Outlaw Wings

image borrowed from bing

Outlaw Wings

“In my writing I am a map maker, and explorer

of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space.”

---William S. Burroughs

I can never perch on a mossy rock

by a raging river without first the vegetation

conjuring up gnomes & sprites who always

dart behind toadstools and thick tree trunks,

as the roar of the powerful volume of water

crashing into boulders and logs produces

an involuntary lid closure--

and within that self-induced blindness,

the absence of outside light, where upon

the cones of the retina are not stimulated,

I still see colors.

Where do they originate or spring from?

Are they chakra-induced, soul inspired,

helix manifestations, dimensional portals?

I only know they are primal, rolling

one into the other,

heart, speech, crotch--

green, blue, red, mixing

like chemicals poured into beakers,

yellow to orange, leading to crown lavender,

all kick-ass six-string blues bleeding

into fireworks jazz jelly, as they pass,

roll, jiggle & slide through willing cortical

passageways, chambers, & portals;

allowing the river to become the sea

with garrulous gulls crying from far off,

flying low over tributaries, alone

and in flocks,

just as kelp snarls the nostrils, driving

out the sweetness of clover

with the sting of iodine & salt,

stirring up primordial memories of deep darkness,

of swimming frantically, inexorably toward the light,

of the mystical transformations,

like the loss of gills,

the dropping off of tails,

the blossoming of fingers from fins,

and the sprouting of mad hair follicles

like a berserk Chia-pet, before deeply

seated lust adventures led to the

inevitable creation of divers cousins; 

stimulating the eyes wide open as imagery

floods our sensorium, words, paintings,

photography, films, games, movies & music,

captured still alive, vibrant, sentient within

every precious moment of our private perceptual

tagging & cataloging, bending our light receptors,

teasing our shadows, tinting our various filters,

reminding me that every time I’m in the presence

of mountains I can hear angels singing, or 

strolling in forests I can smell the Sasquatch

lurking, or on the empty desert on starry nights

I await the next alien encounter,

and every single time I hear a certain tone

of cello strings I release a burst of irrational

inexplicable tears, because fours are always teal

and taste like ginger, and I’m grateful

that a pair of them represent the moment

I entered, or re-entered the beauteous fray,

and even now as I struggle to share

while in the autumn of this lesson,

I remain proud & privileged 

to be a poet, always volunteering

for the pain,

for the bliss,

for the explication,

for the challenge,

for the dancing,

for the silent screaming,

for the resistance;

to forever be a spokesperson,

a chaser of chaos,

a heart surgeon,

a ghost hunter,

a pariah, whistle blower & reporter,

and a loving conscience

for the throngs of brethren

beneath my outlaw wings. 

Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Zorongo

abstract photo by Leovi. 
http://lafotografiaefectistaabstracta.blogspot.com/

Zorongo

“Then I realized I had been murdered.

They looked for me in cafes, cemeteries

and churches--but they did not find me.

They never found me? No.

They never found me.”

--Federico Garcia Lorca

On my island, faces formed on the warm glass

of the small kitchen window, as sweet steam

from my heirloom Spanish china cup

swirled up from Carmencita black tea,

teasing the hard driving rain into fat droplets

as squads of rain men passed in wet parade

on a dull dun day just like many that Raymond Carver

would have stared into out across the white-capped

Strait of Juan de Fuca, sipping whiskey, smoking

and patiently waiting for his words to stir, releasing

poetics, letting it blossom out of the dampness--

but Carver was not there at my special window,

no, as I sipped hot castanet gulps and listened

to the flamenco falsettas, feeling those strong

classical rhythms burst out bullanguero,

thrusting untouched deep into the downpour,

and my thoughts returned to Spain,

to August 1936 near the great fountain

at Alfacar where a thin smartly attired

Garcia Lorca stood with three other men

being called communist faggots by their

Nationalist firing squad, and I wondered

if Lorca was thinking about his love affair

with Dali, or the burly sculptor Adadren

as the bastardo bullets hit his flesh,

did he boldly meet the brass in a passionate

arranque, or did the indifferent fussilade

just thud dully, like a cruel a golpe,

as the beautiful poet slipped away

from his tormenters;

making me ponder as to where his killers

had actually put his riddled husk, for

it is well known that after the death of Franco,

when they dug up Lorca’s shallow grave,

they could not find any human remains;

God, he had even escaped excavation.

So where was Lorca?

I smiled broadly then, for on that day

Lorca had appeared just for me

as a quicksilver bust in motion,

straight down the heated glass

of my many paned window,

to the fervent sad strains

of a zorongo, a liquid lullaby

in 2/4 time, as his gypsy verses

echoed in the warm corners

of my kitchen, and in the rare

Spanish corridors of my heart. 

Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Lenny Wept

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Lenny Wept

My page was too white

My ink was too thin

The day wouldn’t write

What the night penciled in.

--Leonard Cohen

I am moved by broken flower stems, by

the patina pock-marking all the iron that

surrounds us, abandoned machinery, chipped

and bent gears lying in fat precarious piles

in dark corners, wood beautifully aged by weather

on those east/west walls facing direct sunlight,

hand-hewn rail fences twisted like arthritic limbs,

with deep verdant moss adorning tops & corners;

but my mere words lack any substantial bite;

my page was too white. 

I do capture images with my mechanical lens

that later might arouse my slumbering poetics;

classic hood ornaments, jets, rockets, & archers,

toothy or snarling chrome grilles, wide white wall

tires, moon hubcaps, torn leather seat covers,

faded brand names on some old cans of tin, 

Buck Rogers, Howdy Doody, & Gene Autry

action toys, and painted metal lunch boxes;

very hard to imprison with words meant to win;

my ink was too thin.

I love to stoop and peer into steel-ribbed culverts,

hoping to greet another pair of eyes in the shadows,

reading aloud the city and year that certain foundries

cast on manhole covers and fire hydrants, staring

lovingly at every kind of window and door, all different

styles, colors, materials; different sizes & height;

wandering the harbors, marveling at the thick ropes

that tether the ships & boats, while always searching

the motley skies for those wings of might

the day wouldn’t write.

Artist, performer, photographer, & poet--

all sweet monikers I proudly wear while

processing this marvelous world through

my personal filters, describing the tastes,

sharing the emotions, creating the tableaus

before revealing who actually was the assassin;

still pleased that others appear interested in

my unique views, perspective, & compositions,

while never fearing the specter of oblivion--

what the night penciled in.

Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

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Fuggedaboutit

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Fuggedaboutit

“ Zen is not philosophy, it is poetry. It does not propose,

it simply persuades. It does not argue, it simply sings.”

---Osho

The slave’s rut, worn smooth by countless feet,

was never really my soul’s domicile, though

I labored there with my chained brethren--

surrounded by those leaden-eyed, gray-skinned

worker bees, who at the end of each shift, gleefully

unsnapped their harnesses, and raced home

to their mind-numbing technology & toys--

whilst I , always the first to arrive & last to leave,

savored the puffy dandelions poking their sassy

heads out of the cracks in the concrete, marveled

at the mirth of the dust that danced in the perfect

bands of light, enjoying the horseplay between

sun & earth, shadows & radiation there on

the red linoleum of the employee restroom, smiling

at the fat hawk’s nest perched atop the phone pole

at the head of my alley, and always when I strode

gently across my back yard I longed to be

the magnificent Maple in my neighbor’s yard, just

supremely solid, tall, immovable, unblinking with

branches as thick as elephant legs, always

receptive but never judgmental, rooted

firmly in the Now;

bearing, wearing luxurious leaves without pride,

shedding them by the tubful when Autumn’s

death was upon them, within them; plugged

pugnaciously but not perniciously deep

into the spiritual girding of axis & reality,

the colonic cycle of Life, unafraid

of the woodsman’s axe, sweetly oblivious

to Homeland Security, the IRS, jihadists,

big screen plasma televisions, and war

games--both video & visceral;

and it has taught me without words,

now that my servitude has ended

and I busily tread the path from bondage

to freedom, I can immerse my self

in my Self, celebratory and joyous

that this time I eluded both faith & devotion

and have emerged from the chrysalis 

unscathed, still curious and creative;

barking like the vicious dog on the other side

of my Sears chain link fence, still seeking

some tiny particles of the greater Truth;

that which eternally defies definition, regardless

of how many lifetimes I have pursued it,

or of how many karmic pitfalls I have stumbled

into and pulled myself out of, or through.

At this juncture, imbedded in this moment,

I have fully accepted Leonard Cohen

as my personal prophet poet, Jikan, who

after several years of seclusion & meditation

on top of Mt. Baldy, came down and returned

to smoking,

to alcohol,

to women,

to song,

because he finally found the strength

to inactively enter the Zen dialogue:

“What is mind?

No matter.

What is Matter?

Never mind.”

Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

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The Scrivener

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The Scrivener

“There is not a particle of life that

does not bear poetry within it.”

--Gustave Flaubert.

Wandering the width & breadth of landscapes

shared by the busy and the blind, I tend to

record tiny moments & events with my digital

lens & my poet’s quill; captured as my personal

tableaus of truth.

On some ancient barns and buildings,

where all trace of stairs & porches have crumbled

to dust, I am fascinated by those naked doors

to nowhere, extant but providing no access.

Wildflowers sometimes sprout out of bare brick,

clinging to life high above the street, creating

nourishment out of thin air and mist. 

On a tombstone I read that this man died

the year I was born, so we must have passed

each other in the dimensional ether, soon

forgetting the encounter. 

Rimless, but still geared, the rusted clutch

pressure plate seemed paralyzed at parade rest;

restrained by thistles it could only shift

the inert cogs of nothingness. 

Most clouds caught & mirrored in fresh puddles

love to dance a wicked shimmy. 

Piles of discarded signs in deep grass on empty lots

are where many politicians end up after the hurrahs. 

A toddler’s red tennis shoe atop a bright blue refuse

container makes me wonder why it was never retrieved. 

A twisted log, once a wave rider, now lies near the high tide

mark, unable to crawl any further, content to allow the sand

to weave it a warm blanket. 

Dead flowers left on the graves of dead loved ones,

still sustain a proud beauty when compared to

the dusty plastic ones alongside them.

When a wide city culvert becomes choked

with thriving weeds, it remains a reluctant

garden as growth trumps flow. 

I see far too many homeless picket fences,

no longer white, no longer functional, just

so many broken yellowed teeth in a sad wooden smile. 

Fire’s passionate embrace on flesh or other combustibles

invariably leaves deep dark scars forever, permanent

badges of courage or chance encounter. 

In Autumn I love to seek out the pumpkin dwarves

that cower in the cold shadows of their giant siblings.

Why is it that new windows recently installed in

empty houses do not spark inquiry?

Totem thunderbirds, eagles, & gulls possess

great spiritual power, but they reject all bread crumbs. 

Behind glass, the hot house ladies always dress up

in their most colorful attire for their club meetings. 

So many moments & significant things frozen

for future review and contemplation; they are

part of the cornucopia of discarded and hidden

treasures that are never-ending, and I will not

presume to effect change on them--for I am

but a humble scribe, and it is enough to notice

and acknowledge them. 

Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

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Dust Be My Destiny

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Dust Be My Destiny

“Tempt not a desperate man.”--William Shakespeare

When I consider 

my life-long love affair 

with movies, and 

my frenetic decade of pursuing a presence within them,

I tend to tromp upon objectivity

and too often am very tempted to regard

my mere eyelash of a career as an actor,

as pivotally more substantial than it was,

my talent as Herculean,

my bad luck as baleful,

my blink-and-you-missed it movie moments

as pure apex, as achievements, 

whiling away my retirement in vivid daydreams,

imagining that there never was more than

six degrees of separation between me

and artistic cinematic success--

playing the game, getting from

Matt Damon to Lauren Bacall

Damon in SAVING PRIVATE RYAN with Harve Presnell.

Presnell in PAINT YOUR WAGON with Lee Marvin.

Marvin in THE COMANCHEROS with John Wayne.

The Duke was in BLOOD ALLEY with Lauren Bacall.

Tim Blake Nelson to Glenn Buttkus

Nelson in THE ASTRONAUT FARMER with Billy Bob Thornton.

Thornton in PRIMARY COLORS with Rob Reiner.

Reiner in BULLETS OVER BROADWAY with Jack Warden.

Warden in NIGHT AND THE CITY with Eli Wallach.

Wallach in CINDERELLA LIBERTY with Glenn Buttkus.

Tony Shalboub to Humphrey Bogart

Shalboub in MEN IN BLACK with Tommy Lee Jones.

Jones in THE BETSY with Laurence Olivier.

Olivier in SPARTACUS with Peter Ustinov.

Ustinov in WE’RE NO ANGELS with Humphrey Bogart. 

Tina Fey to Glenn Buttkus

Fey in DATE NIGHT with Steve Carell.

Carell in HOPE SPRINGS with Tommy Lee Jones.

Jones IN THE ELECTRIC MIST with Ned Beatty.

Beatty in THE DEADLY TOWER with Kurt Russell.

Russell in THE LONGEST DRIVE with Glenn Buttkus.

Ted Dawson to Charles Laughton.

Dawson in DAD with Jack Lemmon.

Lemmon in GRUMPY OLD MEN with Burgess Meredith.

Meredith in ADVISE AND CONSENT with Charles Laughton.

Warren Oates to Glenn Buttkus

Oates in MAJOR DUNDEE with Charlton Heston.

Heston in THE BUCCANEER with Lorne Greene.

Greene in EARTHQUAKE with Lloyd Nolan.

Nolan in MY BOYS ARE GOOD BOYS with Glenn Buttkus.

Dolly Parton to Tuesday Weld

Parton in RHINESTONE with Sylvester Stallone.

Stallone in COP LAND with Harvey Keitel.

Keitel in THE TWO JAKES with Eli Wallach.

Wallach in THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN with Steve McQueen.

McQueen in THE CINCINATTI KID with Tuesday Weld. 

Chris Rock to Glenn Buttkus

Rock in DEATH AT A FUNERAL with Peter Dinklage.

Dinklage in THE STATION AGENT with Patricia Clarkson.

Clarkson in DOGVILLE with James Caan.

Caan in CINDERELLA LIBERTY with Glenn Buttkus.

Otto Kruger to Petulia Clark

Kruger in THE LAST COMMAND with Ernest Borgnine.

Borgnine in THE WILD BUNCH with William Holden.

Holden in SABRINA with Audrey Hepburn.

Hepburn in FUNNY FACE with Fred Astaire.

Astaire in FINIAN’S RAINBOW with Petulia Clark.

Bernie Mac to Glenn Buttkus

Mac in SOUL MEN with Samuel L. Jackson.

Jackson in SUNSET LIMITED with Tommy Lee Jones.

Jones in BLOWN AWAY with Jeff Bridges.

Bridges in WINTER KILLS with Ralph Meeker.

Meeker in MY BOYS ARE GOOD BOYS with Glenn Buttkus.

I tell you if a man is desperate enough

he can visualize himself as someone significant,

even though the truth reveals him to be

first a glittering speck of dust on some

pieces of celluloid, then reduced further

to a microscopic grove-blemish

on several digital discs;

no matter--

for posterity and the imp of ego

have in fact

provided him with standing room

at the back of a low dusty shelf

over at the Internet Movie Database,

where temptations tend to be reduced

to silent whimpers, dream-drool,

and blue font. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN

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Hell On Seymour Avenue

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Hell on Seymour Avenue

“Everyone wanted answers that I was

not ready to give.”--Lucy Christopher “Stolen”

Ariel Castro behaved like a pitiful scared

teenager in court today, tortoise head down,

eyes down, mute, frightened--after he dared

imprison three young women, stripped & bound,

making Amanda, Gina, & Michelle live out his

sick fantasies, until at last they were found

and liberated from a tortured life that is

finally revealed; beaten, restrained with rope,

raped, impregnated, assaulted, miscarried--tis

a miracle that they survived, or could even cope

throughout a decade of stygian darkness--

and now they cling tenaciously to the hope

that they will ever forget the beastliness,

surmount bitterness & really find happiness. 

Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

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