Les Fauves

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Les Fauves

“Poetry is man’s rebellion against

being what he is.”--James Branch Cabell

Prelude

Poetry is chameleon.

It can survive even the most

absurd of parameters by

blossoming in concrete,

or being written without the letter “E”,

soaring in a vacuum, being thrust

from inner to outer space, blasting

free, racing unharnessed, mixing meter,

metaphor, moments, & machinations,

only stopping as stanzas

to gasp for more breath.

Fauvist

the amazon-green blades of grass

nearly concealed the treasure

of those aero petals, the amaranth hearts,

the lurid amethyst stamen with their fetching

fuchsia spots and bright apricot stems,

sporting stripes of arylide alternating with ash,

as squads of insects paraded over them waving

their Bangladesh-green & barn-red banners.

Oulipo

the

king

draws

cement

shapely

Catholic

backsides.

Flarf

The Jersey Jambon could not get his metamorsel

to unsnap, so he had to use his flangial 

shoe-spoon as a limp lever, pressing hard

until it twanged & thwacked his pelvic forethumb

ten times ten, finally forcing him to unbuckle

the headband off his left ankle, and tie it

to his third tongue. 

Fluxus

Finally is stood finished, sparkling

with fresh red paint in the middle

of his father’s garage, with its

air mattress wings, using coat-hanger

struts to hold them up, attached

with red & green duct tape to its

soap box derby fuselage, 

TITAN ONE proudly stenciled

on both sides of its plywood pallet tail,

its propeller made from yellow spliced

canoe oars, handleless frying pans

mounted between broomsticks

for front wheels, skateboards for

rear wheels, a blue plastic beach chair

in the cockpit, red scarves for seat belts,

three golf clubs for stick controls,

with hand-painted instruments on

a styrofoam dashboard, and a Saran-

Wrap windshield stretched over rulers.

He & his pals pushed the plane

outside for its test flight. The sky

was electric blue & the white cliffs

awaited, but oddly, nobody

wanted to play pilot. 

Glenn Buttkus

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Blackthorne: Scene Twelve

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Twelve

Provisions

“Human brutes, like other beasts, find snares & poison in

the provision of life, and are allured by their appetite of

destruction.”--Jonathan Swift

1(sound cue) cello and harmonica duet.

2(medium wide-shot) the false front of Wallace’s General Store.

3(dolly in to the large front window on the left) where the bright

calico dresses & cattlemen’s denim shirts hung starched on

several mannequins sent all the way from Chicago.

4(medium shot) a storekeeper appears; short, silver-haired, stoop-

shouldered, wearing a clean white shirt, a red bow tie &

a black vest, adjusting one of the new dresses.

5(cut to reverse medium shot) inside, behind the storekeeper,

him partially in stark silhouette as the morning sun rays

shaft through the glass. 

6(sound cue) banjo & clarinet.

7(panning shot) away from the storekeeper as we see that the

establishment is well-stocked with frontier merchandise, high 

shelves against the walls, stick candy, boiled eggs in tall jars on the

counter, the black & gold keys on a brass cash register gleaming,

barrels & tables neatly stacked with tempting new goods.

8(medium close-up) several sun ray shafts with dust dancing in

them, with a large white long-haired cat lying on some folded

blankets, its blue eyes blinking, its tail twitching. 

9(sound cue) six-string guitar slide fading into the storekeeper

whistling a popular tune.

10(cut to a medium shot) traveling back to the inside of the store

window, where people are beginning to stir outside--wagons,

riders, pedestrians, kids kicking cans. Through the dusty glass

Buck rides into the frame, dismounts in front of the store, ties

off, & heads toward the front door.

11(sound cue) heavy boots on wooden steps, then crossing

the puncheon boardwalk.

12(medium shot) Buck entering the front door, his tall frame

filling the doorway. 

13(sound cue) small bells on a string jingling.

14(medium shot) the storekeeper glancing up from behind a

table where he was sorting bolts of cloth.

15(2-shot) Wallace: what can I get for you, big horse?

16Buck: I need a few supplies.

17Wallace: You have a list?

18Buck: Sure do--handing the storekeeper a folded-up

cattleman’s journal cover with the list written in pencil

on the back of it.

19(medium close-up) Wallace putting on some half-eye

glasses, then reading the list of wanted provisions.

20(2-shot) Wallace: Yeah, I think we can find these things for you

--but do you have a few minutes?

21Buck, his brows knitted, his mouth a tight line.

22Wallace: I’m always kind of busy in here first thing in the morning,

and we’re packing up some orders for other customers right now.

23(sound cue) piano fading into a dog whining.

24(medium close-up) Buck’s black dog with its face at the window.

25(voice-over) Buck: there you are.

26(2-shot) Wallace: will that be alright?

27Buck: no problem, just pack it in a sack and toss it over my saddle;

mine’s the roan out front.

28Wallace: can you find something to do until then, we got some 

coffee & biscuits in the back.

29Buck: no thanks, Pard, had some vittles at first light--but you 

might throw my old dog a bone if you like; just don’t get too close

to him--he can be a mite touchy.

30Buck hands the storekeeper several silver dollars: will that

cover it?

31Wallace: more than likely; pick up your change when you

return. You know anybody in our fair metropolis?

32(sound cue) saloon piano.

33Buck: not any more--but I’m drier than a tumbleweed & I do

need a woman.

34(Close-up) Wallace: a wry smile curling under his large white

mustache--there’s two saloons in town, mister, both have what

you need. If you like Mex whores, there’s Pedro’s Cantina at the

end of the street, but most of the real sluts work over in Bronson’s

place across the street.

35(sound cue) a sweet harp plucking.

36(2-shot) Are they all pigs?

37Wallace: I’ve never seen a woman yet, who sells her ass, that

wasn’t. Does it matter?

38Buck: not today. 

Glenn Buttkus

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The 300

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The 300

“Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by,

that here, obedient to Spartan law, we lie.”

--Simonides.

Mighty Xerxes of Persia marched into Greece one day

in 350 B.C., thinking to conquer, and to slay,

but the City States soldier’s battle cry

was “No quarter--preserve liberty or die!”;

the Greeks stood fast, “defeat”  they refused to even say.

Leonidus with his 300 Spartans blocked the way

in the pass at Thermopylae, & were able to slay

Persians by the hundreds, refusing to comply,

shouting “Freedom will prevail!”.

Again & again the Spartans ruled the fray,

until betrayal & a hidden path made them prey.

Persians surrounded them thanks to a spy

as thousands of arrows filled the sky;

their voices were loud as they perished on the clay,

shouting “Freedom will prevail!”.

Glenn Buttkus

October 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

I chose to write the 16th century English Rondeau.

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Re * flec * tion

painting by pablo picasso

Re * flec * tion

“There are two ways of spreading light--

to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

--Edith Wharton.

Our first mirrors were polished obsidian,

then polished copper or bronze, but

it wasn’t until after the death of Christ

that we began to refine the quality

of our reflections, when metal-coated

glass mirrors, backed with mercury,

began to show up in Lebanon--and of course

the Romans took them home immediately.

The more modern silver backed mirrors

were developed in Germany in 1835, where

they learned to apply the reflective coatings

onto the back of the glass.

In the cities we are virtually surrounded by

reflective glass, so whether walking or driving

we habitually, often surreptitiously, glance

at our image in motion.

“It is the city of mirrors, 

the city of mirages;

at once solid & liquid,

at once air & stone.”

--Erica Jong

Ever watch a parakeet being fascinated

by the “pretty girl” in the glass,

or a dalmatian sitting patiently by the hour

staring into a wall mirror, waiting

for the spots to move?

I have a four-way folding mirror 

in my bathroom, and I love to fold it 

so that I can view both profiles, 

or the back of my head.

We all aspire to be magicians who can

manipulate the smoke & position the mirrors,

trying hard not to fall into any of them--

we all know what happened to Alice

and Timothy Leary, and certainly we all have

faced those funhouse image mornings when

our distorted features looked like Dali paintings.

“Life is for each man a solitary cell whose

walls are mirrors.”--Eugene O’Neill.

Sometimes in my daydreams I am that guy

with mirrors pasted to the tops of his shoes

standing very near the young women in their

billowing Summer dresses.

Has it ever occurred to you 

that several of your mirrors have seen 

you naked many more times

than your lover or spouse? 

How many possible paramours have you 

passed up after you realized

they wore mirrors on their foreheads, 

reflecting back to you 

who you thought you were?

I have always been fascinated 

by those abstract paintings depicting 

someone holding a mirror up to a mirror, 

and the reflected repeated images

line up, bouncing back & forth, 

each time diminishing in size 

until it becomes microscopic.

I think of life that way,

and life between lives,

where God, or Dagwood Bumstead,

or Cosmo Kramer holds 

in His trillion hands 

multiple infinite mirrors, 

filling our skies 

with reflected images

of extinct galaxies, 

and our mortal hearts

with delicious dreams

of a Continuum. 

Glenn Buttkus

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Blackthorne--Scene Eleven

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eleven

Elegy

“Each in his narrow cell forever laid, the rude

forefathers of the hamlet sleep.”--Thomas Gray

1(medium wide shot) the present; the Buck Family cemetery,

with Rod Buck standing near three gravestones.

2(sound cue) banjo & harmonica.

3(wide shot) the small burial plots girded by a freshly white-

washed picket fence, a tall ancient oak beside it, shading

the departed, Buck standing inside, the gate left open.

4(sound cue) Indian snake rattle.

5(medium close-up) a thick diamond back rattler squirming out

between pickets on the far side of the markers.

6(sound cue) a dog’s deep growl.

7(hold the medium close-up) as the black dog leaps into the frame,

clamping its jaws on the tail of the big snake.

8(sound cue) dog growling, snake hissing fading to flute.

9(cut to medium wide shot) as the dog whipped the snake up

into the air, jerking it back & forth, & then with a powerful dip

of its bear-like head, it snapped the snake like a bullwhip.

10(close-up) the rattlesnake’s head torn off.

11(sound cue) snare drum raps.

12(medium close-up) Buck laughing: good boy, Cheewa--disrespect

that damn snake--just don’t eat its head.

13(cut to separate medium close-up) the dog chewing on the fat

rattlesnake’s body; pieces of snakeskin hanging, white meat revealed.

14(sound cue) piano & clarinet & accordion.

15(cut to medium shot) Buck kneeling in front of three headstones, staring

at the one in the middle, marked as Sarah Elizabeth Buck.

16(close-up) a fruit jar filled with wildflowers, sporting a few day’s wilt, at

the stone’s base.

17(cut to medium wide-shot) fruit jars of flowers in front of all three head-

stones--William Tyler Buck on the right, Jackson Issac Buck on the left.

18(sound cue) a crow’s cawing.

19(medium close-up) a raven perched atop a rooster weather vane

at the peak of the barn roof.

20(cut to separate medium close-up) Buck removing his black hat.

21(extreme close-up) the rattlesnake head band.

22(medium wide-shot) Buck folding his legs beneath him, Indian-

style.

23(close-up) his big knuckled hand resting on the top of his

mother’s headstone.

24(cut to close-up) Buck’s face, with oak leaf shadows on his

whiskered cheeks, a breeze ruffling his mane; hello Ma,

little Jack...Pa.

25(insert sepia-toned photograph) Sarah holding young Roddy

on her lap, William with one of his arms around her shoulders,

the other stiffly behind his back.

26Buck: I came back; told you I would.

27(sound cue) guitar & violin.

28Buck: I’m tired of fighting blowsand & bedding down on buffalo

bones. Seen a lot of country, bet your ass I have, trapping in

French Canada, prospecting in the Yukon, ranching with the

vaqueros in old Mexico, standing in the surf-fishing in the Pacific

Ocean.

29(sound cues)

bear trap snap for Quebec,

rushing water over rocks for Yukon,

Spanish guitar for Mexico,

sea gull’s cry for the ocean.

30(cut to medium wide-shot on a crane) slowly pulling back from

the tiny cemetery.

31(narration voice-over) Buck: crossed this wide country as many

times as a man’s got fingers. had enough, seen enough; don’t

think I will leave again. 

32( crane wide shot) pulling back to reveal the ranch sprawled out

behind the cemetery.

33(cut to close-up) swarm of orange-yellow-black butterflies rising

up from the flowers.

34(sound cue) harp chords.

35(return to crane shot) tracking back a bit faster.

36Buck: VO--this horse is gettin’ too old to slap leather with the kids, 

just bone-weary, used up; need a sanctuary, a fortress.

37(cut to medium close-up) Buck’s face: odd, ain’t it, how comfortable

I am palavering with stones & lumps of dirt; maybe, in spirit, you’re all

still down there in that old house, or in here (his hand touching his

chest). I guess you’ll still be alive to me as long as I can remember you.

38(sound cue) a hawk’s whistle.

39(close-up) Buck’s eyes glancing skyward.

40(cut to medium close-up) Buck: and I have a long memory.

41(sound cue) buffalo herd hooves.

42(medium wide-shot) Buck rises slowly, stands tall, puts on his hat,

then spreads his arms wide.

43Buck: hey, you sons of bitches--I’m home. 

Glenn Buttkus

October 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN119

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Playtime

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Playtime

“And forget not that the earth delights to feel your

bare feet and the wind longs to play with your hair.”

--Kahlil Gibran

Somewhere far away

but perhaps not too far,

lies the magic

land of Mobbsia,

where the children completely rule.

It is a

marvelous dominion where

all the pussycats can fly

and their magnificant

purring fills the

night with sweet feline lullabies.

Everybodything flies there;

horses, bicycles, milkcows,

red wagons, piglets, puppies, frogs,

turtles, jackrabbits too,

but no thing

needs to actually sprout wings,

they/it just leaps

into the honied 

sky & experiences free-flight,

soon soaring over

cottages, gardens, forests,

hills, ponds, & each other.

Sometimes the sky

becomes as busy

as a freeway, as children

zip around on

high, arms out,

scarves fluttering, their joyous screams

& laughter trailing

after. Gosh, there

are two suns, one the

color of strawberries,

the other of

orange juice, and three moons

that all chase

each other across

rainbow-kissed horizons, their backsides

bare, but on

their opposite sides

you will find faces there--

sometimes dogs, sometimes

cats, even pigs 

make guest star appearances. In

Mobbsia it is

always Playtime; monkey-

bar gymnastics, dodge ball, skateboarding,

ping pong, scootering, 

& gang-tag--

always playing very hard, serious

stuff, because each

child understood that

play was essential preparation for

their inevitable departure,

after maturation and

graduation into mysterious adolescence and

other large mysteries. 

Glenn Buttkus

October 2013

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I Got Rhythm

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I Got Rhythm

“Life is like dancing, learning those new steps,--even

though some may get angry when the rhythm changes.”

--Miguel Angel Ruiz

Time, man, time,

that gnarly old bitch, 

that angry old bastard;

keep it, beat it,

bend it over the kitchen table

& sodomize the slut.

Hey, you never run out of it;

it is artesian, infinite, perpetually in motion, 

regenerative, & perhaps it is a lie, 

an illusion.

What a pisser that now, finally, as I pay myself

to spend time doing those things I enjoy,

still its laughter is chilling--with its big butt

occupying the catbird perch, sending flocks

of raven ravages to peck at my body,

my mind, my sight, my dreams;

just dig the deviance as those gut-wrenching

rituals of my morning preparation for the

100,000 Slave Days are now fully replaced

by the golden silver-maned rituals of Leisure;

regardless, there is some part of me that fully 

understands, yes,  I can still stride like a tiger, 

but there are dark forces out there who continue 

to stalk,

to hunt me, 

and one day, 

one possibly pleasant day 

in the dead of winter, they will slay me, 

strip off my flesh, then flatten what’s left of it 

into somebody’s living room throw rug, 

my stuffed head intact, jaws open,

teeth bared, given glass eyes & then forced

to be intimate with a vacuum cleaner--

so before that fateful day, I will hoard bundles

of goose quills & Mason jars of my own blood,

& late at night, safely locked up in my sanctuary,

listening to the predators milling around outside,

I will dip those quills deeply into the red juice

of my essence, & write in my leather-bound 

notebooks those unspeakable things, 

the bloody poetics

of love, lost and regained,

of mortality, lost & ready to refresh,

of death, sucking face with skulls,

of poisonous frogs devouring spiders,

of monkeys with white whiskers 

still dancing at the end of their chains,

still holding out the rusty cup,

still begging & praying & planning,

still defiant, making arthritic fists,

still in lesson & learning,

still ready to extend kindness where needed,

remaining a pugilistic lover 

with a punch like a mule’s kick, 

satiating my radiant spirit with the iridescence

& consistency necessary for the continuing

sustenance of the True Self;

oh yeah, dudes, my skin bags are already packed

with my wisdom, karmic debt, & several itineraries,

because it is clear to me that the dreaded dirt nap,

or the fierce flames of cremation 

are not the end game, they are

just temporary way stations 

dotted along the continuing

saga of soul journey.

Glenn Buttkus

October 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

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