Send in the Clowns

painting by c. nelson kellar

Send in the Clowns

“I remain just one thing, & that is a clown--which places

me on a far higher plane than most politicians.”

--Charlie Chaplin.

Actually, we have co-existed

                                  with clowns

                                               for centuries,

dating back to the medieval courts of kings,

                                               where jesters

and fools were given permission

to be outrageous

to represent bawdiness

to pretend to violate sexual norms, even

to mock the gods

              roast the aristocracy, and then later

morph into the more malicious

trickster.

Extreme fear of clowns

is called Coulrophobia,

a term found on the internet since the 80’s

but not found in medical texts or dictionaries.

Many younger children have intense dislike or fear

of clowns, recognizing a familiar body

that sports an unfamiliar face, giving

no real clue what/who might be lurking

                 behind the make-up,

                 bulbous red nose

& electric pink or violent violet fright wig,

representing a frightening visage, a frightful person

whose intentions are unknowable.

Even in 12% of all adults, 

though most of them would deny it,

fear of clowns can induce panic attacks;

in isolated cases keep them out of

carnivals, circuses, horror theme parks,

& even prevent burger munching at

McDonalds.

Theories abound that too many stories,

                                         movies & events

featuring killer klowns (From Outer Space),

                                          like Pennywise

in Stephen Kings IT, or the sinister Joker

                                           in BATMAN

have intensified & exacerbated these fears.

Emmett Kelly became famous as Weary Willie, 

but his personal life was a shambles,

& his angry ex-wife claimed that 

Willie overtook Emmett’s personality.

Emmett Kelly Jr., after losing his leg

in a train accident, bizarrely decided

that he needed to become the reincarnation

of Weary Willie, began dressing as him,

began calling himself EK III;

falling into a life of degradation, drugs, and madness.

In 1978 he was arrested for the murders

of two of his homosexual partners,

& he claimed that Willie was an accomplice.

Between 1975-78, John Wayne Gacy,

an actual killer-klown,

sodomized & murdered

33 boys & young men in the Chicago area,

claiming that he selected his prey

while performing as a clown

at their birthday parties & events. 

Perhaps

clowns represent the side

of human nature not totally

accepted by society;

as the conflicting dichotomy

of evil clown vs. circus clown

continues.

They seem

                  to attract

                                or repel us

secondary to holding up a funhouse mirror

to our secret inner selves. 

                    

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Blackthorne--Scene Twenty-Six

image borrowed from bing

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Twenty-Six

Ambuscado

“The death of democracy is not likely to be an assassination

from ambush. It will be a still extinction from apathy, indifference,

& undernourishment.”--Robert M. Hutchins.

1(sound cue) brassy bleats from trumpet, saxophone, & clarinet.

2(two-shot) Buck dove out of the leather swiveling chair, with one

hand jerking off the barber’s striped apron, the other reaching for

his Colt. The barber was standing still, tall & resigned, staring

at his shop window.

3(sound cue) galloping horse’s hooves blended with snare drum

spats, & trumpet snort.

4(close-up) Barnes, stone-still, staring sadly, blankly.

5(sound cue) a shattering shower of glass overlapped by three

shotgun blasts.

6(medium wide-shot) the big plate glass window exploding inward,

the shiny shards filling the screen in slow motion.

7(sound cue) violin scratching stridently, horse’s hooves fading, people

shouting, Cheewa barking.

8(medium close-up, low POV) Buck squirming across the floor through the

broken glass, the Thunderer in his right hand, the lethal sawed off in his 

left, working toward the partially open front door. 

--Buck: Barnes, did you get elected?

--Barnes (weakly): Not quite, but I got nominated real good.

9(sound cue) pioneer fiddle & acoustic guitar chords.

10(medium wide-shot) Buck struggling to his feet, but remaining in a crouch,

stepping toward the door--Cheewa raced out ahead of him.

11(sound cue) crunching glass under his boots.

12(medium close-up) Barnes lying on the floor alongside his barber chair,

holding his stomach, his apron stained crimson at his solar plexus, lying

in a pool of his own blood.

13(medium wide-shot, reverse POV) the exterior of the barber shop, with

Cheewa boiling out of the front door, running off to the right (camera-left)

--followed by Buck, upright, both weapons cocked, looking left, then right.

14(close-up) Buck, his eyes a bit frightened, startled, some white shaving

lather still on one cheek, smudged into his new sideburn.

15(sound cue) blues guitar chords.

16(crane wide-shot) camera pulling back quickly to show us an empty street.

16(sound cues) saloon piano & harmonica, dog barking, low buzz of

bystanders.

17(reverse medium wide-shot) across the street from the barber shop,

people clinging to doorways beginning to move around, faces

peeking out of windows from behind curtains.

--Bystander: They’re gone for now!

18(medium wide-shot, tracking to the right) as Buck rushes up

to Cheewa, who is standing stiff-legged at the head of an alley.

19(cut to medium shot) the alley, Buck standing behind his dog,

weapons extended, Cheewa on point, alkaline dust settling at

its opposite end. 

20(sound cue) blues guitar double-slide.

21(close-up) Buck, his brow furrowed:

--Buck (VO narration): Alleys, alleys, you back-shooting cowards.

You flee like cockroaches, like wharf rats scampering for the 

nearest woodpile. One of these days I’m going to cut off your

fucking tails.

22(sound cue) Deep voice: Hold it, right there!

23(hold close-up) Buck closes his eyes.

24(medium shot) camera pulls back, Buck has lowered his weapon

--there is a man standing behind him. Buck froze.

--deep voice: Drop your cannons, raise your hands, & turn around slowly. 

25(hold medium set-up) Buck obeys, dropping his Colt & sawed-off

into the deep dust.

26(sound cue) the pistol & shotgun thunking into the ground, drum slaps

overlapping.

27(cut to reverse POV) as Buck slowly revolves around, his hands in

the air, his face expressionless.

28(reverse shot immediately, Buck’s POV) There is a short stocky man

in a shapeless white hat pushed up in front, who has the drop on him--

holding a pump shotgun; blond haired with a thick mustache, wearing

a bright red shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned & rolled up, revealing

heavily-muscled forearms, thick hairy wrists.

29(sound cue) harmonica & guitar.

30(medium close-up) pinned on the man’s black leather vest was a

shiny Sheriff’s badge.

31(close-up) bright blue eyes, knitted brows.

--Sheriff: that’s right, big man...just take it easy.

--Buck: Why the hell are you pointing your scattergun at me?

32(sound cue) Bull buffalo bellow & Indian snake rattle shake. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub OLN

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Breaking News

image borrowed from bing

Breaking News

“Good news is rare these days, & every glittering ounce of it

needs to be cherished, hoarded, & fondled like a priceless

diamond.”--Hunter S. Thompson

Lovely Kate Upton, model & actress, knows

after doing a Sports Illustrated sexy pose,

that running in slow motion in the surf

in a white bikini gives men a visual kerf,

while comparing her to Bo Derek,

binding them together in a carrick;

both of them obviously a ten,

& that’s not just for the men. 

I love it that our dear Pope Francis

is taking some personal chances

by cold-calling Catholics world-wide;

sweet condolences if someone died,

canceling a magazine subscription,

causing traditional cardinals a conniption--

all because old Frank is a true mensch,

& he must his conscience fully quench. 

Kate Middleton was recently seen

doing something low & mean,

wiping off her son’s royal drool

on her dress while at the zoo;

damn, people need to get a grip,

cuz being a real Mom is so hip. 

I do have to admire George Clooney though

at dinner in Vegas with Steve Wynn,

creating quite the heated contentious din,

despite all the casino owner’s dough,

George stood up & called him an asshole,

for slandering his pal Barack Obama,

like telling him to go screw a llama

in front of nine shocked friends;

so later he may have fences to mend. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poet MTB

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John Ford Slept Here

       

image borrowed from bing

John Ford Slept Here

“The more I see of Indians, the more convinced I am they all

have to be killed, or maintained as a species of paupers.”

---General William T. Sherman.

There is something about the Southwest

that draws me to it repeatedly--maybe

because of the hundreds of Westerns

shot in the Mohab area of Utah by 

Howard Hawks & others, out in the Arches,

or that John Ford country just off AZ 163,

running north off 160--reminding me of the summer

we stayed in an overpriced cigarette- smoke stinking

room in a rundown motel in Kayenta, where

I ate my first fry bread taco;

remembering how upset I was when I found out

the famous parts of Monument Valley could not

be seen from the highway--they were all on

the Navajo reservation, & you have to pay a fee

to drive onto it, & then pay another fee to huddle

in a dusty flatbed sight-seer truck that could

negotiate the blow-sand dunes & potholes

purposefully left in/on the roads that snaked

out among the monuments.

I mean no one can easily describe the heart-stopping

thrill as one stands for the first time along

the southern lip of the Grand Canyon, peering

into the pleistocene reddish-blue vastness

of a gash carved by the Colorado river, & later

seeking out the northern edge of the canyon

with its lesser view;

I do so enjoy all those stops at ancient ruins

from Flagstaff to Page, but something unique

& fun is to roll northeast on AZ160 toward

the 4 Corners Monument, where the Ute Mountain

reservation bumps feathers with the vast AZ/NM

Navajo nation, where the geographic physical

corners of AZ, NM, UT, & CO all meet cordially,

no actual approach from UT highways, but yes,

160 NE out of AZ,

NM64 coming NW out of Shiprock,

or CO40 dropping down SW out of Cortez,

near to the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde

or the several ruins at the Canyons of the Ancients;

a funky ostentatious tourist monument erected

right at the cross bars of the four state lines,

where I stood spread-legged in the quadrangle

posing for the obligatory photo, with the merciless

sun beating down at 118 degrees, where

four ragged rows of Native American booths 

were sitting under unpainted planks or canvas

selling fabulous Indian silver & turquoise jewelry

(some made in Mexico we found out later),

trinkets, moccasins, blankets, t-shirts made in China,

pottery, sculpture, baskets, & art, a warm mix

of Ute & Navajo cultures, with fry bread stands

every fifty feet. 

The place seemed like a fulcrum, a vertex,

a nesting of heart & drum beats, a marriage

of mingling & tingling, a reservoir of rejuvenation,

where one readied them selves to seek out

even more red rock canyons, pinioned-choked

arroyos, pueblos, vast vistas, sage-scented

rest stops--

making your own road movie,

both in your mind & digitally,

indefatigable, never tiring of the next

viewing, reconnecting with a rawness,

a vigor that fuels your imagination,

salves your incessant wanderlust,

until the next trip,

ever returning,

ever yearning,

ever curious. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

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Ever the Dreamer

Ever the Dreamer

“I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions

to be realized, than a lord among those without dreams.”

--Kahlil Gibran.

Still that fresh-faced boy

on that windblown bluff

             above Puget Sound,

                        under a peeling madrona,

                                   staring out at Blake Island,

                                                                  dreaming

                                                  of becoming

                                             a writer,

                                      an actor,

                             a teacher;

a recipient of some kind of wonderful windfall,

                                                         gathering

                                                         enough wealth

                                                         to be able to live

on one of the grand islands in the Sound--

to build my dream-house

that had a deck with white railings

                                          and red bannisters,     

                                          part pirate ship,

                                          laden with colorful rigging

and two brass telescopes to star-watch with,

                                          redwood whiskey barrels

                                          made into raised gardens;

while rising out of the middle of the magical roof there

                                          would be a Stephen King

ten story tall writer’s tower, protruding phallic like

                                          a poet’s lighthouse

                                          where the muses could mass

                                          high above the pine & maple tops,

where I could witness sunrises over the Cascades          

                       & sunsets over the rugged Olympics.

                       A simple enough plan, just

                       become a successful rich Actor,

                       gaining a modicum of notoriety;

then happen to mention to my posse of agents,

Hey, did you know I have written a couple of novels,

& thousands of poems, & the words cry out to be shared ?

                      Perhaps we could publish some of this stuff,

                      make a pile of cash

                      and put our kids through college. 

Oh yes, my dreams were vivid,

like neon roadmaps,

& yet, as is too often the case,

like losing your virginity,

like turning 21, 30, 40, 50, 60,

the destination once arrived at,

the goals achieved (sort of),

never

     seems

         as grand

              as imagined

                    or anticipated,

                             because youth

                                  is blind to wisdom,

                                           deaf to sage advice.

                                   I became the Actor, 

                                            but a whirling decade

                                                  of Thespianism never led

                                                           to a plateau of success,

rather it just revealed the grit below the glitz,

the negative energy of daily rejection, like

drinking alcohol when dying of thirst,
it’s certainly wet, but it never slacks the need,

or nourishes the soul.

                                         So one onerous smog-ridden beaten-down

                                         day in the ghetto of Hollywood, I decided to

                                         embrace a hiatus, seek gainful employment;

                  & I’ll be damned if it didn’t come to me

                  easily, like colliding with a stranger on the

                  bus, staring at their face, & understanding

that you recognize them, knew them

from another life,

from another dream.

                  

                  It was time for MacDuff to fade,

                  for Benedick to become mute,

                  for Sancho Panza to let Quixote slip away,

                  for Adolphus Cusins to divorce Major Barbara,

                  for the cowpoke drifter to stable his silver spurs,

                  for the sailor to give away his fuck pitchers,

                  for the soldier to unload his weapons,

                  for the Commedia masks to be put away gently;

time for the teacher to make a difference

in the darkness, for the shadow poet to

continue to be a passionate scribe, for

the novelist to learn technical writing,

as the make-up, tights, & ruffled shirts

were put into the back of the wardrobe;

           as several dense decades gathered

           at my feet like a windblown Sunday

           newspaper, with the funnies & editorials

wrapping warmly around my thighs--

becoming emotional at my retirement

party as my former students & fellow 

employees saluted & roasted me,

filling me with a genuine sense

of fulfillment. 

As I launched my next ten year plan,

a wondrous wisp of a thing happened--

my dreams were rekindled, & every day

it seemed dreams became reality,

coming to ragged & beauteous fruition,

but energized, reborn, rejuvenated replacements

lined up

         like dream warriors

                           within me--

                                     in a never-ending

                                               spiral, twisting themselves

                                                         into a helix formation,

all with a child’s face,

wide-eyed,

pink-cheeked,

tousle-haired,

filled

with that old

sense of 

wonder. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Black Pearls

image by phyllis galembo

Black Pearls

“Tahiti is insular, full of peace & joy, but fully encompassed

by the horrors of life beyond its beaches. Push not off from

that isle, for thou canst never return.”--Herman Melville.

There is a wide wonderful archipelago

of 118 islands in the South Pacific--

referred to as French Polynesia.

Tahiti

is the largest island,

populated by Polynesians before Christ,

called it Otaherte.

In 1606 the Spanish called it Sagitaria.

In 1767 the English named it King George Island.

In 1772 the French called it New Cythera.

By the 1800’s it became known as Tahiti.

In 1788 the island was visited by the HMS Bounty.

In the 1820’s the English converted the natives

to Protestantism, introducing alcohol, firearms,

prostitution, venereal disease, & illness to them,

decimating the population, killing 60% of it. 

The French moved in with their Catholic missionaries

in tow, & for a bloody decade the new Catholics waged war

against the Protestants.

The French won, of course, proclaiming Tahiti

as an official colony of France. 

Gauguin resided there in the 1890’s. 

In 2007, I visited Tahiti for my firm,

on a quest to buy up some black pearls,

indigenous only to the Tuomota Islands

in French Polynesia.

I flew into the Capitol at Papeete,

& stayed in a hotel there, having to deal

with Chinese pearl dealers, finding out

that the Chinese were called

the “Jews of Tahiti”, being the

majority merchant class. 

French was the primary language there,

but plenty of English was spoken too. 

I loved hearing smatterings of the old Tahitian

language, the Reo Maohi, in the cafes,

bistros, & marketplaces.

They say that the island of Hawaii

in just 10 days gets more tourists

than Tahiti in a year, & that even

an average Las Vegas hotel has more rooms

available than in all 118 islands.

My last day there, my purchases concluded,

I wandered into the central park, & was

confronted with Gaston Temara, who stood

on a steamer trunk & gave political speeches.

He wore fake chains on his wrists,

& a ceremonial bag-mask on his face;

fierce & fascinating, he had led 

an unsuccessful bid for independence

the year before, but

his hardy black band of freedom fighters

was quickly put down by French troops

sent by President Jacques Chirac,

who claimed, after freeing the dissidents, 

that France did not believe that the majority

of Tahitians wanted independence.

Flying home to California, my company satchels

crammed with precious black pearl jewelry,

I could not get Temara out of my head.

Would something akin to liberty find a way

to flourish one day in Tahiti?

Something deeply American in me

truly hoped so. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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