Blackthorne--Scene Twenty-Seven

image borrowed from bing

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Twenty-Seven

Detainment

“An artist should not be conscious of his insights, should not

recognize or detain them--just allow them to transform themselves

into a beautiful work.”--Rainer Maria Rilke.

1(sound cue) slow snare drum baps,

2(medium 2-shot) angle on Buck’s back, weapons lowered, facing

the Sheriff.

--Sheriff: My name’s Joe Hop. I represent the law in this town; set

your bangers down & point those fingers at the sky.

Buck squatted down slowly & gently put the pistol & sawed off on the boardwalk.

3(CU) on Buck, wearing a small smile.

--Buck: Yeah, the barber was just jawing about you when we got

interrupted. (putting his hands up from the elbows only).

4(cut to a medium wide shot) a lath-thin deputy stepped out of the barber shop

5(sound cue) Broken glass popping under his boots, with harmonica huffing.

6--& stood alongside Hop, easily a head taller.
--Hop: (keeping his eyes on Buck) Talk to me, Marcus.

--Deputy: Barnes is gut-shot but breathing; I sent Bob for Doc Kellner.

The Sheriff handed his shotgun to his deputy, then bent down & picked up

Buck’s irons. He slipped the pistol into his own belt, & pointed the sawed-off

directly at Buck’s chest. 

7(Switch to a reverse shot) Behind Hop & Marcus, angle on Buck’s angry face.

8(sound cue) elongated soft violin bowing.

9(hold the reverse medium wide shot) The Sheriff pulls out the pistol.

10(Cut to medium CU) The Sheriff inspects the pistol, then sniffs the cylinder.

--Hop: This gun’s been fired recently.

11(reverse shot) Hop’s shoulder, Buck’s face:

--Yup, twice; had a little scuffle over to the CHINA DOLL. Feller named Ramos

gave me no choice in the matter.

12(sound cue) acoustic guitar strumming.

13(close-up) Hop: Did you shoot our barber? Hell, he is the only one we got.

--Buck (VO): I had no call to do that. 

14(cut to a crane shot) pulling back wide, revealing that a crowd of townspeople

was beginning to gather.
15(two-shot) 

--Hop: You got a name?

--Buck: Buck.

--Hop: Just Buck?

--Buck: Rod Buck.

--Hop: Where you from?

--Buck: South.

--Hop: (chuckling) Kind of vague--South.

--Buck: The mountains, Mexico, the big Out There.

--Deputy: You’d better answer the Sheriff’s questions, Hoss--

you’re in a shit pot of trouble.

16(sound cue) Indian Snake Rattle, castanets.

17(medium close up) Buck: I suppose you figure I just shot this fellow

for the hell of it, & then stood calmly out here in the street waiting for

you two to get the drop on me?

18(Cut to a wide shot) Angle on a aproned figure with a wild shock of

white hair pushing his way through the crowd. It was Henry Wallace,

the storekeeper. 

Wallace: He’s innocent, Joe, so climb the deuce off his back.

19(medium wide shot) Wallace standing beside Buck, with Hop & the Deputy

facing them. 

--Hop: Alright, Henry, tell us all what the Sam Hill happened here?

--Buck: I was just fixin’ to tell you that.

20(sound cue) accordion & juice harp.

21(medium CU) Hop: Am I talking to you? You just stand there keeping those

hands in the air.

22(CU) Wallace: Christ, Sheriff, I wasn’t the only one who saw it. God damn it,

a person can get shot right here in the middle of the street, & everyone will just

step over him--like he wasn’t there!

--Hop (VO) Rein up some there, Henry.

--Wallace: So where in the hell were you a while ago when that ruckus broke out

in Bronson’s pig wallow? Probably off somewhere fishing or chasing a lace
petticoat, right?

23(sound cue) low notes on a clarinet, reedy.

24(medium close up) Hop: Why Mr. Wallace, your accusations wound me to the

gristle,

25(pull back to a wide shot) Two dozen people have gathered around them now.

