Dystopia Now

image borrowed from thisiscolossal.com

Dystopia Now

“Hate looks like everybody else, until

it smiles.”--Tahereh Mafi.

It is so damn hard not to keck--

      (reeettcchh&rallphh) or visualize a wreck--

(screech--bam--splotch), contemp(silver)plating

a probable fascist malversation          within a jingo

                                                        oval (orifice),

                                               over blood(y) roses,

                                           without a garden or a

                                slender shred of hope;

all the while suffering from

       susurrous message overload

             bomBard-ing our census for 18

                   minutes of every media hour we partake.

             Never have we had to face such          

       an imbroglio, akin to a Korean          

battle axe lodged in Lady Liberty’s        

             bronze brain.                           For Christ’s sake,

                                                    even Dick Tracy would  

                                                 never have attempted to

                                   view BEN HUR on his wrist watch,    

                               and brave Buck Rogers might have

                        balked at riding in a driverless Uber Taxi,     

                  opting to utilize the manual override.                 

  

Yes, it still angers me that ten year old children have leg(ull)

ac(kk)cess(pool) to porn on public library computers, but

then obviously objectivity suffers paralysis when beautiful

breasts fill the screen, pious priests parlay for pernicious

pedephillia, demanding alter boy harems, while

                          

                          ISIS  dispatches hundreds of suicide

                          bombers to Mosul, whistling banzai ballads

                          & hatching kamikaze daydreams--

                                    where the zealous brainwashed

                                     disregard for life garrotes any 

                          thoughts of a future, a family, or any

                          kind of world where cerulean blue skies

                                      swarm with white doves--

                                  paralleling the terrible hope--

                               lessness prevalent in ethnic

                           youth incased in our inner cities,

                     who prefer gang fellowship to

                 formal education, handguns to

              hockey, & drug money to

           poverty.

Futurists re-read I, ROBOT, praying that imminent

sentient technology will not emulate TERMINATOR

projections, or the lethal MATRIX WARS, and I tell

you sadly that nuclear annihilation is absolutely still

a viable carcinogen hungry to inhabit humanity, and

I fear insane hands hovering over apocalyptic launch

codes and flashing blood-red buttons, while hoping to

grope more women, initiate ethnic cleansing, construct

concentration camps & generate genocide, revitalizing all

my childhood nightmares of atomic bombs, Russian

paratroopers & macabre alien anal probes.

Regardless, I still

soldier on, struggling toward the

light of peace and love.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Kall Me Kokopelli

images borrowed from rationalobserver.com

Kall Me Kokopelli

“The flute is a heart song, like a

sweet prayer.”--Kokopelli.

Not far from Four Corners monument,

     I crossed into Colorado and drove up a

           steep winding road for miles, emerging out

     onto a pine tree forest on a high plateau

called Mesa Verde--named by Spanish

explorers in 1776, while America struggled

to become a country in the east.

                               This National Park was created in

                          1906 by Theodore Roosevelt, who was

                      the father of our park system. Indians lived

                 there in 7500 BCE, up to 22,000 of them, finally

             abandoning the area in 1250 AD after years of

      drought, warfare, & even cannibalism.

The park is huge, with over 600 cliff dwellings

       preserved there. with names like Fire Temple,

                                                            the Palace,

My young wife was able to climb        Spruce Tree House,

up & down the very steep stone         Square Tower,

steps so she could get close               Oak Tree House, &

to the sandstone villages, but              Sun Temple

I had to skirt along the jagged

edges of the cliffs, watching her with powerful binoculars.

This gave me more time to study all the petroglyphs. I

fell in love with the rock art star who appeared countless

times--the hunchbacked insect-like flute player called

Kokopelli, a god of agriculture, a fertility deity with

feathers or antenna protruding from his head, a spirit

of music, & a trickster god.

Ancient man always

adapted--carving homes out

of sandstone rock cliffs.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Arsonist

image borrowed from thecontroversialfiles.com

The Arsonist

“The professional arsonist builds vacant

lots for money.”--Jimmy Breslin.

Is it even

possible

to spark

more

controversy 

within a Presidential

election

than the Donald

has managed?                        

                                                This lethal

                                                demagogic 

                                                buffoon has

                                                ignited riots,

                                                disrupted

                                                our precious

                                                liberty,

                  while creating

                  a firestorm with

                  combustible

                  Trump-speak

that could

transform

democracy

into ash

and

sycophantic 

chaos.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Phone--Homo

image borrowed from cianellistudios.com

Phone--Homo

“We must polish the Polish furniture.”

--Eddie Snipes

As the ferry flounders, it wishes

for fairy wings.

Red rain is never as bloody

as a red reign.

The princess rose to pee,

and that’s when she found the pea.

The collar was white hare, but

the caller labeled it just hair.

Vikings loved their battle axes, and

conquered others on every axis.

When struck in the face with a hard ball,

there’s nothing to do but just bawl.

Too many folks have lost their senses as

they join Trump’s burgeoning census.

When the temps top a 100, one doesn’t need

to coax others to consume cokes.

A muddy pond of ravenous koi

can never be considered coy.

Suddenly I hear the sound of murderous caws

for no apparent cause.

A young maiden who is chaste

is simply waiting to be chased.

Crushed blackberries must certainly die

to render some Native American dye.

I feel obligated to have to add, one

never finds a job from an ad.

Though haggard and leaden-eyed,

the resistance waits for the next Ide.

Yes, there’s a manager who oversees

all produced goods that are sent overseas.

No matter how hard

the wind blew, its lips never

turned shades of blue.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Performance

image of me at the BSharp.

The Performance

“If you’re going to do something, strive to do it 

better than anyone else. If you’re going to half-

ass it, why bother?”--Ashly Lorenzana.

I am prowling Opera Alley, loving its cobblestones,

skipping under its gaslights. The buildings are all

painted bright primary colors, like a stroll in Little

Havana--pink, umber, red, yellow, turquoise and

tangerine. I enjoy the murals & wall art that are

splashed between windows & doors, the styles

being Asian, African & urban graffiti. There is a

light rain falling. I approach the old Tacoma 

Tribune office, which has been turned into the 

BSharp Coffee House, an esoteric space for

blues, jazz, punk rock & literary events, like the

Poetry Slam that I’m attending tonight. My two

poems are in a manila folder under my jacket.

I see there are a few people already gathered

in the dim lights. I’m feeling that familiar rush

of adrenalin as I prepare to perform.

I’m called Tacoma’s

last beat poet, brightening my

heart, conjuring smile.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse PoetsPub Haibun

Prophet of Change

image from neurologicalcorrelates.com

Prophet of Change

“No one is free--even the birds are

chained to the sky.”--Bob Dylan.

Right now, folks,

stupid gathers strength, like

a virulent virus hidden within winds of change.

Admit that the waters around you have grown--

that you’ll be drenched to the bone;

even as the Donald denies global warming,

claiming it is just Chinese propaganda.

What the world needs now

is a hand basket full of poets

who will ink despair,

             spotlight cruelty,

             point out injustice--all the while

illuminating hope, morality, & love,

and of course

wearing wings

bought on Amazon,                        

            white feathers for optimists,

            brown feathers for fascists;

Come writers and critics, who prophesize with 

their pen--cuz the chance won’t come again.

The eyes of the earth,

holding their children

watch intently

as only a few weeks

separate us from our future,

when a new regime

will pick up the reins;

Come senators and congressmen, admit that

there’s a battle outside ragin’, & that the times

they are a---changin’.

Yes, we are the citizens toiling

within the fragile eggshell of democracy,

but many of us are parents as well,

inhabiting empty nests, eying the future

cautiously as our grandchildren grow

and our children vote;

Come mothers & fathers throughout the land,

try & understand--your children are beyond

your command.

Bob Dylan won the

Nobel--first song writer to

do so, praise his words.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Today

painting by Susan Brassi, borrowed from fineartamerica.com

Today

“There’s a party going on right here, a

celebration to last throughout the year.”

--Kool and the Gang.

On the cusp

of the second week in October,

celebrate 10/11, for it is a day

the Lord has made, or not,

as Autumn creeps along the

crisp edges, and the cold sun reigns

over the final few lingering moments 

of yet another Northwest

Indian Summer.

At my age, already in the winter 

     of my  life, I’m just happy to celebrate

        the distinct privilege of participating in another

           day period--as lovely Michelle Obama reminds us

        that this is the International Day of the Girl Child,

      as does the Donald amid his arrogance

and vulgarity, while he also is

     celebrating the birthday of his

             father, Fred, who certainly must

                      be so very proud of his boy from

                             on high, or perhaps low. CNN informs

                      us that also on this day the Senate 

            joined the House in approving military

       might against Iraq, and hell, here we

are 14 years later just tickled to

death about how all that turned out, 

right?

Celebrities dress up any celebration;

Eleanor Roosevelt was born on this date.

I wonder how our 39th First Lady

would feel about Hillary?

Actor Ron Liebman’s birthday is shared

with fellow actors David Morse & Joan Cusack--

this is counterpointed by 

Chico Marx.

        Redd Foxx &

                 Jean Cocteau,

who all passed away on this day.

Today, I have decided, will be an excellent day as the 

blue skies and October sun beckon me to grab my 

camera and roam about seeking fresh images, even 

though I will still be 72, overweight & short of breath,

and overwrought by the incessant political yammering,

but               

                        Every heartbeat is

                        a tiny victory, and every 
                        breath celebration.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Cloud Therapy

image from richerramblings.wordpress.com

Cloud Therapy

“The sea and the sky looked like one fabric, as

if the clouds had dropped down into the sea.”

--Virginia Woolf.

Between majestic mountain ranges,

not far from maternal sea,

there are

clovered meadows

where souls

can lie

on their backs

and behold

dramatic cloud

formations--                        

                                           

                                           cotton-candy elephants,

                                           ghost riders

                                           seraphim's,

                                           bison herds,

                                           Jesus,

                                           locomotives

                                           lions;

whatever

you

need

to fuel

your

fevered

fantasies.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne Review X Ep. 52-53

image from pinterest.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenics 52-53

Review  Part X

“Thank-you all for the patience & persistence it takes

in trying to keep up with, & fully grasp, the scope of

this poetic cinematic saga. We’re close to a wrap now

on the requested review of the previous episodes. On

the next OLN, I will post the original Cinemagenic 54,

and (smile), we will be current.”--Glenn.

Fifty-One: Intruders--The scene opens at the men’s

campsite, as the fiery morning sun, a few minutes high, 

has blood red shafts still dancing through the ragged

clouds that hug the foothills. Buck is waking up to the

smell of frying bacon, steaming coffee, bubbling white

beans & sourdough biscuits. Johnny, “Good afternoon,

boss--you about ready for some vittles? Buck nodded

as he stood up & stretched. Behind him was the corral

trap. The Appaloosa stood watching him. The pair of

mares were down on folded legs, munching grass. A

jack rabbit burst out of the brush near them. Cheewa

lunged to the chase. jumping over the fire, spilling

some of the coffee. “Besa mi culo, boss, your dog

nearly trampled our fine breakfast.”  Yawning, Buck

said, “He’s just getting after his own meal. I’m sure

sorry he spilled the coffee.”  Both men laughed, then

Johnny became silent, “You need to wake up, my

Buck--looks like we got company.”  Buck, “Can you

tell how many?” Johnny, “More than four.”  Buck,

“Well, fuck me first thing in the morning.” The Eagle

picked up his carbine & jacked a shell into the chamber.

Cheewa returned with blood on his muzzle, and he

stood next to Johnny, a growling black ramrod. A

swirling dust cloud out on the flats began to fill up

with riders. Buck scooped up his black hat & his

heavy gunbelt--pulled his hat down in front & buckled

the gun belt tightly, pistol cartridges in front, & .50

caliber brass shells on the back side. He slipped on

his battle vest with the red shotgun shells poking out

from his heaving chest. He checked the load in his

Colt Thunderer & the sawed off shotgun. He levered

a big shell into the firing chamber of his Sharps, and

leaned it up on the edge of his fancy saddle. Johnny,

“I count cinco culeros riding down on us out of the

darkness--a pack of pendejos.” The Appaloosa stood

as a dappled statue. The mares were on their feet 

with the red sun blinking through their scanty manes.

The riders approached out of the sun in the East. 

When they were two hundred yards away, strung out in

a Cavalry picket line, Buck asked, “Who is it? Can you

tell yet?”  Johnny, “It’s Cash Bronson”. 

Fifty-Three; Red Riders--The riders emerge over the rim

with swirling dust rolling over them. Buck & Johnny stood

stiff-backed, facing the horde. Johnny, “Cocked & loaded,

boss.”  Buck. “Fucking boy rowdy.” We hear the fire

popping & the dog growling over a slide guitar riff. The 

riders come in at full gallop, the sun rising behind them,

their faces in red shadow. They pulled up hard and fast,

as their horses snorted, nickered & pranced--heaving and

steaming. Johnny recognized all them, his eyes hardening.

Buck thought, “Alright, the honcho in front has to be

Bronson.”  That man sat on a golden palomino. His gear

was Vaquaro-ornate. with wide silver-studded stirrups,

chest halter & skirts. He wore a wide-brimmed white hat

with the sides rolled up perfectly, a stark white shirt--now

dust-smeared, a thick leather string tie pulled through

a silver stallion head bolo, a weathered buckskin vest, 

tight brown denims, and fancy knee-high well-polished

boots--complete with cruel silver spur, the rowels still

spinning. A .44 Smith & Wessen hung on his left hip.

Perfect white buckskin gloves covered his small hands.

He was a big man, nearly as tall as Buck, but heavier.

He was clean shaven & had pasty pale skin, with thick

eyebrows, soot onyx eyes, & a prominent patricians'

nose. On Bronson’s left were three wire-thin jumpy

wranglers--to his right was a very tall lean fellow on

a coal gelding, whose icy green eyes waited for Buck

to notice him. He had a long thin face with dark circles

under his eyes. Buck thought, “Now this piece of work

has to be Thor”.  An awkward minute ambled by, Buck

& Johnny were taunt & ready. Finally someone spoke.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Dazzle Me Deeply

image by pinterest.com

Dazzle Me Deeply

“If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance,

baffle them with bull shit.” --W.C. Fields

When I feel & hear the powerful razzle 

of twin mufflers from a 500 hp muscle

V-8, I get faint with macho joy.

**********************************************

Reading another’s poetry, or even re-reading

my own, when I encounter those words, phrases

or images that dazzle me, I am fulfilled as

a citizen poet.

************************************************

In thirty years, my wife’s eyes, wit, & sensuality

have not lost one iota of their incredible sparkle.

I carry cheap sunglasses for protection. 

*************************************************

The dimwitted Donald would like you to believe

that he possesses political razzle, though he comes

across like a carnival barker or grand wizard or

grimy grifter--but for many of us his ersatz dazzle

has all the sparkle of an enormous repugnant

mud pie atop a ton of chicken shit.

****************************************************

Fall has the power to

razzle hearts, dazzle our eyes

and sparkle spirits.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Morning Has Broken

image from panoramio.com

Morning Has Broken

“Morning has broken like the first morning,

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.”

--Cat Stevens.

Morning arrives aboard cottonmouth moments, fitful 

glimpses of consciousness, our old tomcat on the deck 

complaining, the congestion from the tail end of my cold 

complicating oxygen consumption, my wife stirring in the 

bathroom, for post-retirement she now works half-days 

mid-week as a consultant--followed by cortical steroid 

inhalations to control my asthma, with fresh fruit juice 
gulps to clear the steroids out of my throat. My breakfast
routine--soy milk, cottage cheese, fruit & yogurt, with
a steaming cup of Chinese tea, clicks off as the darkness
outside my window embraces dawn, and an overcast
grayness sports pockets of blue sky & those odd rays
of sunshine--as October arrives lethargically midst the
meteorological confusion of our lovely lingering Indian
summer.

The ancient maple

towers majestically--

leaves turning yellow.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Pets Pub