Thursday, April 30, 2015

Justuss Four All

image from

Justuss Four All

“I shall conquer untruth by truth--& in resisting untruth,
I shall put up with all suffering.”--Mahatma Gandhi.

Bantam George W still pimps
             like a pernicious pisscock when visited
                           by the hungary media hoars midst the blackened
             Bushes,            watching his Daddy Bigness spank him pinklish
                           with a rolled-up Saudi flag,
                                       as jaunty Junior begs to have his pants
                                  pulled all the way goosed-down
                           so that he could moor-fully envoy the Monty-
                  momentum--& they all tin-can sea that
           W still sports that crooklyn simpletonish smyle
as he spews non-prop ignoredent, racecyst, elitryst epithreats,
           followed furiously by a hearty laff, several toots of pork-ribbed
                  flatulance, a stumblini cowtoy’s two-step as he tap-pranced
                            in his alligator-skinny London Larados, before rump-
                                    riding Republican hybred roosters, & tossing hand-
fools of honey boo-boo rotten eggs
against pretentious political postures
of the present-President, cakkling like
Gieger’s child that suddenly pops out
of disobedient sychophant’s chests,
red-naked & slimy, its rows of tiny teeth
sharpened to possum-perfection.


Never give a puse--pigeon a wind-up Glock, for the wait of it will way-down
his panties, leeding to the soiling of his Florsheims, just spooling his purple-
pinky panache, & whetting his quillious, flurious party-harbors; for his
Sillyness bee-leaves himselfish to be an amouritis Lucretio, all draked-up
in his slick zoot-feathers.


Terrence was the littletrane that wood, al-bee-it not kould, steem up the
lecherous terrain of mutinous dandylying-stems, searching in vane for
the legendary Round Mouse so that Evenhee could join the rusty ranks
or betreemoth Ironic Norses, all those leather-faced larcenous locomotives,
derailed, derelict & dusty, spider webbing in broken headlamps, rat’s nest
motels set up in busted boilers as steamless, never seamless whistles
are now & forever mute as a stringless lute buried beneath the sharpie-
thorns of belligerent blackberry bushes.


Calico cats with earthworm whiskers
gathered growling around carthage cans in the ally,
some grumpy, some lumpy, many just dumpy,
wheezing, caterhauling like a barber shop quatrain,
decked out in all nine suits, just particular peaces
of each in missorted collars, their legal clause smeared
rainflow-brite, their cattaboy-slits covered in cheap contexts,
with each I a differential hewn, there sand-dollar tungs
flicking like serpent-queen jelly-dancers.


I tell you all dog poets beg for word bones, or dig four them
with mischievous mechanical paws while wiggle-wagging
techno-collapsable ink-smeared tales, pantsing with their
terrycloth tongues, always thirsting for truth, always exposing
hairless loins as their peanuts dangle in the win-win, 
nearly butt-blind to failure; 

searching for participles of passion-fruit,
searching for lusty witches in rut,
searching for soft fat laps on wiccan legs,,
searching for phrase turns & ironclad ironies.

Here’s to the daffy drools--
may their words shine with foxfire,
soul-dust, hart-brakes, & brain-icing,
for the world needs them;
regardless of false evidence to the contrary. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, April 28, 2015

I Am--You Are--We Could Be

image from

I Am--You Are--We Could Be

You were given this life precisely because
you are strong enough to live it.”--Anonymous.

I am from darkness,
and places of magnificent
light, just like the others.

I am from
deep Douglas Fir forests that blanket burly foothills that hunch up
like massive shoulders around seven volcanos, living large on the
lava beds in the Pacific Rim’s Ring of Fire, alongside the vast inland
sea that’s dotted with luscious green fern-covered islands, connected
to the actual ocean by a long wide Strait hispanic tongue that churns
saltwater over hundreds of miles of Sound, bays, harbors, super-ferry
lanes, tides, & playgrounds for passionate pods of orca.

I am from
countless men who have drown, who went down to the sea in ships,
then deeper to eternal rest; always a poor swimmer, but regardless,
fascinated with boats & ships of all kinds, even though the visceral 
nightmarish recall of perfect storms with eighty-foot waves haunts me.

I am from 
the passionate coupling of a 16-year old singer, who looked like Deanna
Durbin, & a mysterious serviceman who spent one night of eros with the
girl in the back seat of his Buick, before he shipped out for the conflict in
Europe in 1943; a faceless nameless young man who may have lived or
died without me ever knowing him.

I am from
a surrogate father, my maternal grandfather, who was an accomplished
woodsman, hunter, fisherman, artist, & a Socialist; self-taught & brilliant,
who painted surrealistic landscapes, & taught me about history, science,
philosophy, politics & life--& a terrible trio of stepfathers, the first of which
who believed for a time that he actually was my father, until the fateful
day we both realized the folly of that absurd assumption.

I am from
a very long line of muckrakers, loose cannons, malcontents, instigators,
& pariahs--freedom fighters, insurrectionists, teachers, warriors, writers,
pacifists & dreamers--& Scotland consistently captivates the dreamscape,
where I feel comfortable in kilts, love the windswept lochs, & roam the
endless verdant highlands--though, in this lifetime, I’ve never been there.

I am from
places of confidence, of over-achievement, of debate, of lecture, &
of performance--more than comfortable in the front row with my hand
up, or at the podium supported by power points, or on the proscenium
spouting Shakespeare, or happily at the microphone in a dark coffee
house reciting poetics.

I am from my world,
individually unique,
yet willing to share.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

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Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Blackthorne--Scene Thirty-Seven

image borrowed from


Cinemagenic Thirty-Seven


“You may know where to touch her, but that does not mean
you know how. Take time to learn what she truly desires.”
--Stephan Labossiere.

1(tight two-shot) The Indian reached out slowly with his free
hand, touching her softly on the nose.
2(close-up) the mare’s eyes were wild, scared & angry.
3(medium two-shot) the mare flinched.
He soothed & praised her, touching & stroking her knotted neck.
--What a black beauty you are, beautiful black & so sleek; small
but powerful.
All the while he was inching the bridle closer to her bobbing head.
4(sound cue) Spanish guitar chords, slow strumming.
5(tight two-shot) Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to slip the bridle on.
--Good horse, sweet girl, that’s it, Johnny loves you. You like me, don’t
you? Like the smell of me & how I look at you, Concetta. I will just
put this nice bridle over your pretty head, OK? 
6(medium two-shot) The coal-black horse eyed the man, but did not
move away. She pranced some, & closed her teeth to the plain bar bit.
He gently touched her cheek. She opened her mouth to nip flesh &
closed it on cold steel.
7(sound cue) horse hooves rapping, with shrill complaints high up
in her throat.
8(medium close-up) She rolled her eyes, flattened her ears, squirm-
jumped & quivered. 
9(two-shot) Johnny spit the cigar stub out, & pulled her head down as
she made short staccato moans. 
--I will not hurt you, little one. When I am on your back, I will be your
lover man.--talking in a soft monotone.
10(medium close-up) He smoothly buckled the throat latch, tossed one
rein over her neck, & let the other one hang loose.
11(medium wide-shot) Cautiously the mare moved the grounded rein
around in the white dust, as the Indian turned his back on her & sauntered
to the rails. 
12(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & banjo chords,
13(medium close-up) Near the railings in a corner of the corral there was
a battered split-rail sawhorse, & on one side of it there were two colorful
but faded blankets--one was Nez Pierce, frayed, thin & sun-bleached,
the other was Mexican vaquero, covered with Aztec symbols. A dusty
yellow lariat & a thin well-worn busting saddle rested next to them. 
14(cut to traveling steadi-cam shot) panning the excited faces of
the crowd, old & young wranglers, their battered hats pulled down
low over their eyes--some were crippled & some were dude-ish
boardwalk porch punchers. 
15(as the camera pans smoothly) we notice the bright white lettering
on the tallest reddest barn, BRONSON AUCTIONS. 
16(halfway around, cut to a crane shot outside the corral) pan-circling
the flannel & levi shirted backs, some in chaps, all in old boots.
We see Johnny Eagle with his hands on his hips, talking & chuckling,
his back still to the mare.
17(sound cue) piano, & banjo with harmonica slowly huffing.
18(medium close-up, angle on) a brash but nervous young cowboy; 
peach fuzz on his ruddy cheeks, curly red hair poking out of his hat:
--I got four-bits says she’ll toss your red ass in the dirt!
19(close-up) Johnny sporting a wide toothy smile:
--Keep your money, kid--buy me a drink after the dance. Hey, would
you like to warm her up for me?
20(two-shot) the young cowboy holding his hands up:
--Christ no, Johnny. I like my cojones right where they are!
21(medium wide shot) More laughter erupted--Johnny always kept
men laughing, unless he was mean-drunk & then he was liable to
use one of his sharp knives. 
22(medium close-up) a white-bearded prospector in a tattered hat:
--How do you think you’ll do with her?
23(sound cue) clarinet squawk & drum roll.
24(two-shot) angle over the old man’s shoulder:
--Better than you, grandfather--as Johnny swept up the Mexican
blanket in a smart swirl, snapping up dust like a matador. 
25(tight two-shot) he turned back toward the waiting dance partner:
--Do you see the blanket, horse?--walking closer to the mare.
--Smell it, young lady, see, it smells like your sister & brother--& 
what a nice blanket it is, huh? Pretty & bright & harmless. Would it
not look lovely on your back? Sure, sure it would. 
26(medium wide shot) the Indian stood still alongside the horse. She
fidgeted, rolling the bar in her panting mouth, leaving metallic tastes.
27(sound cue) Tack metal & leather harmonizing over a guitar chord.
28(tight two-shot) He placed the blanket on her back in one deft
movement; she shivered. The blanket moved but stayed in place.
29(medium close-up) Johnny--the blanket will be fine, you’ll get used
to it. The saddle is next, then me. We will leap for joy, eh?
30(sound cue) Castanets, guitar, & harmonica. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets OLN

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Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Quartet of Eights

borrowed from

Quartet of Eights

“I prefer a quartet--it makes everyone
work harder.”--Adrian Belew.


Worlds within worlds reflect
the overlapping dimensions we inhabit.
Realities most fail to even detect--
worlds within worlds reflect
homeostasis, universes to inspect;
conjuring dreams of riding a comet.
Worlds within worlds reflect
the overlapping dimensions we inhabit.


Rusting steel girders still span
over America’s many mighty rivers,
flexing under the heavy burden
as frantic commute traffic flows.

Flexing under the heavy burden
as frantic commute traffic flows
over America’s many mighty rivers
rusting steel girders still span.


A dozen street artists linked their joy
and painted Russian faces from Tolstoy.
Art from spray cans--no sign of a bucket,
men in fur hats, a peasant girl in a bonnet.
Soot-covered workers in a hellish factory,
several revolutionary soldiers celebrating victory.
Painted on the walls of a Tacoma parking garage,
until removed secondary to a city council barrage.


There is something gorgeous to be said
about particular unshackled poetry that emerges
from its den of cortical chrysalis
& sprouts huge wet wings,
luminescent rainbows of every hue,
translucent gossamer feathers strongly rooted,
as wild words transform into shape-shifting
heartfelt imaginative inexorable boundless poetics.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

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Thursday, April 16, 2015

Buford's Blues

image found over at

Buford’s Blues

“I find in my poetry & prose the rhythms & imagery
& mystery of the blues.”--Maya Angelou.

Buford Brown bopped his way downtown backwards,
                       finding first the finite, then the festive finish;
            just being an old black man that was too boisterous,
                                                                too brave,
                                                         too belligerent,
                                                     too much the brawny blues man;
            whining, yowling, yodeling, yelling & yelping--
            whether for a white audience 
            wild for his weathered soulfulness,
                                    or divers faces burnished black
                                    while busking for bucks on Beale Street,
he would strum, stutter, sing & strut,
his lyrics sonorous,
his message singular-- dangling his diaphanous damnations
                       of all the dangerous delusions
               he felt were afoot, while
                    fingering falsehoods  &
                    fighting injustice--his accent thick, twanging
              three strings at once, his tongue tangled with terrible regrets;
         his voice stentorian while revealing
the verdigris pallor on his visitor’s brass vibes;
                    freaked out furtive tones
         frantically mourning freedom’s frailty,
                                                democracy’s diminishment,
                                                         demonstrator’s demise,
                                                 the dirge of constabulary’s demons,
                                                         & the death of hope;
condemning the KKK cowards that could kill a king,
                        rather than allowing freedom to ring--
                   & of course you could bet your balls there was
              banal ballads about bad women, bright booze
        in brown bottles, nagging bitches, fist banging
& luscious love bruises.

They caught him one manic midnight
while pissing powerfully on the tagged wall
of the juicy juke joint he was working,
          used aluminum baseball bats on him,
                                   broke both of his legs, &
                                   busted his fingers, but in his case
          tragedy led to lionization & living legend
as the multitudes of white fans showered him
with learned love, deep devotion,
sacks of silver FDR dimes, & bountiful baskets
of beautiful devil’s food doughnuts,
bought all his albums while brandishing
Buford Brown Rules
on their collective chests, kept him fit, fed & fiddling
until his funeral at 97,
& then they proudly erected & set up
a seven foot statue of him in Seattle
in a hilltop park near Puget Sound. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted proudly over at dVerse Poets MTB/FFA

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Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Brother, Can You Spare A Rhyme?

myself & brothers in boot camp, 1967.

Brother, Can You Spare A Rhyme?

“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound
to the starless midnight of racism & war that the bright daybreak
of peace & brotherhood cannot be a reality.”--Martin Luther King, Jr.

Brothers can be,     usually are,      biological,
                     part of an actual family unit,        someone
                 to compete with during our childhood,
            over parental affection, first loves, 
food, grades, space, girls, teams, & fast cars.

Not everybody has one; 
some have a dozen.           They do not always get along,
                                  as it is with all siblings.
                        There seems to be specific problems
                                  associated with the birthing pecking order--
oldest, middle, & youngest.                 It is an individual personal 
              dynamic that simply defies generalization. 

From the Greek Republic
through the naked brilliant essence of Socialism,
to the stirring rhetorical seeds of Democracy,
                                                 has been the touchstone,
                                                                 the heart,
                                                                 the foundation.
                                                                 the talking point
                                                 that has been much touted,
                                       infinitely discussed & always strived for.

In my life
many wonderful brothers
have appeared                         midst various alliances, schools, sports,
                                         the Navy, vocations, education,
                               and the holy pursuits of poetry, philosophy, & the Arts.

             As our work-life concludes, we glance about & count
      the brothers that are still in our sphere,
for some only portrayed brothers for a finite period,
            under specific circumstances,
            within set parameters,                 & then they went their own way
                       forging new alliances within other relationships.

Brother, much too often,
can be an overused insincere term,
dropped from lips casually,
without really being earned,
             like the hackneyed use of the word
             Love,                it can be as false,
                                                     as hollow,
                                                     as empty
                                                     as chestnut husks, or
                                                     as discarded cocoons.

If we are fortunate late in life,
estrangement with actual brothers
can be mended, healed, re-bonded,
as the foibles of youth
& the raging libidos ebb.

Now that my own brother & I are both retired,
               we are finding it easier to accept & accommodate to
                            each other’s eccentricities, suddenly able to
                                 regain respect & loyalty for each other,
                        as we share the retrospective historical overview
                 of our family’s tragedies & successes;
just hug each other
& be ever so grateful that
we are still firmly bonded
during the third act of our lives. 

I used to believe that there was no more room in my life for any new
brothers to appear,
              to endear,
              to revere,               but alas, I tell you through the fabulous
                                   fellowship of Poetry, fresh brothers continue to
                          materialize from all over the globe, as mere cyber-friends
                 have eclipsed simple communication & their heartfelt sharing 
has pierced the veneer of my misplaced resolve, enriching my stasis
                 with unforeseen intense brotherhood--that has actually expanded
          my mind,
          my heart, & my world view.           Miraculously, through the vital venue
                                                         of Poetics, this masculine intimacy
                                                   flourishes, & my individual pack of brothers
                                              continues to swell its ranks--
& on those good days when events dovetail, minds merge, & spirits soar,
I even feel the stirrings of my old idealism, & I am beginning to believe that
the weeping woes of this planet can be reduced by the sheer volume of
hopefulness as millions of poets proliferate within every society, nation, race,
border, group & heart. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

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