--Hop: For everyone’s information, I was over to see Judge Jeremy in King City,

& I just came back to town a short while ago--just before all this affair developed, &

my deputy didn’t have time to fill me in on what might have occurred in my absence. 

26( Angle on Wallace)

--Hop (VO): So please tell me now, what did you see?

27(sound cue) French horn low riffs.

28(medium close up) Wallace: Two masked horsemen, riding Bronson Ranch

jugheads, came busting down the street & when they passed the barber shop

they blasted the window out of it; never slowing down, they turned into that

alley & rode like blue blazes out the other end. 

29(pull back to medium wide shot) A stocky farmer, a big Swede, in bibbed

overalls stepped up: Das right--he told it true. I seen the same thing. 

30(medium two-shot) 

--Hop: That’s all?

--Wallace: Pretty much.

--Hop: Where were you when this happened?

--Wallace: I was in front of my store loading supplies on this gentleman’s

horse( to Buck ) What did you say your name was?

31(medium CU) Buck dropped his hands, folded his thick arms across his

massive chest, staring at the Sheriff.

--Hop (VO): Buck, he said it was Rod Buck. 

32(sound cue) Saloon piano & Indian flute.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN  

Would you like the author to read this Cinemagenic poem to you?

Epithetic Elephant Erasers

image borrowed from bing

Epithetic Elephant Erasers

“All the world’s religions are just the mirror

of the One Face.”--Dada JP Vaswani.

Never give a pink goose      a nickel-plated .45,

                             for you need paper-mache 

rhino skin to survive

                     all those impregnated voyages

                             of discovery,

                             or deeper yet, dropping below

                     the sagittal crust.

Words can be

           spoken,

           sung, or

           written,

no matter whose foul gums they have been between,

            but certainly before

            utilization,

                                 as you spew their spawn

            like dancing dew bubbles dangling lustily

all along the dazzling ditches

                                 of spider web blue highways,

watch the five crows flying

                                 on gossamer bat wings

                                 into the dusky jeweled colon

of the nearly noxious night. 

Truth is, can be,

         as gritty as alkaline dust

         clinging to the calculus

between your malicious molars, because

         everyone already knows,

                         but chooses to ignore the fact

that Morality dissipates quickly

                         after the angry guns

                         are drawn,

because God & Jesus don’t ride Mopeds, man,

                         and the Beasts can easily outrun you. 

If you do shoot a grizzly

                         in your pajamas,

how in hell did he get them on?

So conflictingly droll to see God daily

                         using public transport,

mantled China Red in bloody robes,

                                               like a mad monk,

              postulating that Music is

              the Gospel Silence

              between the black lines,

                             below the bars,

                             adjacent to,

                             over the naughty notes,

because elitist demi-gods ride the hot rails

              preferring first class,

                              thrusting invisible wisdom

              into brown sausage skins

                              beyond our pitiful grasp,

worshipping manic mimicry

             over any form of original thought. 

Contrary to media blitzes, Plato

                   was so much more than

                   a randy cross-dressing putz

                                running roughshod

over his nubile harem of young boys, so

if your female doctor

                    asks you to stop masturbating,

                                 perhaps even with her wet lips

                                 pursed, she only wants

to listen to your heart, being

                    dismayed at hearing the half-beats

of loneliness, realizing that you have neglected

                     to connect

to that counterpoint companion

                     that still might complete you. 

We do adore our heroes

            until they machete off their

            girlfriend’s head, disregarding

that only Monarch butterflies

            fully understand the transience of Beauty,

while rejecting longevity, 

burning brightly, never missing a chance

                           to appear at a Town Hall Meeting,

                           or to flutter naked in

a Butthole Surfers rock video. 

Is all Art just

        shredded reconstituted

        plagiarism, of do we come

into this world astride a bilious bubble

              of cosmic dew,

already cognizant that Sartre

              ate horse shit sandwiches,

already understanding that Paul & John

were not popes, God forbid, no

              they were Beatled revolutionaries

                               leading us blithely to the government

ghettos of Dystopian Depths

                               or Utopian Heights,

as city planners enjoy the developer’s dole,

           greedily suckling the neon tits of Graft. 

                       

          

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this Dada poem to you?

Extantional

image borrowed by bing

Extantional 

“There is no heaven or afterlife for broken-down computers;

that is a fairy tale for people who are afraid of the dark.”

--Stephen Hawking.

When you’re a kid,

                     death is just a game you play

                     when it’s your turn

to be the Indian, & your Cowboy friends

                     empty their finger guns & cap pistols

into your gut.

You grunt, groan, & moan,

                 grabbing your imaginary wound

as you go to your knees,                  flop over backwards,

twitch a little,       close your eyes,          hold your breath

                 and get it over with. 

You go to your first funeral

when you are thirteen,

wearing your church clothes,

as your uncle,
who hit a telephone pole while driving drunk,

lies waxen & ashen in his attractive coffin,

looking like a discarded department story dummy;

as the weeping & wailing seems odd

counterpointed by the humorous testimonials. 

You are in your early twenties

                 when you mother dies

                                 before she was forty;

death being assisted by demon cancer,

                                 & this time the copious tears

are your own, & the testimonials

are not funny.

Before long,

           you are thirty-something,

                        & friends, cousins, grandparents

                                         & nephews all die.

You become accustomed to grief therapy

                        & the trappings of ceremony,

                        finding yourself looking forward

to the food served after the service--

                        joyfully celebrating a life

versus being overwhelmed

           by lamentation & loss.

Death becomes the pink elephant

in the yard,

in the room;

difficult to ignore,

a tedious demanding companion now--

no longer that occasional drop-in visitor,

an annual or semi-annual guest; no,

it is incessant, unceasing, always there

in your peripheral vision--

whispering, cajoling, begging;

look at me,

acknowledge me,

respect & fear me;

Simply inexorable, inevitable,

a dark destination with a shadowy depot

                              that every traveler one day

                              must pass through;

so in defense of your fragile sanity

                              you begin to earnestly study

                               the thick tomes

of hope,

of faith,

of physics,

of philosophy, & one magical day

                          the fear is nearly gone, replaced

by shimmering exuberant alacrity

                        & logic, as you

are comforted by          cosmic truths,        past lives,

                             quantum theory & metaphysics;

as you passionately postulate

                        that the fuck-stick of Death

                        is just another doorway,

                        a transitional portal--

that soul energy can never be, is never

extinguished--that although

your damaged husk

                        will have to be abandoned,

like a broken, rusted, inoperable machine

that your caring loved ones

                         will crate up in preparation

                         for cremation

                         or internment,

& you will be aware of their sadness,

   you will be mostly occupied with

                bustling about the dominion of Source,

                making decisions about

                where

in the vast Spiritual Realm

                 you will be posted next,

for you prove to be a strong swimmer

in the cosmic currents

of the Continuum. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Call to Duty

image borrowed from bing

Call to Duty

“War does not determine who is right,

only who is left.”--Bertrand Russell.

When your Country calls,

you kiss your loved ones farewell,

train hard to handle weapons efficiently,

deploy to a foreign land

& kill the fucking enemy--

as directed. 

Our grandfathers took part

                 in Operation Overlord,

                             just as many of us were being born

in 1944;                most of them departed from Portsmouth,

England, & took part in the largest amphibious invasion in history,

                             hitting the bloody beaches of

Juno, Gold, Omaha, Utah, & Sword.

Over a million of our grandfathers did not come home.

When your Country calls,

you kiss your loved ones farewell,

train hard to handle weapons efficiently,

deploy to a foreign land,

& kill the fucking enemy--

as directed.

In 1951 our uncles took part

                              in the Korean War (Conflict),

                                        part of the aftermath of WWII,

                                        when the Japanese no longer controlled

the country, & the Soviet Union occupied the north,

                              above the 38th parallel,

                                         where Communism thrived like a pandemic.

Many of our uncles came in amphibiously at Inchon,

and pushed back the North Korean Army 

                              to above the Yalu river,

                              with their backs to the Chinese border--

until hundreds of thousands of fresh Chinese troops,

outfitted by the Soviet Union,

                              flooded into Korea, pushing our uncles

into a stalemate that lasted several more years.

33,686 uncles did not come home. 

When your Country calls,

you kiss your loved ones farewell,

train hard to handle weapons efficiently,

deploy to a foreign land,

& kill the fucking enemy--

as directed.

Coincidently in 1950,

                    the turmoil in French Indochina,

required us to send in military advisors, 

                    & of course in 1964, without

JFK to prevent it, many of us were pulled out of college,

or our civilian jobs, & sent to the delta, jungles, & tiger pits

as the Viet Nam War raged on for 9 more years.

                    In 1968 we were caught off guard

by the Tet Offensive, & it became obvious,

even to the hawk knuckleheads,

                    that the war was beyond any dreams of victory, so

we pulled out with our tail between our legs in 1975.

58,300 of us did not come home. 

When your Country calls,

you kiss your loved ones farewell,

train hard to handle weapons efficiently,

deploy to foreign lands,

& kill the fucking enemy--

as directed.

In 2003 the Bush Administration,

                   through lies & deception,

pushed us into the Iraq War, 

                   as many of our sons became

part of the American-led Coalition Forces

                   who conducted a surprise military invasion of Iraq

without declaring War. We fought in that sand-flea infested shit hole

for 9 years--until Obama, fulfilling his campaign promise,

pulled us out.

                   4,487 of our sons did not come home.

Even earlier, in 2001, after 9/11,

                    many of our nephews were sent

to Afghanistan in pursuit of Bin Laden,

                   even though as we concentrated our forces

in Iraq, we had less soldiers there than NYC had policemen.

13 years later,

                  we are still there, and already

2,313 of our nephews did not come home.

Today, this minute,

            President Obama is considering sending

the cream of our fighting men,

            Delta Force, Seals, Army Rangers, & Green Berets,

BACK INTO that camel shit-smeared quagmire

in Iraq, to mediate between

            the Sunni & Shea factions,

& to advise them how to face down

the blood-thirsty Isis fighters;

how many of these boys & men

will never come home again?

                   

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Wee Scunner

image borrowed from bing

Wee Scunner

“Yer bum’s out the windae”--Scottish saying.

On quiet nights, between trains,

I can hear the faint lullaby of the pipes,

                 & I smile as the sandman

                 puts his thumbs gently on my lids,

                              for I know that soon I will be

transported,

                dreaming of blue faces,

                              fierce Picts, clans of Celts,

standing with

                bare-assed kilted brothers

                              facing Hadrian’s Wall again,

                                                        remembering the Romans

& their fookin’ kingdom of Britannia;

drawn to the deep cold lochs,

to the Highlands dotted with long-haired cattle--

                 enjoying some kind of past-life connection,

to the last of the fir forests,

                 to the wet mountainous terrain,

where once I was a villager,

foraging for a living above 3000 feet,

                  before the deforestation of the region,

                  still alive with bear, wolf, elk, & lynx,

                  before

they were hunted to extinction;

and some nights I remember more,

a lifetime or two,

                 up in the Northern Isles,

a fisherman residing in the Shetlands.

Living now in the vastness of America,

it seems intellectually

               claustrophobic to consider

               that once or thrice I Iived

in a country smaller than Texas,

with a narrow waist to the South,

                only 60 miles wide at its border with England,

where one could see Ireland only 19 miles away,

where Norway or France 

                        could be reached within

                        a few days of sailing.

My genetic recall tingles

                        each time I see an image

                                         or a movie of Scotland;

                                                more so than any other foray

                                                                             or exposure to

any other corner of the globe;        still one must face the fact

that each incarnation comes with its own inherent

limitations.

Sadly,

as I age in this body,

                  traveling has become difficult,

                                        & finances have become meager;

so I have begun to rely on “remote viewing”

                                        & “astral projection”,

accepting the onerous fact than only in the land of dreams

will I frolic in the bonnie beauty that still awaits;

                           remaining confident that my rugged roots

sprang from a Scottish paradise

                           that I will never revisit

                           with this fatigued husk. 

                

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?