & page

like a desert flash flood

from a dark thunderstorm;                     orgasmic & dangerous--

                          born midst gasps & cries & moans,

                          stinking of placental overkill, 

                                                               d  r  i  p  p  i  n  g

of opulence, abundance,

& mysterious passion.

                                                 You stare down, stunned at the creative

                                        word pile, at the myriad of possibilities

                                  and with a reluctant but steady hand,

                          you reach for the fat-leaded blue pencil,

                    the pulsating quiver of arrows that will

             redirect words & clauses, & the thick red

        & black markers that obliterate & redact

certain errant words & phrases,

        forced to facilitate & witness as the

              letters swallow themselves in seconds,

                      as molten & barely metallic ingots

                              are cooled & drenched in icy creek

                                      insights, & the cerebral steam that

                                                rises always tickles your nose hairs

                                                as you lovingly pound a shape into the

                                       piece before the beautiful flames

                               fade from it, before it hardens into

                       its husk, makes

                       its initial impression & embraces

                       its verbal destiny.

Then, you sigh, blushing like a maiden

as you walk away, busying yourself

with the brewing of some green tea

that will be sipped slowly as you stare

at the new pink blossoms on your tulip

tree that has impulsively rushed ahead

of the calendar & sucked face with spring,

until the poem begins to do the black snake

moan--throbbing, whimpering & calling

you back to it.

You return gladly & stare down at it, cradled & swaddled, something

grand that you have whelped, parented, & brought to the light, seeing

it now with new eyes & a fresh perspective, & perhaps, possibly, the

next set of edits will be gentler, calmer, approaching subtle, 

                                before the Cotillion commences, 

                                before your debutante is introduced, announced,

anointed  & coronated--

                                before your poem is offered up, & presented for the

perusal & scrutiny of others. Smiling bravely, you take the child’s tiny hand

& walk with it to the front door, 

                                before letting go, allowing it to scamper outside alone. 

Poetry requires

both pain of delivery &

joy of birthing.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"

Wounded

image from poasterboy.deviantart.com


Wounded

"Some wounds run too deep for
the healing."--J.K. Rowling

I've been retired
for seven years,
so I don't drive
the thirty miles over
to the VA Hospital
much anymore;

but today
I drove a friend
to his appointment
and sat grin-less
midst a human sea
of shattered souls--
reopening my
broken heart.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille 4

Blackthorne--Scene 54

image by periclesperez.blogspot.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Four

Predicament

“Life is just the predicament that precedes death.”

--Henry James.

1(sound cue) banjo & harmonica.

2(medium close up) Johnny Eagle staring at Bronson:

--So what the hell is burrowed up your backside so early?

3(reverse close-up) Cash Bronson:

--Aww, we’re just looking for strays & troublemakers. I was told

that you were out here somewhere, so it’s a piece of luck finding

you like this. I think you & I have some things to discuss, Johnny.

4(three-shot) angle on Buck: Anyone want some coffee; tastes like

sawdust, but it’s hot.--tossing the inquiry like a rock.

5(medium close-up) Bronson turned in the saddle, his dark eyes

narrowing: So, you would be the mysterious buffalo hunter who has

stirred up so much shit for me in town?

6(sound cue) slide guitar riff.

7(cut to overhead crane shot) the five riders facing the two men.

8(sound cue) Guitar strumming & snare drum baps.

9(two-shot) angle over Bronson’s shoulder, Buck smirking:

--Yeah, that would probably be me

10(medium close-up) Bronson, tight-lipped, nodding his head:

--OK, well I’m Cash Bronson, and one of these days we need to

palaver over your mistaken notion that you actually can rebuild

this ramshackle ranch of yours.

11(close-up) Buck, tight-jawed:  Sure, why not? I’d be pleased to

jaw a bit with the one-eyed jack in these parts.

12(two-shot) Thor sat up tall, stretched & drawled: Not today,

hombres. Fuck your coffee & fuck you. So tell them what we want,

big brother.

13(hold the shot) angle over Thor’s shoulder, Bronson, his tone

approaching a growl--Just sit on that itch, boy; then returning his

gaze to the two men afoot in front of him--My brother makes a valid

point though. It is possible that this is not a friendly visit.

14(medium close-up) the Eagle: Would you call it an unfriendly one?

as he rolled his throwing knife in his big hands, an old Colt prominent

on his hip.

15(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & branch flute trills.

16(two-shot) angle over Johnny’s shoulder, Bronson:

--It could be--it could be; kind of depends on you fellows.

17(cut to close-up) Buck: Is that a fact, how so?

18(two-shot) angle on Bronson--I don’t know where to

begin with you, big man--so let’s talk to Johnny first.

19(medium close-up) the Eagle: So, let’s get to it.

20(three shot) angle on Bronson: Come to find out

you had a big misunderstanding recently with my

auction manager over some wages?

21(close-up) Johnny: You know that pinche gordo had

it coming--that baboso doesn’t bring you any honor.

22(sound cue) saxophone & guitar.

23(medium close up) Bronson: So you gave it to him?

24(close-up) Johnny: Hell, no--Sheriff Hop showed up

& stopped the dance.

25(two-shot) angle on Bronson: You know, that’s not 

the way I heard it.

26(medium close-up) cut to Buck: That’s the way it was.

27(cut to medium wide shot) over the stiff backs of the five

riders, with Buck & Johnny facing them.

28(series of jump-cut close-ups) Bronson, the Eagle, Thor,

Buck, & the three cowhands.

29(sound cue) harmonica, saddles creaking, horses shifting

hooves, & a dog growling.

30(close-up) bacon burning & smoking in a frying pan.

31(medium wide shot) Buck casually bent down, keeping Thor

in his periphery, then lifted up the blackened pan out of the low

orange flames, & sat it on a flat rock.

32(reverse the shot) Buck & Johnny with backs to the camera;

--Bronson: Sorry about your vittles--straightening up in the saddle,

& folding his arms. Truth be told, Graff is a minor problem, & I

choose to let you slide--because when it comes to horse busting,

I like your style; but get this clear, if you want wages from me, You

will have to find a way to get along with Graff.

33(sound cue) guitar strumming.

34(two-shot) angle on Johnny, his features stoic, not responding.

--Bronson: That brings us to a more serious problem--that we need

to deal with today; right now.

35( medium close-up) Buck: And what might that be?

--Bronson: I think that you boys need to know that you’re on my land.

36(sound cue) castanets & coronet.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Blue Highway

image from pinterest.

Blue Highway

“When you’re traveling, you are who you are every moment.

People do not have your past to hold against you.  There are

no yesterdays on the road.--William Least-Heat Moon.

When I was 19, or there about,

there was this TV series

called ROUTE 66;

all about two young men in a

Corvette Sting Ray having 

adventures up & down

the historic interstate.

                                                          I just couldn’t wait for that magical

                                                          time that it would be me on

                                                          incredible road trips; stretched

                                                          out in tire-screeching cacophony 

                                                          from the City of Angels

                                                          to the Windy City:

                                                          hot damn!

In Barstow, CA., I passed by

old highway 395 that snakes

north up along the Sierras,

where in 1983, I had a bona fide

UFO encounter at 3am between

Red Mountain & China Lake,

in the triangle between Edwards AFB,

Area 51 & Death Valley.

                                                         Outside Flagstaff, AZ, north of

                                                         Sonoma & west of Monument

                                                         Valley, I visited ancient native cliff

                                                         dwellings in Chestnut Canyon.

                                                         My wife had the energy to climb

                                                         up & down the steep ladders, while

                                                         I sat in the shade using binoculars.

In Gallop, NM, we discovered 

this family-run Tex-Mex diner

that served good cheer, & the

best chicken fried steak in the

state, as well as deep fried

sopapellos slathered in honey

& whip cream. We stop by every

summer to treat the taste buds.

                                                         

                                         Route 66 is not

                                         a continuous highway

                                         any more--but who minds?

Glenn Buttkus

posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"

                                                          

Future Shock

image from sciencefictionart.tumblr.com

Future Shock

“Man has a limited biological capacity for change, & when

overwhelmed by it, they descend into future shock.”

--Alvin Toffler

Hard to believe it’s already 2216, & earth has become a plethora

of domed citadels. Climate change was real, & now only technology

allows us to cling to its surface. The seas have risen, land masses

have shrunk. Nations have withered. We have given in to what used

to be considered a dystopian vision, where great corporate conglom--

erates, no longer puppet masters, have stepped out of the shadows & 

have become Ruling Republics.

My family lives on the west coast in MICRO-APPLE, covering the 

western portion of Old America. The oil & natural gas barons have

taken over the heartland in BP-STANDARD. The east coast has

become the bastion of Military/Industrial complexes, called LIBERTY.

There is no President, no governors, just CEOs. What’s left of the

ancient government is made up of supervisors & sycophants who

wear black jumpsuits blazoned with patches from corporate sponsors.

I’m a climate engineer on my way back to Mars, where 50 million souls

toil in vast mines & farms, or are engaged in atmospheric change. It now 

rains on the red planet. We grow crops within the sprinkle of domed 

communities. A half dozen seas are filling up & spreading. We understand 

that our tiny galaxy, the Milky Way, is but a dust particle in a universe of 200

billion other galaxies. Beyond Mars, little Ceres has limited potential for

colonization; so it’s a way station, like all the moons have become. Jupiter

now has a 1,000 space stations orbiting it, & exploration of Saturn is on

the horizon. We have sent probes into the far reaches of the cosmos, but

sadly the data does not determine other life forms.

Man’s footprints now are

on planets once thought to be

unreachable; praise Allah.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

I, Buttkus

image by shane shier

I, Buttkus

“In the social jungle of human existence, there is no

feeling of being alive without a sense of identity.”

--Erik Erickson.

I never liked the name, Buttkus, very much.

It was my stepfather’s, my third one, who

at my dying mother’s request adopted the

three kids. But I found if you wear a name

long enough, it becomes you & you become it.

In my family, it seemed, I was always 

          first, though not always a winner,

          first born & favored by Mom,

          first into the school system,

          first to get straight “A”s,

          first to go to college, returning three times,

          first to graduate, with three degrees,

          first to be in the armed service,

          first to pursue a career in the Arts--

I mean, why not?

I had very little mechanical aptitude, poor math skills 

         and the hoary sciences never beckoned to me. All

I had was a romance with words, a silver tongue,

         a vivid imagination & a passion for performance--

         which richly fueled my careers as actor,

                                                               writer,

                                                               teacher &

                                                               poet.        In the end it was

Civil Service, working for the Man,

that allowed me a thirty year career

as a teacher of the visually impaired.

Today, I sit like an aged restless tomcat,

       a Boomer two times three years into retirement.

              Hell,

            I grew up with a fiery Socialist for a grandfather,

                      who lovingly planted & sowed the perennial

                      seeds of liberalism within me, imprinted on

                      my soul. For a time

            I mingled with liberals at college, & it saddened me that

            I encountered so few in the world at large.

Observing our planet, our country, at present, waist-deep in the bloody

quagmire of the Bush-induced New Crusades--much too close

to the writings of Nostrodamus, plagued by ever-clinging racism,

bigotry, sexism, red-necked Republican ravings (wake up, Bubba,

you are too poor to be a real Republican), while watching a bilious

billionaire with a fourth grade vocabulary & a bully’s sensitivities,

pretending not to be influenced by corporate factions & Wall Street

sickens me (OMG, he is the damn poster boy for the 1% ruling class);

I find myself hatching nightmares of impending dystopian, fascist

scenarios, that too many of us, like lemming heading for the cliff,

fall in line, hopping on bandwagons & trains with too much momentum,

just seem to be hell-bent on materializing.

I am who I am,

not some other, just a crippled

bear in a paper cage. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB