Tuesday, January 31, 2017

King or Clown

painting by Ally Saunders.

King or Clown

“The most terrifying thing is to accept
oneself completely.”--C.G. Jung.

As a child, without language,
     we soon discover the seeds of 
           our personality--then as we are
                  propelled along our educational
            journey, we begin to find ourself
      strongly attracted to certain things--
art,                                      creative writing.
  music,                                  puzzles &
      dance,                           games,
         sports,                      movies,
            mechanics,        theater,
                poetry,        literature,
                this attraction turns to
             interest, & soon we start to
      measure our skills, talents & dreams.

We fortunate folks,                      
it seemed to us, embraced
being extroverts, Type A’s,
& we found that we could
devour our studies like
ravenous carnivores--just as
we ran afoul of peer pressure,
candor & competition and were
able to excel in divers area, only
to then hear the accusations of
egocentric conceit, arrogance,
impatience & unreasonable anger,
              just as we grow accustomed to our
              parents, teachers & mentors always
              measuring & rating our achievements,
              pressuring us to focus on grades,
                                                       communication,                                                                                                                                          writing skills,
                                                       physical prowess,
                                                       and beauty.

A quick stroll through my home provides  
amble glimpses of my achievements--
               things in frames like
               college degrees,
               certificates & awards,
               posters from plays, films
               & recitals I have been in--
               photographs of me with
               celebrities, in costume from
               plays, & holding an open mic
               at poetry readings/performances,
               as well as photographs I’ve taken,
               & a copy of my own page in IMDb.

My wife easily tires of my self adoration & my
heightened self-esteem. She is fond of reminding
me of the less attractive side of my personality,
and that living with me provides more than a
healthy challenge for any human being. I find
myself thanking her for keeping me on an even

keel, & for completing me.                                              

Glenn Buttkus

Monday, January 30, 2017

Dawn of Darkness

image borrowed from unveiledthought.com

Dawn of Darkness

“The day of battle dawned pink as the fresh-
bitten thigh of a maiden.”--Roger Zelazny.

Day 8 
has dawned
on the Trumpian era.

Muslims are
being murdered
while at prayer
in Quebec.

Trump’s immigrant ban
has transformed all the
world’s airports
into sloth-pits.

No one 
was consulted
or directed,

Chaos reigns supreme
as Benito Baloney

plays at President. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q25

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Blackthorne--Scene 57

painting by Marcia Baldwin.


Cinemagenic  Fifty-Seven


“There is no difference between being a killer or
making a decision that will send others to kill.”
--Golda Meir

1(sound cue) banjo strumming.
2(medium close-up) Bronson: Let me be clear--either
you give up the Appaloosa or lead flies and you’re 
both dead men. Horse stealing is frowned on in this 
part of the country.
3(medium close-up: jump cut) angle on Johnny Eagle,
standing like a cigar store Indian, coiled but still, his
eyes lit up.
4(close-up) over Bronson’s shoulder, Buck: I think a
circuit judge might see things differently.
5(sound cue) harmonica riff & drum bap.
6(close-up) over Buck’s shoulder, Bronson snorted in
levity--Hell’s bells, man. This is not the moment to discuss
legality. So make up your mind--right now.”
7(medium close-up) Thor: While you’re still breathing.
8( cut to medium crane wide-shot) over the corral, the
three horses standing & watching the scene.
9(cut to close-up) the spotted stallion’s face, his big eyes
taking it all in.
10(sound cue) piano chord.
11( medium close-up) angle on Buck, his face a battlefield
between anger & accommodation. 
12(sound cue) Rapid voice over from Buck: The wranglers
don’t look like killers, but they’ll back Bronson’s play, Thor 
is death in a hat.
13(two-shot) Bronson: I honestly believe that I’m being 
damn generous. We could have opened up on both of you--
legally. So, pard, which way does your stick float?
Thor: Time’s up, peckerwoods !  
14(sound cue) coronet bleat over Buck’s loud exhalation of
angry air. Buck: Fuck it!
15(streaming tracking shot) across the faces of the five 
16(two-shot) Buck: OK, OK--stand down !! his open hands 
were partially raised in non-response.
The Eagle was confused, but...
17(close-up) Johnny’s knife thrown into the ground.
18(sound cue) the thud of the knife sticking over loud
Indian seed rattle
19(medium close-up) Johnny raised his open hands
above his waist.
20(angle on Buck) Buck: No one has to die here today.
It’s just a damn horse.
21(close-up) Bronson, displaying a tight-lipped smile,
nodding his chin in consent.
22(close-up) Thor, his eyes blinking rapidly, his red
face decompressing.  
23(close-up) Johnny, his face a pastiche of incredulity,
anger & confusion.
24(sound cue) guitar, harmonica, & piano.
25(medium wide shot) Buck lowered his hands, and
stepped over to Johnny’s pack saddle. He extracted the
yellow lariat.
26(medium close-up) Buck: Alright, alright--let’s get this

fucking done.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Moon Me Sweetly

image from americanmoon.org

Moon Me Sweetly

“I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful
of the night.”--Sarah Williams.

As violent storms,
politico & atmospheric,
congregation across every 
bruiseprint of every parsec,
every parcel of this gut-me nation--
someone has snot-slip the facts,
managed to French my resolve,
cloud my curdled cognition,
and knife my numbness.

I tell you.
it is past time to fear
those in power who will
undoubtedly gleefully penis the public,
painfully dentist the dudes,
and woefully wound most of the women--
all with their implicit consent.

By the state full we will be forced
to line the lemmings up
at the precipices,
blindfold each individual,
then cliff their butts
into swirling dead zones,
before we stone them mid-drop,
concrete any semblance of grief,
soon needing to target the towers
of innocent bodies with torch blowers
and landfill in order to paper the deed;

arriving too soon at a terminus where 
no one can justice the results,
equity the puddles of pure pain,
assembly broken limbs,
or erection torn souls.

For no matter how much our new leaders,
lip our livelihoods, or finger the facts, or knee
the truth, or hand over hardships, or larceny
our stripped naked liberty--

We have nothing to
fear but stupidity it-

self; bitter new fruit.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at  dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Trumpeting the Coronation

image from boingboing.com

Trumpeting the Coronation.

“No major-party nomination in the complete history of
this nation has ever known less or has been less
prepared to deal with our national security.” --Joe Biden

For all of us presently experiencing 
the Trumpian phase,
who will be forced to endure the upcoming
Trumpian days, tomorrow promises to be
a day drenched in sorrowful infamy--

as Trump is actually inaugurated as President,
as Trump demands the media kiss his ring,
as Trump defames American heroes & ideals.
as Trump belittles & bullies the disabled,
as Trump surrounds himself with battalions of
billionaires & squads of generals & bevies of
bubble-headed blondes,
as Trump tweets vitriol, racism, sexism & lies,
as Trump insults, berates, & demeans women,
as Trump attacks & distorts civil rights,
as Trump dreams of introducing fascism to the
lost sanctity of the Supreme Court,
as Trump sodomizes our health care system,
as Trump redefines Truth with world-class con
and spin and inexorable boorish braggadocio,
as Trump side-steps revealing his tax record,
as Trump accepts praise from Putin,
as Trump simply does, says, and is
whatever he feels like at the moment,

unfortunately, after the coronation tomorrow,
he will know what it feels like
to actually be the most powerful
man in the world--
able to silence his critics,
able to gut Social Security,
able to make millions of us squirm
as he orders golden toilets
for the White House, but

I have no more tears to shed.
I have herds of fears to leash,
I have buckets of regrets to calm,
I have dreams to vanquish, and
I have future nightmares to experience,
for at 7am EST tomorrow,
the virtual rape of Lady Liberty
will be televised live
in front of an audience of billions.

Probably, most of
us will survive the next four

years; I do hope so.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Christ was a Carpenter

image from latitudegallery.com

Christ was a Carpenter

“The things I make may be for others, but how I
make them is for me.”--Tony Konovaloff.

I like to surround myself with things made from wood;
cabinets, tables & chairs, trunks, boxes, floors and
carved art. I take a small wooden sculpture or bowl
& stare at the grain, and run my fingers over their
polished sides--somehow feeling connected to the
dense forest, the steaming jungle, or even the desert
arroyos. Those who work with wood, whether to build
things or create art, are using primordial skills that
predate those who work with steel, iron, concrete or

I have a pair of woodworking friends.
One is a former student of mine who
fashions writing pens out of blocks of
imported or gathered wood. The other
carves tiny wooden vases & pots, like
furniture for Thumbelina, of every shape,
hollowed out, fitted with lids. He could 
sell his carvings, but he prefers to give
them away as gifts for friends & family.

Both of them have outfitted
    their own wood shop, with several
         sizes and types of lathe, planers, and
              fifty kinds of cutting, sanding, and polishing
         tools. They both make out little hand--
    written certificates, identifying the wood
used, its history and locale. They
were excited to show me how they
order exotic wood samples from
Africa, Europe, Asia, South America
and Australia from the internet.

While I was in Hawaii, I bought a couple hunks of wood
and carried them home for my artisan cronies. Politely
they both showed me less expensive samples on-line.

Trees create clean air,
then become lumber, crafts and

artful shelf huggers.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Blackthorne--Scene 56

image from guns-pictures.drippic.com


Cinemagenic Fifty-Six


“Confront a corpse at least once. The absolute absence
of life is the most disturbing confrontation you will ever
have.” --David Bowie

1(sound cue) French horn & Indian branch flute.
2(medium close-up) Bronson, still sitting up on his
ornate saddle: I see. Well then, big fellow, if that’s the
straight of it, who might you be?
3(two--shot) over Bronson’s shoulder. Buck: The name
is Buck.
4(close-up) A small look of recognition crossed Bronson’s
face at the mention of Buck.
5(sound cue) acoustic guitar chord.
6(close-up) Buck: Rod Buck--I used to live around here
when I was a kid, before you took up residence. I’m told
my ranch is that place you’ve trying to buy--Antlered Buck.
I came home to fix the place up & raise some horses.
7(two-shot) over Buck’s shoulder. Bronson: Alright then,
you’re the man, and Johnny’s just a hired hand??
8(close-up) Buck: I’d say he’s a lot more than that.
9(close-up) Bronson: Understood--but tell me, were you
figuring on building your herd by starting with some of
my horses?
10(crane shot) up behind Johnny & Buck, angle on the
five intruders, four standing next to their horses, with
Bronson still mounted on his golden steed.
11(reverse crane shot) up & behind the five men facing
Buck & the Eagle and the big black growling dog.
12(medium close-up) Thor, his voice a little high pitched:
So, Honcho, what’s the play?
13(sound cue) piano & snare drum brushing.
14(two-shot) over Thor’s shoulder, Johnny, still calmly
infuriated: This is total bullshit, and you all know it. There
are no brands on any of these strays.
15(three-shot) over Johnny’s shoulder, angle on Thor and
Bronson. Bronson: It’s a sad fact that I’ve got legal claim to
any stray grazing on my dirt--certainly a hell of a lot more
than a couple pokes riding over it.
16(medium close-up) Buck: Can you prove to us that this
land belongs to you? I mean we saw no markers or fences,
nothing to convince us this is not open range.
17(voice-over) angle on Buck’s face. Bronson: 
Let’s just say I prefer it that way.
18(tight close-up) Bronson: But anytime you 
want to light a shuck over to Silver City, our
county seat, you can verify my claim.
19(sound cue) blues guitar slide & saxophone.
20(two-shot) Buck & Johnny, with Buck chewing
his lower lip his eyes on Thor.
21(medium wide shot) The three wranglers, their 
hands free, hovering over their pistols, and Thor
with his fingers cramping, more than ready to whip
out his .38 and shake lead in all directions.
22(sound cue) a raucous cacophony of sudden
overlapping gunshots.
23(medium wide overhead drone shot) Note: 
probable flash-forward-- Thor’s right hand was a
blur as he drew his Lightning Colt .38, as two of the
hired hands drew their Colt .45’s and the younger
one drew his Navy Colt .36, as Bronson drew his 
fancy Smith & Wessen .38 --countered by Buck’s
right hand filling with his Colt Thunderer .41 and
his left hand drew his sawed-off shot gun, as 
Johnny’s throwing knife was mid-air headed for
Thor, soon followed by the deep crack of his
Winchester .30-.30.
24(jump-cuts) Buck and the Eagle are wounded
three times each. Bronson is gut-shot, Thor has
been shot in the face & has a knife buried in his 
chest, two of the wranglers are slain, one head
shot, one heart-shot, and the youngest hand is
still standing, unscathed and shocked.
25(sound cue) the crackle & echo of 20 gunshots
executed in ten seconds, thundering across the
empty landscape.
26(two-shot) the actual present moment, Buck:
So what of you think, Johnny?
27(close-up) the Eagle: I say no fucking way! 
Chatawa is ours. If it killing they want, they have
stirred up the right rattlesnake nest.
28(close-up) Bronson: So it seems to me, Mr. Buck.

it’s up to you.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Bridges of Hope

image by Glenn Buttkus

Bridges of Hope

“Men build too many walls, and not enough bridges.”
--Joseph Ford Newton.

Poets know that words
    are the concrete and steel
           we need to build bridges--
    words that can touch,
                      have effect,
                      penetrate deeply
                      cajole gently,
                      elicit joy,
                      celebrate liberty,
                      create affection,
                      conjure love and
                      reinforce positive ideals.

Most friendships, family units &
diplomatic solutions to volatile situations--
all are bridges,
all connect two separate sides,
all provide access & egress,
whether made up of rope & nets,
                                 cable & iron,
                                 wood & nails, or
                                 skin and bone--
these bridges are essential as
they complete disparate factions
and emotional bonds.

                         Still, one must accept not
                     all bridges are bright and
                  shining, sweet & smiling,
               for there are bridges, like
            the infamous one from El
       Paso to Juarez that can lead
   to a hellish haze, deception,
danger, and even death.

    Defective bridges, like the old
         one at the Tacoma Narrows,
              dubbed as “Galloping Gerty”,
                 can fail and fall down. It is indeed
                 sad that sparse government funds 
                 that are allocated are less than 
                  adequate to bolster our nation’s
                  crumbling infrastructure.

Hell, I drive across bridges daily
that sway, creak and wheeze--which
leads me to nightmares of a bridge
disaster, where my car drops hundreds
of feet into chilly dark water, and I must
facilitate an escape from the vehicle
while underwater.
                   These days I have more broken
                    bridge nightmares than those 
                    where I’m caught in a house fire,
                    being eaten alive by a grizzly bear,
                    or being shot while shopping at a
                    mall, working at the office. eating
                    at a restaurant. or watching a parade.

On a happier note, as a photographer I find myself
fascinated by bridges of all kinds, and I snap images
of them like others do of cathedrals. For me, trestle
bridges are the most interesting, their naked steel
girders and massive rivets reminding me of those 
super--structures reaching for the sky on new buildings, 
and those celebrated photographs of steeplejacks sitting
on suspended girders eating lunch.

Bridges are needed
to span gaps, relationships,
and grand ideas. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, January 5, 2017

Dark Days

image from istrumpevil.com

Dark Days

Darkness, darkness--
I have found the edge of sadness,
I have found the edge of fear.
--the Youngbloods.

For some of us it’s
Armageddon, and for some
others it’s rapture--
as darkness clenches its fists.
Government has been
made up of mostly career
politicians throughout, but
the time has come where upon
people’s anger and
discontent have led us to
electing outsiders, and
non-politicians; praise Zed.
The Donald smirks and
tweets like a school yard bully;
appointing fat cats, gene-
rals, and kiss ass sicophants.
The media quakes
with each new story, each new
transgression--throwing up their
hands--rolling their weeping eyes.
So buck up boys and
girls, for we’re in the shit now,
must learn to dog paddle to

stay afloat for another day.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Blackbird Blues

artwork image by Jinny Nieviadomy.

Blackbird Blues

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night--take these
broken wings & learn to fly.”--the Beatles.

Winter froze the moonlight into knotted braids
of pale rope that swirled in the icy blasts,
oscillating their shadows, so it appeared

that the landscape had become a piano
keyboard & a laughing lunar invisible pianist
plunked out a wind waltz, creating a woodwind
musicale out of the dancing black & white keys.

On this night, the leaden skies of ebon evening
turned into red weeping blood, a startling
stigmata, throbbing with some unknown despair 

as a solitary raven swooped through the sticky
thermals, its feathers growing heavy with steaming
plasmaic mist, only being clearly seen as it

winged sadly past the moon, on the hunt, predator
not trickster, cawing in its mina bird tones:

“All is madness--dystopia has descended upon us
& stupidity was the worst virus we endured last year.”

Blackbird flying in
darkness with lunatic grace--

searching for the truth.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub