Blackthorne--Scene 73

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Seventy-Three

Heart Tug

“Do no harm, open your heart--but take no shit”.

--Anonymous.

1(sound cue) banjo & harmonica.

2(medium close-up) Ryker searched for Bronson’s 

face, but 

3(cut to two-shot) Cash had already moved up 

alongside Johnny: This horse is stone mean, breed

--even you can see that, right? It would not hurt, now

that he’s in my rotunda, to break some of that damn

pride of his.

The Eagle did not respond, keeping his intense gaze

on Ryker.

Cash: I want him broke in for Paulie, and you know 

he’s not much of a horseman--this stallion has a 

wagon load of too much spirit. 

Johnny: But this is not the way.

4(medium close-up) Yes, he is a medicine horse. He

is strong, and he has great pride. But he was Nez

Pierce broke, and has been ridden in battle. I tell you

he would rather die, or he will kill one of you before

you break him with a whip or spurs.

5(close-up) Ryker: You damned flea-bitten squaw--

this horse needs to learn some respect. This ain’t

the first horse I ever broke--you know that. If you

don’t start out with him my way, he’ll be riding you

within a week.

6(sound cue) piano & Indian seed rattle.

7(two-shot) Johnny: I will do this--let me ride him:

more a statement than an inquiry.

Cash took a long look at the stallion. What will it 

cost me for your services?

Johnny: About an hour.

8(medium wide shot) Cash: What do you think about 

all this, Paulie? 

Buck turned to gaze at the youngest brother. When 

Paul recognized him, he froze for a second as a ripple

of fear passed over his face--but then realizing he was 

safe, he smiled a pitiful crooked smile, and spoke in a

small voice: It don’t matter a damn to me who ends up

riding this fucking horse.

9(close-up) Chatawa bobbing his head, flashing

his angry eyes.

10(medium two shot) Graff watched the Eagle--

obviously still angry about his past humiliations,

his face reddening, he spat out: Mr. Bronson, if

this lice-assed halfbreed, says he’ll do it for

nothing--just let him. No sense in getting one of 

our own crew busted up. Probably that damn  

jughead is going to throw him over the fence, 

and we’ll all get a good laugh out of it.

11(close-up) Cash:  Alright, Johnny --we’ll try it

your way. Ryker, get your sad ass out of the corral.

12(sound cue) piano & banjo.

13(medium wide shot) Grumbling all the way, 

Ryker dropped the blanket back over the sawhorse, 

and tossed the whip into the dust, before crawling

up onto the rails.

14(sound cue) six-string blues slide.

15(two-shot)  The Eagle asked as he dismounted

the gate, staring at the waiting stallion: Well, my 

Buck, what do you say?

Buck: Sure, let’s get it done--as he opened the gate

and stepped into the corral.

16(sound cue) the old leather hinges on the gate, 

and crowd murmuring over guitar chord.

17(cut to overhead crane shot) the whole corral,

as Johnny moves toward the dappled stud, and

rail riders were jockeying for better sight lines.

18(sound cue) saxophone & juice harp.

19(two shot) Johnny: Hey, my brave Chat-a-wa.

The stallion’s ears perked up, and he shook his 

head yes--These people have been treating you

like an Army mule, haven’t they? Well, relax son,

for we’re here now, me and the buffalo. Do you

remember the buffalo? Chatawa nodded. So, are

you ready for a treat?

20(medium wide shot) Johnny dipped into a partial

bag of oats by the fence and strolled right up to the

stallion. Buck was three paces behind. The stud

flattened its ears and backed up.

21(sound cue) Indian branch flute.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN 

Diamond Tipped

image from pinterest.com

Diamond Tipped

“I’m a Hip Nip--it just sounds groovy. A drummer

laid it in me,”--Pat Morita.

Hell--you don’t hear the word/term groovy that

much anymore; more of a 60’s kind of thing.

I remember the giggles I received from the young

nursing staff, just before I succumbed to the boss

anesthetic for my recent colonoscopy, when the 

last thing I said was “far out”.

Maybe I’ll utter that at the very moment of my 

death transition as I tune in to what’s shaking

beyond the veil--it will definitely be big time

groovy, and I’ll probably dig it. 

Being in the groove is 

not the same as being in a

rut--so just groove on.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Visitors

image from amybarickman.com

Visitors

“Fish and visitors stink in three days.”

--Benjamin Franklin

We visited frail Miss Lucille

on her 90th birthday, honoring her

request to attempt to renew her

expired Driver’s License.

The line was hours long at the DMV,

a typical bustling state office;

my wife stood in line for her--

when it was finally her turn

She requested a folding chair.

They were kind to her, but

refused to renew her driver’s license.

She had expected that result,

but you could see her disappointment.

She passed away three days later.

Neruda Sonnet

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

Since my mother-in

law died, I just don’t feel like

visiting Texas.

At ninety, she was much more

than only matriarch; much.

Tanka

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

In my home, we have

portals; visitors appear

at very odd times.

senryu

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

For most of my life, I have enjoyed both visiting

with friends and relatives, and welcoming them

to my home--but ill health has trumped sentiment

and reduced practiced candor & civility to ragged

bursts of crankiness.

We are expecting all three daughters and eight

grandchildren to our home for Christmas. My 

latest bout with my immune system has placed 

nails in my mattress, stones in my innards, and

barbs in my belt.

Hordes of arachnids 

become visitors during

winter; fantastic.

Haibun

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Erotica Horribilis

image from picstopin.com

Erotica Horribilis 

“I just wanted to test myself, to see if I could

overcome the dire situation I was headed toward.”

--Timothy Treadwell

Though he 

was in shock,

he could clearly

hear the terrible

crunch as

bear 141,

a rogue grizzly,

bit his left leg off

at the knee.

It happened

in slow motion--

after thirteen summers

in Alaska,

he was being

devoured alive.

Death

had 

teeth. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Scene 72

image from fineartamerica.com 

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Seventy-Two

UNBROKEN

“You are the road--show me the way. Light up my

day; no more tears, for I am unbroken.”

--Darren Styles.

1(sound cue) six-string blues slide & French horns.

2(overhead drone shot) the Bronson auction barn 

corral, an Appaloosa in the middle kicking up a fuss,

with the rails full of spectators, necks jutted forward

like anxious crows.

3(sound cue) heavy hoofs, stallion screams, sax riff.

4(drone in wide shot, descending)

5(sound cue) bullwhip crack and crowd noise.

6(close-up) Chatawa’s angry eyes.

7(cut to medium wide shot) the stallion on his hind 

legs, hopping and snorting, neighing like it was in 

the middle of a buffalo stampede, slicing the dusty 

air with its front legs. There were two ropes around 

his neck, one lashed to a breaking post, and the 

other was being dragged around in the dust. One of 

Bronson’s hands, a grizzled wrangler, stood behind 

the post, the rope around his wrist and waist. A 

younger cowboy jumped down into the sawdust and 

swept up the end of the loose rope. 

8(sound cue) snare drum and coronet.

9(medium close-up) the Appaloosa leaped forward 

and the young cowpoke was almost jerked off his feet. 

In retribution, the old wrangler lashed his rope even 

tighter.

10(medium wide shot) Cash & Thor Bronson were on 

the rails near the gate. The auction foreman, Graff, 

and Paul Bronson were on the rails to the other side 

of the gate.

11(two shot) Cash and the wrangler; Cash yelled out 

across the noisy corral: Ryker!

12(close up) Cash: I want that jughead broken today!

I want a women to be able to ride him by sundown.

13(sound cue) crowd laughter & cajoling over clarinet.

14(wide shot) Ryker ordered the youngster to lash his 

rope to a second post, and to get a horse blanket. He

rapidly did so, and stood waiting for more instructions.

15(close up) Graff’s red flabby face: Come on, Ryker,

get on that damned plug and show him who’s boss!

16(sound cue) piano & harmonica.

17(medium wide shot) the wrangler told the youngster

to hang on to the breaking rope, taking up the slack, 

while he took the horse blanket and walked toward the 

stallion.

18(close-up) Chatawa watching him warily.

19(medium close up) Ryker: Easy, big fellow, easy.

20(two-shot) Ryker kept up his soothing banter as he

approached the flecked stud. Chatawa arched his 

neck, bobbed his head, and stamped the ground with 

a front hoof. The wrangler got within two feet of the 

stallion, and stopped.

21(sound cue) harmonica huffing.

22(overhead crane shot) Neither one moved. There 

was a long frozen moment while they stared at each 

other.

23(two-shot) Ryker reached out to stroke the horse’s

neck. The flesh on the stallion’s neck quivered, as he 

pulled his head back.

24(sound cue) French horn, saxophone & coronet 

bleating in harmony.

25(wider shot) the stallion leaped forward, pulling 

the young cowboy to his knees, raised up on hind

legs again, pawing the air with lethal hooves, backing

Ryker half way across the pen.

26(sound cue) crowd response, cursing & catcalling.

27(medium close-up) Ryker: You damned blockhead!

No more bullshit! It’s time to knock some of craziness

out of you! --his voice an angry growl.

28(two-shot) He whirled around to a sawhorse near 

him, and grabbed a short bull whip with multiple tails.

29(sound cue) If you use it on him, I will use it on you!

some one yelled.

30(wide shot) Everyone turned. Johnny Eagle 

straddled the gate, watching Ryker like a hawk watches

a rodent. Buck stood just behind him, his big hands on

the gate.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Change is a Bitch

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Change is a Bitch

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels,

the troublemakers--because they change things.”

- Rob Siltanen.

Remove change,

and there is less

conflict & chaos--

                                 but the sad fact remains

                    that without change, progress

          stalls out like a tractor out of gas,

  like lungs without oxygen, like fish

flopping on a bloody deck.

As recipients of unerring

seasonal shifts, every 

one of our days is rife

with change.

As we age there are new limitations that appear

like lichen or rodents or barnacles in the night.

As we mature,

one hopes that

wisdom, better judgement

and compassion

will embrace our sphere.

As we learn, we are given opportunities to

incorporate and apply changes to our personal

perceptions, our interactions & relationships.

Yet, I have

railed against,

rebelled and resisted

change, as if it were

a plague ship,

allowing my well mantled fears

      and well constructed comfort zones

             to complicate and obstruct, even though

                    I understand that most times change

                                 is inevitable, & often inexorable.

                                 When it comes to “Change”, the

                        only thing I hate more than my

                   mounting health issues, more

               than all those things I have to 

           cross off from my plans and

   activities, is my daily bitter dose 

of Trump-madness, as the 

ghosts of Mussolini and 

Boss Tweed’s Tammany

Hall combine in filthy depths

of their corruption,

and America, as the bastion of liberty is now

developing crippling cracks in its white columns,

and grievous wounds to its spirit. All I possess 

is anger and grit to sustain me.

Donald J. Trump,

like the institution of slavery,

like the Inquisition,

like pogroms & gas chambers,

like Witch trials & McCarthyism,

like boils on my butt

shall pass.

It may be a painful transition,

like pulling teeth with rusty pliers,

like passing stones through your urethra,

but history is sharpening its daggers

and sanity is gathering its forces.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Quill Strokes

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Quill Strokes

“Beware of advice--even this.”--Carl Sandburg.

After writing poetry, fiction, and technical reports for

sixty years my ambitions burn close to the bottom

of the wick, my goals have become simplistic--just

keep on writing. Over the years, my association with

dVerse has thrilled and enticed me, educated me, 

and helped to implement divers change in my style. 

Now Haibun has become my favorite form, and I 

enjoy the freedom to get creative with it.

30 years ago I wanted to get published, believing 

that this somehow would validate my talent and 

authenticity. Many of the poets I know finance their 

own publications--this just doesn’t appeal to me. In a

decade my poetry blog has logged in more than a

million visitors, and the international fellowship within

dVerse assures that my creative fires remain well lit.

“It is a good time to be a poet, but the pay is still 

shitty.”--Bobby Byrd.

Photography has

become my reigning passion;

poetry stands alongside.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Haibun

Bruiser

image from wildlifeanimals.blogspot.com

Bruiser

“Regardless, I am still passionate about 

grizzly bears.”---Timothy Treadwell.

It’s November, and my den is hollowed out. I

just feasted on four fat turkeys--ha--a few less

for man’s table. I pick my teeth with four inch

claws. My jaws are so strong I once bit through

a cast iron frying pan to get all the bacon grease.

I mated twice in August, and I’m ready for the

big nap.

They call me Bruiser--which appeals to me a 

hell of lot more than Ursus Horribilis. There are

only a couple of a dozen of us here in the North

Cascades. I range a couple hundred miles, 

sometimes checking out the foothills of the Rockies.

I was raised in the Yukon, but over the last decade

I’ve worked my way down here. I once spent a

year in Montana, but it was just too damn crowded;

hundreds of bears competing for sex and food.

I’m about 30, old for a Grizz--most of us check out

before we’re 25. I think it’s because some of them 

choose not to hibernate; stupid kids--afraid they’re

going to miss something. I’m left alone, which is how

I like it. I’m 9 feet tall, and weigh 880 pounds. I had 

a tussle with a rogue Sasquatch last year. He was 

about 8’ tall, and weighed in at a skinny 425. He was

pretty nimble, but they’re not good fighters; small jaws

and teeth, with no claws. I had to stand erect to battle

him. He gave up after I tore one of his arms off; made

a nice lunch.

I’m expecting a big blizzard this week, so I’m eating

everything that moves, from ants to coyotes. I tend to

hibernate for 5 months. At my age, I enjoy the rest--

but I’ll tell you what, when I emerge in April, I am

both cranky and real hungry.

In Spring the grizzly’s

roar causes critters to hide, cuz

they will devour all.    

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

So Dense

image from frugalhomedesign.blogspot.ca

So Dense

“If Tao is like a river, it is certainly good to know

where the rocks are.”--Ming-Dao Deng.

Geologists ain’t afraid

of no rocks,

because

they love

the hard stuff.

Slim women rock

their tight jeans,

but how do they

get them on?

Blues men gave

musical birth

to both

jazz and rock.

Yeah,

rocks in your head.

but not yet

dead.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44  

Ode to Muscle

image from pinterest.com

Ode to Muscle

“If a writer has to rob memories of his mother, he

will not hesitate.”--William Faulkner

The last muscle car

I ever owned was

a 1973 Mustang, 

Pantera styling,

jet black & waxed,

a fastback, 

a 4-speed transmission,

and 400 horsepower

out of a 351 Cleveland V-8.

After a while though,

I began to realize,

it was damn heard to see 

out out the small back window,

it averaged 8 miles to the gallon.

and because it was a classic,

it was very hard to find parts.

Insurance was too high,

maintenance was prohibitive,

repair costs were outlandish,

and I banged it up twice

backing up blind.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Odes

Killer Kick

image from quintoquartobr.com

Killer Kick

“if we become apathetic, art can kick our ass, give

us back conscience & focus.”--Erik Pevernagil.

Sunday got the blues

as I sat alone

watching the Seahawks

lose a game

to the Washington Redskins

17-14.

Kicker Blair Walsh,

the man with a golden leg,

missed three field goals,

contributing mightily

to the loss,

all three kicks

wildly to the left.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Scene 71

image from pinterest.com 

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Seventy-One

Hostage

“When you have a child, the world has a 

hostage.”--Ernest Hemingway.

1(sound cue) harmonica & accordion. 

2(two-shot) Salina, over Wallace’s shoulder:

I am my father’s daughter.

Wallace, smiling : It’s just that you can’t close

your eyes, click your heels, and Thor disappears.

His kind of mean hangs in like colic. I think you 

should give some thought as to how to straighten

things out.

3(close-up) Salina : OK, Pop. I figured I would cross

that little bridge when I get to it.

4(medium close-up) Wallace : Damn, girl, you should

be fixing to find a way to let him down easy. He is not

used to being told No.

5(voice over) Salina: Well, there’s a first time for 

everything--followed by a chuckle.

6(sound cue) piano & harmonica.

7(cut to medium wide shot/exterior) An old buckboard

reined up out front. Johnny Eagle was driving it. A 

young black mustang jerked against his harness and 

the tall gray mule alongside him. Rod Buck pulled up

and stepped down off his huge roan. Wallace walked 

out on the porch, squinting into the east as golden rays

began to edge up over the sign on the CHINA DOLL.

Wallace wiped his liver-spotted calloused hands on his

clean apron.

8(three-shot) Wallace: Nice to see you. Did you run out

of chuck?

Buck: Among other things.

Wallace: Hey, John--then turned on his heel as the

Eagle returned his greeting with a silent nod.

Buck stepped up onto the porch: Do you want to 

come in, old brother?

Johnny: Not today, boss. I think I will wander down to

the cantina and shoot the buzzard shit with Mateo.

Buck: I’ll join you there later.

The Eagle jumped down from the wagon; Buck 

watched him making his way along the dusty street, 

watched how straight he carried himself, how his 

shoulder and arm muscles rippled as he walked.

9(sound cue) guitar & coronet.

10(two-shot) Wallace was in the doorway : So

what do you need on this fine morning?

Buck: I’ll need some paint for one--stepping into

the store behind Wallace--What have you got?

10(medium wide shot) Salina was still at the fabric

table. She straightened up and stared at Buck, not

pretending to work.

11(voice over) Wallace: What quantity & color?

12(close up) Buck: Enough to paint a rainbow on

your crapper.

13(two-shot) Salina, over Buck’s shoulder: What a 

colorful way of speaking. Good morning, Mr. Buck.

Buck: Good morning, Miss Salina.

Salina: Does Johnny Eagle work for you now? 

Buck: That’s what he tells me.

Wallace (as voice over) Blue, black, red, white and

green--a fine selection.

Salina: Fixing up the old place?

Buck: We stay in the bunkhouse for now. The house

needs a ton of work. After I get things presentable,

you might could come out for a visit.

Salina, smiling warmly: Yes, I might could.

14(sound cue) violin & flute.

15(two-shot) She returned to her fabric bolts. He 

spent an awkward moment considering what to say 

next when Wallace inquired:  What colors?

16(sound cue) heavy boot steps just before the front 

door swung open, awakening the bee hive of bells.

The Eagle rushed in, a bit out of breath: Boss, I think

you need to come with me right now.

17(three-shot) Buck: Hey, fierce one. I haven’t 

ordered anything yet--nor have I had time to ask

Miss Salina for a date.

18(medium close-up) Another smile from the lady.

19(two-shot) Buck: Just tell Mateo to wait a few 

minutes.

Johnny: It’s Chatawa.

Buck turned and the two men tramped out of the 

store. Wallace shrugged his shoulders & followed

them to the doorsill. A large crowd had gathered

down at the auction corrals.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Barbatos

painting by James Ryman 

Barbatos

“If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.”

--Tennessee Williams.

By day, I am nearly invisible as I bus tables and

wash dishes at Denny’s. I live in my grandmother’s

basement--a nice little apartment with it’s own

entrance. Gramm is hard of hearing, and for me

that’s a blessing.

By night, I troll the bus station, back alleys and

the gay bars. I’m a big handsome Swede, with 

long blond hair & deep blue eyes--looking like

Thor and shit. Though for years my sexual

preferences were conflicted, I seem to attract

gay men, so it’s just easier to score with them.

My father used to get drunk and beat the hell out 

of me, before he was stabbed & killed in a bar fight.

My mother was a crack addict, and she died when

I was 14, just after an older homosexual had given

me a ride from school, and raped me in his garden

shed. I could have stopped him, but hell, I enjoyed

the attention.

Five years ago I discovered that I preferred to have

sex with young boys who agreed to be mute and

non-responsive. I had a part-time job in a mortuary,

and I developed a real taste for necrophilia; but

most of the lover boys still made noise & moved

about.

So I made the decision to start killing them, so 

that my sexual & emotional needs could be more

adequately satiated, I’m very strong, so strangling

them was the easiest & quietest solution. Soon I

became expert at cutting up their bodies in the 

bath tub, and dissolving them in barrels of strong

chemicals. Gramm noticed I burned a lot of incense.

I told her I was converting to Hinduism.

One bright day, I got to staring at the neatly sliced

up portions of meat, and out of nowhere, I fired up

my oven and made a delicious roast out of buttocks.

To date I have slain 37 young men, and eaten a 

dozen of them. The last seven of them as a lark, I

saved their heads in my refrigerator. As I sink deeper

into the darkness of depravity, murder, and sweet

cannibalism--I have no regrets. At some point I will

be caught, and that’s as it should be. I will probably

get 20 consecutive life sentences, and after a few 

months I will be cornered in the shower room by

several men & stabbed in the eyes.

I have become a

demon--every night is like

Halloween for me.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Halloween

Compassionate Conflict

image from pinterest.com

Compassionate Conflict

“Kindness is a language the deaf can hear and

the blind can see.”--Mark Twain

Unfortunately, our kindness, like our compassion

and empathy, is that part of the human condition

that allows the unscrupulous among us to work

their cons, scams & lies--allows politicians to 

thrive, and lawyers to successfully defend the guilty.

I always feel the tingle of alacrity when a stranger

stops me in a parking lot, sharing some sob story,

asking for ten bucks for gas so that his pregnant

wife can get to the doctor; or those smiling sons

of bitches who come to my door offering bogus

services, or collecting data for a greedy corporation.

Yet if you approach me, then look me in the eyes,

tell me your situation. & I hear no alarms--I will 

give you food, a ride, or money, or all three. So,

yes, even though deceptions surround us, making

me paranoid, suspicious, or sarcastic--my heart

is still touchable.

Mighty maple first

puts on a show. then it

kindly shares its leaves.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Haibun

Nacori Cantina

image from flipsidesf.wordpress.com

Nacori Cantina

“BLOOD MERIDIAN seems to me to be the major

esthetic achievement of any living American writer.”

--Harold Bloom

Looking left,

the Judge’s pistol fired.

rolling clear--

got to his feet,

paying their respects,

the dead man fell;

Smith had drawn his Bowie,

the knife protruding,

dark arterial blood spray--

jabbing with their knives,

holding the wounds shut,

sound of gunfire--

stepping over several corpses,

huge pistols roared,

20 Mexicans shot to pieces;

bullet splinters blossoming out of the wood,

mud walls pocked with fresh holes,

blood splatter drenched stucco.

The Judge was like a cat,

sidestepping

he picked the man up;

screaming,

blood flowing from his ears,

the man did not get up.

Door frame filled

with smoke, jammed with

the dead and dying.

Suddenly,

a great ringing silence,

his back to the wall;

Figures stood frozen,

gunsmoke drifting through

like fog.

Glenn Buttkus

Blackout Poetics--Page 179

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB