Vampires are Real

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Vampires are Real

“The strength of a vampire is that people will not

allow themselves to believe in them.”

--Garrett Fort

I like you too much not to tell you--there are real vampires in 

this world. I am one. I am 72 but I look 35. You know, because

of the tremendous popularity of Vamps in the last twenty years,

& the proliferation of pretender wannabes, it makes it much

easier for us to live amongst you without detection.

You may have noticed that I have a greenish-yellow ring around

my iris, & that I seem short of breath a lot. I pass that off as a

case of asthma. It is unnerving, I’m sure, that when you just

glance at me, I know it, & I stare at you immediately. If you return

my stare, you will not be able to look away until I let you. I have

a thick, heavy aura, but it is not depressing--rather it raises some

euphoric reaction in you.

My fingernails are like clear glass, but are very strong. I sleep in

a bed, not a coffin. I am not immortal, but I live more than a century.

When I’m around, electronic devices often malfunction. I do not appear

to have fangs, but my canines are extra sharp. No one has to be killed 

for blood. We all have relationships with very willing donors, many of 

them Emos. We do substitute blood from herbivores, but blood from pigs & 

chickens is not safe; full of deadly parasites. Sunlight will not kill us, but it 

does make us very uncomfortable, like you having a sunburn, & our eyes 

are super sensitive; thus my constant wearing of cool sunglasses--without 

them we suffer terrible migraines. Consumption of human blood gives us 

immunity to the sun for 2-3 days. 

Sex with a vampire

is heaven cloaked in hell;

something memorable.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"

Pendejo Politico

image from filibuster cartoons,com

Pendejo Politico

“Democracy is when the indignant, & not

the men of property, are the rulers.”

--Aristotle.

Them: Pick your battles, old son--that is wisdom.

Me: How does one breathe air that is rife with industrial toxins?

Them: Just run immediately to Amazon, they carry gas masks.

Me: Do you make a practice out of subterfuge? 

Them: We see that your words are your weapons, pernicious poet!

Me: An observance so deep that I can applaud it.

Them: You consistently put forth a liberal point of view.

Me: You fail at presenting bull shit as truth!

Them: We really lack the energy necessary to deal with you.

Me: So binge on Snickers--food for endurance.

Them: We warn you that you are treading a dangerous path!

Me: Why don’t your ever try to walk the damn walk?

Ask politicians

honest questions & prepare

for bull shit showers.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at The Sunday Whirl

Blackthorne--Scene 48

image taken from pearltrees.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Forty-Eight

Impasse

“You will not be punished for your anger--you will be

punished by your anger.”--Buddha.

1(medium wide-shot) Suddenly the galloping white stallion smashed

through a prairie dog city, & stumbled. Johnny Eagle took flight, his

legs pitching over his head, & collided with the ground just after big

Jesus did.

2(sound cue) saxophone, coronet, & drum bap.

3(wide two-shot) Buck reined up his Red, pulling back his head, whose

eyes were bulging, his nostrils flaring, hopping, side-stepping but

staying on his hooves, his great heart gushing, with veins & cords

pounding in his neck & chest, his forearms & gaskins cramping.

4(cut to overhead drone medium wide shot) the Appaloosa running on

alone as the riders halted in a white cloud of dust.

5(close-up) Buck, biting his lip, his blue eyes glinting green.

6(sound cue) Johnny’s loud groan over Indian branch flute:

--Que chingados!

7(medium close-up) Buck raised up in the saddle, standing in the stirrups.

--Buck: Son of a bitch!

8(cut to medium wide shot) as the Appaloosa galloped out of sight ducking

into a deep arroyo.

9(cut to a two-shot ) Buck patting the neck of his horse:

--Calm down, big man, it’s fine--there is always tomorrow.

He swung down from the saddle, dropping the reins on the ground, then

squatting next to Johnny--who was sitting up touching himself on the arms

& shoulders; Jesus was up on his feet.

10(sound cue) guitar chords & harmonica.

11(tighter two-shot) angle on Buck:

--Are you hurt, old man?

12(reverse shot) over Buck’s shoulder, angle on Johnny, out of breath:

--That is the fastest horse I have ever seen in my whole fucking life!

13(sound cue) coronet & galloping hooves.

14(cut to static wide shot) the bare lip of an arroyo, just as the Appaloosa

burst into sight, & then halted; swirls of dust danced around him like alkaline

shadows.

15(tighten the wide shot) He whirled around and stared back toward his

pursuers.

16(close-up) the stallion’s head bobbing, neck arched, long mane flying.

We see the horse is winded & has some sweat & saliva lather on his muzzle.

17(cut back to the two men) Buck helping the Indian to his feet.

--Buck: Piss on that bronc! Did you break anything?

--Johnny: Maybe my ass is all. Ay Caramba--I will be useless as tits

on a fence post tomorrow, just a dozen knots of pain all bitching

at once!

Buck smiled a tight grin.

--Johnny: Ay, that horse, that goddamn mancha devil. 

18(medium two-shot) Buck with an arm around the Eagle:

--Today he beat us, stomped us good--but on a different day he

feel our ropes, soon to be lead stud at Antlered Buck. I swear it.

The two men stood there for a moment, as Johnny held onto Buck’s

shoulder--both of them gazing out over the unforgiving salt flats to

the black shadows in the distant arroyo.

--Johnny: You know I think I see him out there watching us.

--Buck: Probably just a trick of the light, wishful thinking.

19(sound cue) Jesus whinnying low over a piano chord.

20(widen the two-shot)

--Johnny: Jesus, you crazy boy, you threw me half a mile.

The silver stallion was standing on three legs, with the right front

one held off the ground. The Eagle knelt next to him, feeling along

the injured leg, examining the new swelling between the knee &

the fetlock.

--Johnny: Damn, you must have been tired, old son, to step in a

hole like that.

--Buck: Do you think it’s broke?

--Johnny: No, I don’t think so. He’s like me, a tough old shit. Yes,

he is bruised, sprained, exhausted & pissed off, just like me.

--Buck: Should we camp here, or do you think he can make it

back to the ranch.

--Johnny: Sure, sure, he can make it, if we go slow & stop a lot.

I’ll ride double with you up on Rojo.

21(sound cue) Blues guitar slide & juice harp thwack. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Du Gamia, Du Fria

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Du Gamia, Du Fria

“You love & lose & bleed best you can, to the extreme, hoping

that one day the world will read you like the poem you want

to be.”--Charlotte Eriksson.

I hear it now: Thou Ancient, Thou Free,

though I’ve never been, ever the absentee.

I think of prehistoric Svealand,

before Beowulf, even before the Viking,

before patriots an anthem could sing,

Remembering when the land was covered in ice.

I hear it now: Thou Ancient, Thou Free,

though I’ve never been, ever the absentee.

After the great lakes receded & hunters could

roam vast forests for red deer, moose, & firewood,

& petroglyphs appeared in caves of gneiss,

remembering when the land was covered in ice.

I hear it now: Thou Ancient, Thou Free,

though I’ve never been, ever the absentee.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub Poetics

Bjorn wants us to write to images of Swedish petroglyphs. I wrote a Sonnetina Rispetto.

Toad Tales

image from oilpaintingfactory.com

Toad Tales

“Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, which like the toad,

ugly & venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.”

--William Shakespeare.

Serious actors prefer being called a toad, rather than

a celebrity--which paints them as a popular success,

despite their obvious warts.

If you are a princess, or even just a wannabe,

kiss a ton of toads, for it is plausible

that your sweet lips could whelp a prince. 

When I was younger, I drove 

much too fast, reckless & furious, prompting 

my passengers to label my driving

as Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at With Real Toads

Pan's Promise

image from movies.com

Pan’s Promise

“Do you know why swallows build nests in the eaves of

houses? It is to listen to the stories.”--J.M. Barrie.

In Neverland lie the darkest of paths,

with no white pebbles, & no illumination--

peopled by warring factions; devoid

of any territory, fiefdom, or nation.

A lost island actually, beyond Britain’s shores,

where the more grim a situation, the wider

the grin on every wild boy.

Pan & Hook do make a strange pair,

I grant you, with one embracing hope

& the other despair;

And tis true that every boy in Pan’s posse

has never lost their sense of wonder--

which make them less than reliable

when their focus begins to wander.

There are grieving parents in London

who feel that Pan does nothing more than pander,

indulging the innocent imaginations of stolen children,

leaving their whereabouts but a thing to ponder.

But the boy who was once just Peter; now stuck in time,

cares naught for convention, ownership or parent’s rules;

nor does he worry a whit that there are some who

consider his fellowship with other boys to be naughty.

Just remember that the way is ever clear,

the directions exactly the same every time:

“Second star to the right,

and straight on till morning.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on With Real Toads

Extinguishing the Bern

image from imgur.com

Extinguishing the Bern

“Let us wage a moral & political war against the billionaires

& corporate heads whose policies & greed are destroying

the middle class in America.”--Bernie Sanders.

Today there is a new article in the New Yorker magazine:

Integrity disqualifies Sanders for the White House.

The electoral system has safeguards in place

preventing anyone who’s outspoken from becoming the President.

Integrity disqualifies Sanders for the White House--

this political reality conjures fear and anger,

nearly dashing all hope for a better tomorrow.

The electoral system has safeguards in place

excluding him from back room deals & cronyism

that may be a necessary requirement for election;

preventing anyone who’s outspoken from becoming President

because no Populist can raise the necessary billion dollars

while criticizing the blatant buying of the other candidates.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Life Laureate

painting of leonard cohen from keelinggallery.com

Life Laureate

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense

of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”

--Robert Frost.

Our poetry reflects

who we are & are not;

a clever mirror.

There are those who consider poetry as a gift

                 to a classroom,

                 to a cherished one,

                 to the unwashed,

                 to the uninformed,

                 to the world entire;      and there are Others

                           who interpret it as a

compulsion, addiction, fault, blessing, catharsis,

blood letting, regurgitation, love making, or epiphany--

                 the most direct way to capture

                          the minutia of life, splendid role-playing,

                                   both vicariously & personally; to become

the eyes of a hungry hawk,

the legs of a racing cheetah,

the claws of a bear,

the wisps of mist on a desolate moor,

the powerful arms of a mountain gorilla,

the pool of oil on the tarmac,

the brown recluse feasting on a fly,

the barb on a wire,

the smoking tires on a hot rod,

the smooth pebbles in a stream,

the swell of a titanic wave toppling a great ship,

the chill of awakening under a bridge--or in a doorway, park, or alley,   

the reward of holding your newborn for the first time,

the chaotic & terrifying dirge of heated battle,

the target for a bullet, fist, insult, or a kiss,

the participant in an adulterous affair,

the act of a criminal, priest, dog catcher, whore, or politician,

the shame of a cop looming pridefully over an unarmed dead black man,

the callous arrogance of a school yard or elected bully,

the inspiring sight of steel, glass & concrete as a skyscraper rises,

the gorgeous flow of a blue highway stretching across a high plateau,

the climax of coitus as two incomplete souls merge into one orgasm,

the crack of a wooden bat belting out a home run,

the sensuous revealing of a lover’s breasts,

the aching memory of parents lost, of children stolen;

                all this & so very much more because

the is no end, no down side to poetic insights,

               no detour or wash-out or stopping point

for our words that spill, emerge, & are whelped 

out of every orifice,

or the accompanying emotion

that colors & spices their journey.     

When life stirs my gut,

I must reach for the poet’s quill

and record everything.        

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub Poetics

Dream Catcher

Art by Khalil Gibran at kennotes.blogspot.com

Dream Catcher

“Yesterday is but today’s memory, & tomorrow is

today’s dream.”--Khalil Gibran.

As we age, we lose some of the tenacious grasp we used to have

on each Day--embracing, gulping with gusto each moment we

inhabited. The New Agers preach carpe diem, & although I can dig

that premise/postulate--at times I find it difficult to separate hedonism

from the sheer enjoyment of my own madness.

My mortal tower of lego-decades teeters precariously, as its edges

erode & crumble. I feel like a strong wind could topple it, bringing

my short life crashing into the red dust of Now--leaving it to others

to remember it/me as I am tasked to recognize Home, that broad

horizon beyond the veil, where time has no meaning & where

tomorrow only has a shadow dominion; where infinity is touchable,

wearable & familiar.

It is comforting to be allowed some memory of Bardo, where after the

past-life review, if I decide to return to this emotional plane for another

go-round, then I can buckle down & construct a new plan for a new

life, set personal parameters, assign roles, tally the karma served

against the karma still owed--& begin in earnest to chose a region,

parents, race, social status, eye color, probable afflictions & necessary

pitfalls & stumbling blocks--understanding full well that my latest

lesson plan will be less than iron-clad once I have re-entered the

breach & launched the next reincarnation.  

Death whispers to me:

dare to be you--just carpe

punctum; with no regrets. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub "Haibun Monday"