Mesmer Mount

image by don geyer

Mesmer Mount

Rainier always loomed large

on the cusp of my childhood,

at the end of the street,

over the back fence,

towering over several cities,

out the elementary school window,

watch dog for national forests,

reflected in lakes,

always depicted

on phone book covers,

business cards,

and beer cans,

that friendly popsicle 

of much of my youth,

where we kept returning

to have snowball fights in June.

Each of us were all devout

mountain watchers, because

it is not on display

every single day--

much of the time it is swaddled

completely in cumulus

while wearing several cloud hats,

hidden,

leaving the foothills flat-topped,

perhaps snatched by playful giants,

sometimes gone for several days,

perhaps placed in a distant land

in some nearby dimension

where other versions of us

marvel at its majesty,

only to reappear one morning,

snow ablaze with raw sunrise,

like a righteous red spirit,

all tall and raspberry

and mystical. 

North-westerners somehow live larger

in its imperial shadow, nestled in like

fat mushrooms in a ring of fire,

mostly impervious

to its potential for one day presenting

us with a malevolent eruption,

and once a month

when the lahar siren

goes off for five minutes

down in Orting, we do wonder

if that is the day

the Eloi are really hungry.

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012.

Posted over on dVerse Poets-MLB

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Blacklisted Boyo

image borrowed from amazon.com

Blacklisted Boyo

Trumbo sat on his patio in Eagle Rock puffing on a fat cigar,

staring for a long time at the Angeles Crest, that jagged swath

of the Sierras that snaked its way south to Mexico, skirting the

east side of LA.

Jesus, he thought, just how many damned times had he suffered

with dysentery while living in Mexico? It was like adding layers of

hubris while struggling through the unlit labyrinth of blacklisting,

but actually his guts had never been normal after that 11 months in

1950 when he vacationed at the charming prison in Ashland, 

Kentucky--certainly no blue grass in that shit hole.

Raised in the Rockies as a kid, it seemed that mountains always

centered him, which helped a lot while acclimatizing to living at 7,000

feet elevation in Mexico City. He had enjoyed staring at those mountains

surrounding that hispanic bowl of crap that 20 million people lived in--

some exile he often reflected while his butt burned and soul simmered. 

What a joy in 1951 when Jake Garfield surprised him with a visit, staying

with them for two weeks. He didn’t look good at the time; history of heart 

trouble. It really hurt when John died so young the next year. He had 

always been a true friend, from the gravy days at Warners during the late 

30’s up through the war. 

Last year in August, Trumbo had snuck into that park on the outskirts of 

town at Teotihuacan, and using his lighter he climbed to the top of the Temple

of the Sun, and watched the meteor shower, really feeling that things

might change for the better. He had been paid well for his script ROMAN 

HOLIDAY, and hell, he still had some friends in Hollywood that might help 

him sneak back into California.

Back just three months, he and Cleo were watching the 1954 Academy

Awards when the original script for ROMAN HOLIDAY won an Oscar. It

was credited, of course, to Ian Hunter, becoming yet another silent victory. 

Puffing pale blue smoke rings, he glanced at a small ornate gift card that

read, “Give ‘em hell, Jimmy.”  It was signed with regards, DeForest, which

was Bogart’s middle name. He was in the middle of filming The Caine

Mutiny, and had sent the note by studio courier. One thing was for sure,

Bogie had big balls. 

Cleo was loving those roses that came weekly from Mannie, who had

helped them with the physical move during the holidays. Old Edward G.

was doing some television roles this spring. He, too, had visited them

in Mexico, coming down to look for art, and to plot their return. 

He could hear Danny the parrot raising hell in the house, that

bird that Kirk had given them--after teaching it several curse 

words. It liked to perch on his shoulder as Trumbo sat in the bath 

tub in the hot afternoons cranking out scripts. Kirk was doing 

some silly Jules Verne picture over at Disney. He kept telling

Trumbo that one of these days they would “make those bastards

pay.”  Sure, sure, we will do that soon.

Jesus, to have had to accept being in “contempt of Congress”,

to have sweated it out for years while those federal idiots finally

decided to incarcerate him, to have spent that terrifying year in 

prison, to have fled to Mexico with Ring and Al, their families

in tow, and to have just heard that fag asshole McCarthy

got away with kneeing Drew Pearson in the nuts in a Washington

club cloakroom--yeah, those sumbitches had a lot to answer for.

His father never liked the idea that Trumbo wanted to be a writer,

and those early 88 short stories and 6 novels that were all rejected

for publication seemed to substantiate his displeasure. But somehow

he ended up being a reader in the story department at Warner 

Brothers and the good times did roll there for a while--until his radical

and liberal views came under scrutiny and the scapegoat badge

was pinned on his collar. 

Now that he was back, he was sad though about his good friend Will 

being pissed off at him after he turned down the offer to join that 

progressive group of blacklisted artists who were working on THE 

SALT OF THE EARTH. He told Geer that he felt SALT would be a 

movie no one would ever get to see in an American theater. 

“Well, fuck it,” Trumbo said, “It’s tub time.”

He needed to write a full scene for THEY WERE SO YOUNG.

He had heard yesterday that they had signed Raymond Burr

for the picture. It was just what the Eisenhower Era needed,

a lusty and epic tale of the sex trade in South America. He had

already decided to use Felix Lutzkendorf as his pen name. 

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

Posted over on "href="http://dversepoets.com/2012/06/16/re-joycing-in-poetics-and-exile/"> dVerse Poets--Poetics

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Ode to 68

image borrowed from bing

Ode to 68

“Even while you sleep among the sheep pens,

the wings of my dove are sheathed with silver,”

--Psalm 68:13

In 1968, when I was 24 and serving in the USN

I saw CVN-68, the USS Nimitz, in San Diego

the same day I went to see 200l: A Space Odyssey

during the Summer of Love that I barely partook of,

while MLK and RK were killed by assassins in America,

Saddam Hussein took power in Iraq, 

Richard Nixon was elected President,

the Beatles formed Apple Records

and released the White Album,

Hair and nudity debuted on Broadway,

Laugh-In & 60 minutes debuted on television

while in Viet Nam we suffered through

both the Tet Offensive and the Mai Lai massacre,

and John Steinbeck, Nick Adams, 

Dan Duryea and Red Foley 

died.

1944 was 68 years ago

and on this 14th day of June

as festive flags fluttered, I saddled

that nontotient double digit, shoved

my birthday bit between its teeth

and rode hellbent into the thinly concealed

days of my next year, wondering

what adventures awaited--perhaps

I would travel merrily along US68 one of those days,

maybe I will find out more about NGC68,

that spiral galaxy in the constellation Hydra,

or research erbium, the chemical element

with the atomic #68, or shed some light

on the fact that biblically #68 means

“the mercy of God”, or look into why most police

call signs list 68 as a “suspicious person”,

or find out why most NASCAR drivers

think that the #68 car is lucky-- 

and did you know

that 6+8=14 which adds up 

to the 5 wounds of Christ?

68, at the moment, is fresh and new,

dripping with dew, covered in wax bubbles,

chrome-brilliant, stanchion sturdy,

brimming with hope,

bursting with promise,

and as the annual ride begins

I am very happy to feel the trot

becoming a canter.

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

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Sons of Cain

painting by vincent valdez

Sons of Cain

"It is the first responsibility of every citizen to question authority."
--Benjamin Franklin




The Man, the Man, always the goddamn Man, everywhere--

the deadly deaf mute of discipline,

the bastard boss, haughty honcho, belligerent badass.

First the blinding glare off the silver badges,

then the oaken baton in your gut,

the pump shotgun pointed at your head;

his tiny red pig-weasel eyes squinting,

rat saliva at the corners of his maggot maw,

barking rules, spouting hate, cuddling cruelty.

You must always beware of the Man,

do as he demands,

stay in your cubicle,

never leave your neighborhood,

step out on green,

halt absolutely on red,

put your credit card into the breath-o-meter,

do not lose your spoon,

do not forget your fucking number,

you must never speak your mind,

never congregate in groups,

never hold up hand-made placards.

Bend low and respect the Man, fear

his might, power, shiny boots, great rowelled spurs,

and his darkly tinted robo-visor.

All you brethren must blend seamlessly

or the Man will focus his considerable wrath

on you, your family, your children, your friends,

and from the intestines of hell,

from dungeons unseen,

from row upon row of shallow graves,

will come the cries of those already destroyed,

all mingled into a single throbbing wailing

that will shatter windows and break spirits,

from those who stood up to the full blast,

whose words are slain by riot winds,

who were crushed down without epitaphs,

and no doubt you will weep for them,

reach out to them, but take care

not to have to join them.

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets-FFA

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Soldier's Song

painting by joel spector

Soldier’s Song

Our history books 

are spattered with blood ponds

collected from myriads of men in mail,

who 

     swung

              the

                Lord’s

                        sword,

fighting in jihad, holy war, 

or politically designated skirmishes,

crushing the Infidels,

sowing death like berserk angels

with God on one side,

then the other.

White silken banners

and tunics stretched over armor

blazoned with bright red crosses,

or Saracen swords,

centuries soul-crusted upon centuries,

always with men on lonely battlements

or hunkered down in fire-bases

talking to Jesus Mohammed: 

Make it worthwhile, sweet Lord,

for my brothers are all dead,

their bodies ripped asunder,

just slaughtered sheep

lying all about me,

their beautiful voices are silent

and the stench of butchered meat

rises thick off festering corpses

choking the liberty out of me,

piled holocaust-high as sacrifice

to the cruel kings of this earth;

Yes, I understand that my enemy

is godless and love can not be wasted

on heathens- but I have killed for You

and even though the wet blood

under my fingernails will wash off, 

the black death mold that surges

into my heart seems inexorable;

I tell you I hear them, those angry voices

coming for me out there in the void,

calling my name in ten languages,

and I just have to tell you

I do not feel ready to give

the last measure of my devotion,

for doubt plagues me

like a red demon riding my shoulders;

for all the mothers of heathens

cannot be whores--I see men’s faces

looking up at me off the concertina wire,

men who had rallied 

to banners of their own

praying to their perception of You,

men with children,

who had known fear, 

and lice and love,

whose families and flower gardens

still await their return,

so tell me big man,

whose bullet is more holy, and

will I see the face of my God

just as my heart stops?

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets-OLN

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Xbox Xmas

image borrowed from bing

Xbox Xmas

Christmas Eve, 2007, and my youngest daughters arrived

ready to cook for the old man, then play some canasta

and phone their mother who happened to be visiting

our oldest daughter nesting in Baltimore, and the two

grandsons; one brand new, one not.

My girls

           stayed until

                            i was exhausted

                                         hoping to help

                                                 me    

                                                 forget 

           that after all I was home alone.

Christmas dawned cold, wet, and gray,

another yule tide in the northwest,

but I was joining dear friends

for their family breakfast;

mounds of butter-fried French toast

flipped about in huge black pans,

with a marzipan eye on each piece,

smothered in apricot syrup,

accompanied with spicy sausage, 

thick bacon and fresh fat eggs.

I was the stepchild at the table,

yet still we laughed, burped

and farted warmly, surrounded

by fir sprigs, red ribbons, bright bulbs,

and Santa’s elven figurines, 

serenaded by the dead carolers, 

Bing, Perry, Dean and Doris;

when something moving outside,

something fluffy and falling

caught our eye, yes, yes,

it was snowing,

fat pointy flakes of purest white,

first a few squads

                            then battalions

                            then whole armies

jackslamming the sky--snow,

holy Christ, snow, the whole of Puget Sound

turning white on Christmas day;

but then as I drove off the blizzard

was reduced to a flurry, becoming

snain or raow, just overweight overwrought

drops slapping my windshield and the pavement,

smack

         smack

                  smack

                           like slapping the bad dog

with the rolled up newspaper,

arriving home to just drizzle,

the alley’s potholes puddled up to greet me.

Much later awakening from a nap in my recliner,

the television screen splashed with holiday anime,

I realized that I was hungry

and my foraging of the cupboards, fridge and freezer

did not reveal that festive sustenance I craved;

finding myself in my vehicle 

roaming the wetness,

driving in senseless circles, biting my lip, 

staring into an infinity of decorated windows,

faced with empty streets, escalating darkness,

and posted on the premises I drove by, 

the message was clarion, impersonal, cruel;

“Closed for Christmas”.

But then, thank you Jesus, my solo crusade

garnered gold as I saw the sign, Denny’s,

and it was open, brightly lit, welcoming;

swinging into the place 

I parked in the last open spot,

and pushing open the door

I was greeted by a whoosh 

of warm air laden with happy voices

and a young greeter who said,

“Merry Christmas, welcome to Denny’s.”

She seated me in my booth

and presented me with the one page menu,

a spartan ten choices of “holiday specials”.

I ordered the meat loaf, home fries, and apple sauce

with a strong cup of cafe coffee,

drumming my fingers on the plastic table top,

interrupted, nearly overwhelmed by

sadness, 

like a silent sob, 

a throbbing stabbing ache

rising up from my innards,

uninvited.

The imp behind my left ear asked,

“What kind of losers come to Denny’s

for their Christmas dinner?”;

looking around I saw all kinds,

entire families, truck drivers, junkies,

street people, whores, and three old ladies,

and for a moment they were

all staring at  me

staring at them.

Dipshit, 

I heard myself mutter

as the feast arrived

and I rolled up my sleeves

and consumed the meal

as if it were the finest prime rib

served on silver platters

by ten naked dancing girls.

Driving home, listening to a religious choir

I began to recall the events I read about

in the morning’s newspaper,

reflecting on the holiday choices

we had all made that day:

23 dead from a car bomb in Baghdad,

15 dead from a suicide bomber in Bombay,

and all the deployed armed forces of the

American Empire of the United States

were fed a special meal,

30,000 frozen turkeys 

and a ton of cranberry sauce,

and this god damned All American

City of Tacoma had counted up

800 homeless souls who had crowded

into the city’s flophouses and missions

on Christmas Eve.

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics

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Wulfstan

image borrowed from deviant art

Wulfstan

We were hours deep into 

southern Louisiana one spring,

marveling at the darkness at noon,

as the sun fled, hearing a tornado warning

barking from the car radio

and for a brief blink everything

                                            was 

                                     deathly 

                                  still 

                               just 

                        before 

                          it 

                  rained 

                   so 

              hard

           we had to pull over

to the side of the highway

followed

by the bellicose bellowing 

of thunder

as we witnessed

the terrible beauty

of God’s veins

turning electric

when crackling shards

of spider web lightning

stabbed jagged holes in the sky,

 and the air was full of wolf god howling,

and we both knew that 

there was a towering wind demon

near by, swirling up farm trucks,

bath tubs, and lives;

a mega-monster

with scythes and talons

and flashing white eyes

dealing in a dozen kinds of death

and daring us to tread

within its alley.

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

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