Thursday, October 27, 2016

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

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

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


Monday, October 24, 2016

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

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

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

Monday, October 17, 2016

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

Thursday, October 13, 2016

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  

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

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

Monday, October 10, 2016

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


Thursday, October 6, 2016

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

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

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