Blackthorne--Scene 81

painting by Harvey Dunn.

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-One

Salina

“Love must be learned, then learned again and

again--there is no end to it.”

--Katherine Anne Porter

1(low angle two shot) Buck headed for the General

Store. A lot of people were in the street.

2(medium close up) Johnny: Try and stay out of

trouble, Boss. I’m trotting off to Mateo’s. He

appreciates me.

3(medium wide shot) Buck waved consent without

turning back. I’ll join you later.

4(sound cue) piano and banjo over the sound of his

heavy boots rumbling across thin boards.

5(cut to medium close up) Two crow cronies huddled

on top of the store’s false front, watching the crowd.

6(low drone medium wide shot) pans over the black

birds, revealing the street below. Buck picks his way 

around three men, and enters the store.

7(cut to store’s interior) Buck opens the door and steps

inside, closing it behind him.

8(sound cue) jingle of bells on the door over the low

hum of the customers.

9(reverse shot) Buck’s back to the camera. There were

a dozen people inside, standing around, looking at

new plows, firearms, and bolts of polka dot material.

10(wide two-shot) Wallace was there, his fluffy white 

hair a rooster tail in back, helping a young woman,

folding up a denim shirt, wrapping it in brown paper,

binding it with green fuzzy twine.

Buck: Morning, Henry.

Wallace, looking over his glasses: Hey, young Mr.

Buck--what do you need on this busy day?

The young woman with an old weathered face and

a blue frayed cotton bonnet, paid for the shirt and

moved on.

Buck: Provisions, tools, lumber and paint.

Wallace: Your same basic chuck?

11(sound cue) bells on the door over harmonica.

Buck: Uh-huh...but a lot more bacon this time. Damn,

we do like your bacon

Wallace: A fella out on the flats raises pigs; that

would be a hell of a life, raising pigs.

Buck: Rather him than me. Have you got a good axe?

Wallace: Over there in the corner, by Salina. Go pick

one out. The lumber’s out back.

Buck: I’m going to need some barbed wire too.

12(two-shot) Over Buck’s shoulder; Wallace stared at 

Buck for a moment, the hint of alarm on his face:

Sure, sure--I think we have everything you need. Let

me get started on your grub, and I’ll be back with

you in two shakes.

13(sound cue) violins and piano; sweet chords.

14(medium wide shot) Buck strolled past the farmers

and ranchers over to Salina. She was helping an older

woman understand how to operate a new kind of butter
churn. She looked up at him and smiled.

15(two-shot) over Salina’s shoulder, Buck: Your Pop

says that there are some axes over here.

16(close-up) Salina, her eyes sparkling, her tresses

pulled back into a bun. Yes, Mr. Buck, they’re right

behind me, in the corner, mixed in with the shovels.
17(two-shot) Old woman: Thanks for showing me this

new fangled thing; like to have one. Maybe in a few

months I’ll be back and buy one.

Salina: You’re very welcome, Mrs. Robertson. Maybe

by then it might be on sale.

Woman: That would be peachy. You have a fine day,

Salina--and good day to you Mr. Buck.

18(wide shot) the woman made her exit, and Buck

touched the brim of his black hat. He had been

rummaging around in the garden tools, and had

picked out a sturdy double-bladed axe. He held it

out at arm’s length, feeling its heft.

19(two-shot) Salina turned toward him: Today is

Thursday.

Buck: All day they tell me.

Salina: It’ll be Saturday before you know it.

Buck: Uh-huh.

Salina: You know, he might kill you.

Buck: Who, your boyfriend Thor?

Salina: He’s fast; nobody faster around here.

Buck: That’s what I hear.

Salina: Did he pick a fight with you?

Buck: Uh-huh.

Salina: Folks in these parts think I’m his girl.

20(sound cue) six-string blues slide over seed rattle

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Turds on the Tide

image from cnn.com

Turds on the Tide

“One of the key problems today is that politics

is such a mess, good people don’t go into

government.”--Donald J. Trump.

Once upon a morning dreary,

after checking out the Breaking News,

I broke out in a terrible fury

upon hearing the President’s views.

Another day, another shiny distraction.

Eleven murdered in a synagogue,

a bloody week of magma hate;

bullets, bombs and mayhem

as our very own Idiot in Chief

prances, squawks, and be-bops

at his endless vitriolic pep rallies

like the hideous evil demagogue
that he will always be.

He is proud not being

a politician,

yet is clueless about being

a mensch,

a human being,

a President.

Another day of 8 1/2 lies.

It’s only one week until Mid-Term elections,

but I fear the fix is in, and yet again

the popular vote not be enough to defeat

the Republican dishonest hokum

that is already in motion--

                       Gerrymandering,

                        Voter suppression,

                        Russian propaganda

smeared across social media,

lipstick on a cobra.

Our citizens emotions are pole-axed,

struck down, fatigued, misdirected, wondering

if it is true that every vote counts,

then why does Lady Democracy

suffer from a fascist flesh-eating disease,

wherein large chunks of her beautiful body

are being chewed off and spit out?

Where are the demon slayers

when we really need them?

Have they been bought off as well? 

                      

I find it difficult to navigate my canoe

in a sea of shit. It is all I can do

to keep it from capsizing.

If a pit viper

becomes President, we should

cut off its ugly head.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Embrace of the Dragon

image from dreaminterpretation.com

Embrace of the Dragon

“All she could think about was how hot his kiss had

been in the dream, and how delicate was the touch

of his claws.”--Thea Harrison, DRAGON BOUND.

When the demons encamped in my bones and

joints, short-circuiting my peripheral nervous

system, by dispatching their Pac-Man ninjas

to attack and devour the mylon sheathing around

the large conductive nerves in my spine, I was

bowled over by their bellicose battering and

piranha bites, sinking fast like a cracked stone

into a deep pool of stygian water.

I searched frantically for cures, for healing, for

answers, for remission, but I only found coal

mine darkness, despair, and schools of red

herrings. All the healers told me I had to accept

the process, for I had designed it myself. I awoke

one sweaty night stiff with pain, drenched with 

tears, and I recognized my hypnagogia--moving

toward wakefulness, but short of the transition.

The walls in the room turned to castle stone, and

they began to rise up, stopping at 50’. I levitated to 

the parapets and I could see dozens of castle

towers, all flying spear-shaped yellow flags, rippling

wild in the wind. I floated back down to my recliner.

I noticed small barred windows mid-wall. Grey-white

smoke began to billow out of the bars, soon filling

the room.

Dark clouds gathered over my head. Suddenly a

featureless figure swung out of my chest. It had a

body, but I could see right through it. Something told

me that this was my Higher Self abandoning me. I

reached out and grabbed it by the wrists. Without

warning, twin searing bolts of white light flashed out

of the smoke and struck me in the chest. I recognized

the kundalini energy, the kiss of the dragon. The

figure leaped back into my chest just as two more 

parallel bolts of pure light struck me, sealing the

egress. There was the thick smell of lavender in the

air. Apparently my transition to the other side of the 

veil would have to wait, for now I had more lessons

to learn, and a new challenge to meet.

Wings like B-17;

with blue eyes radiating

such loving white light.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The People's Proclamation

image from ilovemyfreedom.org

The People’s Proclamation

“Until justice is blind, until education is unaware

of race, emancipation will be a proclamation, but

not a fact.”--Lyndon B. Johnson.

How can the state of the Now

shift so swiftly? Yesterday ten pipe bombs were

delivered to many of Trump’s critics; making

it damn hard to remember that

Abraham Lincoln was a Republican.

During the tragic Civil War

the Democrats constituted most

of the Confederacy--such irony

makes it difficult to acknowledge that

Abraham Lincoln was a Republican.

During my own blink of God’s eye,

FDR/Truman--JFK/Johnson--Carter and

Clinton and Obama have been

my champions, while Eisenhower/Nixon--

Reagan--both Bush’s--and now Trump

have been the objects of my rancor, disdain,

rage and disappointment, making it hard

to credit Abraham Lincoln as a Republican.

The last couple of migraine Trumpian nightmare

years, we find the Republicans in bed with

billionaires, despots, dictators, kings, the K.K.K.

and the American Nazis. None of this is balanced

out by the historical fact that

Abraham Lincoln was a Republican.

As Trump continues to trample on 

Civil Rights, immigration, our former allies,

women, the free press, and the justice system,

his hypnotized hordes of followers forgive 

him his myriad of follies and perniciously continue

to persecute those on his enemies list,

all the while reminding us that after all

Abraham Lincoln was a Republican.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blind Rehab

image from pinterest.com

Blind Rehab

“Commute by cycling. It’s almost free. You stay fit,

and you can go at your own pace.”

--Tom Hodgkinson.

I used to beat the blues

and circumnavigate the rut

by rising early

and leaving early--

something I did joyfully

for several years.

The bone chill at 5am

was bracing. The lights from Tacoma,

20 miles west, masked the stars.

The traffic flow on the three

nearby overlapping freeways

were my marching band.

The deeply shadowed alley,

where I parked my red SUV,

smiled, as my familiar shoes

crunched on the pee gravel,

echoing off darkened houses

and dew-covered vehicles.

Leaving Sumner, I had a 35 minute

commute. From my Ozzie & Harriet

suburb, I had to weave through

410 and 167 to catch 512

pushing west toward Puget Sound.

Quickly I was confronted with

Meredian Hill, a half-mile of incline

that was too often clogged with

18-wheelers. The speed limit was 60,

but if I buzzed around the behemoths

I could hit 75 at the top.

At the 20 mile marker,

I would switch to I-5 south, exiting

at Gravelly Lake Drive, following

the VA Hospital sign, cruising slowly

through a stirring Lake City--soon

paralleling the north shore of American

Lake. The VA compound was 73 acres

right on the lake, covered with a cluster

of Spanish adobe-like buildings

with red tiled roofs; an odd South Western

decor amidst a towering forest of

Douglas firs.

My building was Blind Rehab

on the SE corner of the campus,

next to the lake, a hundred yards

from the tall fence for Ft. Lewis.

Raccoons and deer begged for

hand-outs during the walk

from the parking lot.

A pair of eagles

nested snug near my office

window; their scree music.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tightrope Tales

image from USA Today

Tightrope Tales

“Jim Crow walks us on a tightrope from birth.”

--Rosa Parks.

We are players on our own stage, and stars.

Tightrope walkers are not always afraid;

rather they are comfortable on high.

It was 1974 when Philippe Petit

walked on a tightrope between Twin Towers;

others have completed walks over Niagara 

Falls--such feats seem so unbelievable

as to be impossible, yet they are real.

Within our mundane lives, we find our own ropes

to walk, our own mountains to scale, because

we all need some madness in the daily

mix, some hot spice, or else we’ll never break

the chains, and be actually free--so listen

to the wise sages, and your own heart as well.

Glenn Buttkus

Iambic Pentameter

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

The Name Game

image from art.co.uk

The Name Game

“Experience is simply the name we give our

mistakes.”--Oscar Wilde.

I have many names. They were\are me, and they

are not me. I had to grow into them, try them on

for size, tweak them--before discarding some. The

first name I answered to was Butch--a badass baby

nickname; all boy, all bulldozer. What’s left of my 

family still call me that.

In 1943, my mother was 15 and pregnant, and was 

forced to get an abortion. Continuing her rebellion,

at 16, she was pregnant with me. She dated a lot

of servicemen during the war. She managed to 

convince a soldier she was dating that I was his

spawn. Arnold Bryden was his name. They got

married before he shipped out. He named me

Arnold, after himself, with Glenn, after his brother,

as my middle name.

I was Arnold Glenn Bryden. Arnold is Germanic/

Englsh, from Arnuff--eagle ruler. Glenn is 

Irish/Scottish/Gaelic, from Gleann, meaning 

“valley”. Bryden is English for “near the valley”.

But old Arnie was a womanizer and wife beater,

who shot himself in the foot to get out of the 

Army. She divorced him after five years, and

I had a younger sister. She remarried within a 

few months to a sailor in 1949. His name was

Wayne Stilwell.

I became (Butch) Arnold Glenn Bryden-Stilwell.

Stilwell is an Anglo-Saxon name after a region

in Surrey. In kindergarten, I wanted to be called

Butch, but nicknames didn’t count. I would not

answer to Arnold, but I liked the sound of Glenn.

But old Wayne was an unstable bipolar alcoholic

with pedophilloic tendencies. My Mum divorced

him in 1952, adding a little brother to the brood.

In 1953, she married a dashing handsome bad

boy, Arthur Buttkus. He drove a 1950 Mercury

coupe just like James Dean. He rode a Harley,

wore leather jackets and engineer boots just

like Marlon Brando. But he made a good living

as a machinist, and turned out to be a keeper.

Buttkus is German, from Bootenmacher--boot 

maker. Old Art was not a saint, but he did adopt
we three kids. My name was changed legally to
Glenn A. Buttkus. I never did find out who my

real father was, or what his name was. I did 

find out from a DNA test that I am 68% Italian/

Greek.

“My name is Alexis Zorba. I have other names...

if you are interested.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Being Yucked

Image from pinterest.com

Being Yucked

“Fools believe religious and political lies,

spewed by sociopaths, lies that tether us

forever to poverty and mediocrity--yuck!”

--Bobby Miller.

Trump is taking

a victory lap--

yuck.

Kavanaugh is sworn in

and pissed off--

Yucky.

Now Trump can rule

without fear of prosecution--

yuckoo.

Lady Liberty is bleeding

at the eyes--

yuckabuck.

Lady Justice 

has been molested--

yuckacrap.

It’s hard

to give a yuck.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Scene 80

image from petticoats&pistols.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty

Philosophy

“Things alter for the worse spontaneously, if

they be not altered for the better by design.”

--Francis Bacon.

1(overhead drone shot) the crowd beginning to 

break up, spreading out like spider legs. Buck

walking in the lead, with Johnny catching up;

riders and wagons moving on the street.

2(sound cue) dogs barking, crowd noise, wagon

wheels creaking over saloon piano.

3(medium wide shot) Buck stopped abreast of

the barber shop. The tall front windows had been

boarded up.

4(cut to medium close up) an orange tabby tom was

lying under the boardwalk eating a rattlesnake. The

head had been chewed off, The cat peeled a long 

strip of white meat out of the sequined skin.

5(sound cue) the cat purring and chewing.

6(two-shot) the Eagle arrived alongside him, and said:

Today you came to talk, and yet you would have 

fought. The choice you made--was it wisdom or fear?

Buck, over Johnny’s shoulder: Yes. After a small 

pause: Did you know the barber?

7(close-up) Johnny: I never used him, but I’m told that

he is a good man.

8(medium close-up) Buck: He gives a good shave.

9(two-shot) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder: He was set

up here before Bronson took over.

Buck nodded.

Johnny: I would say that you used up a bucket full

of luck on that day. Let’s hope Bronson considers

your peace offers. He pays for a lot of guns.

Buck: I’m not counting on it.

Johnny: I need to start carrying my rifle.

10(sound cue) banjo and harmonica.

11(medium wide shot) Buck slowly starting walking

toward the General Store across the street. Then he

stopped, put his hands on his hips, and with his chin 

he pointed back to the auction corrals, to the crowd

that Joe Hop was dispersing.

12(medium close-up) Buck: If I had killed him,

you know that would not be the end of anything--

some other crazed son of a bitch would just take

his place.

13(two shot) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder: A man

must kill a rattlesnake that is trying to bite him, even

though he knows another snake will take its place

14(close up) Buck: But that is what the bastards

want! Thor wants somebody to gut shoot him.

Paulie wants somebody to fist-fuck him, and then

slice his ears off. Bronson wants absolute control.

I don’t want to play by their rules!

15(medium close up) Johnny: You confuse me,

boss. You say you are tired of the fighting--but

today you would have fought. I could almost smell

the gunpowder, and see the ground drenched with

blood--and we both know that one day they will not

let you walk away.

16(two-shot) angle on Buck: I am bone tired of not

having a choice. Today I would have killed out of

reflex.

Johnny: You have killed many men, right?

Buck: None that didn’t deserve it, and no back

shooting.

17(close up) Johnny: Then why do you hurt inside?

Why do you parley with trouble? Life is what she is--

that’s all. You fuck her, she fucks you. There are 

tears and smiles and seasons and sometimes even
children. Who are you to stand in the middle of the

street and ask why?

18(medium wide shot) People begin filing past the 

two men. Buck continued to stare toward the corrals

at the Bronsons; the Eagle continued to watch Buck.

19(sound cue) harmonica.

20(medium close up) Buck: I would like, just for once,

to have the option to say no.

21(close up) Johnny: Join the fucking band. It’s just

that most times there are no real choices--tell a tree

NO that is falling on you.

  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Proboscis Prime

image from freeart.com

Proboscis Prime

“To recognize bullshit, nose is better than ear.”

--Toba Beta.

For me,               the titan of snuggle smells

       has always been connected

               to food and taste.

My mother baked bread weekly.

On Baking Day,

we three kids would rush

home from school,

and as we opened the door

the essence of freshly baked bread

would waft into our drooling faces.

When Dad arrived home from work,

she would place a steaming loaf

of bread, fresh out of the oven,

onto a colorful dish towel

in the middle of the table;

surrounded by butter, honey and jams.

She allowed us

to tear off huge hot hunks

and slather it with goodies.

The five of us would devour

that first loaf of the week,

and dinner came late that night.

I loved her chili too,

which she would let simmer for hours

while she sprinkled chili pepper

into it. She served it out of

the big cooking pot, and we

would add cut onions 

and shredded cheese.

Simmering meat tops the list,

steaks, roasts or ribs,

cooked on the deck

or grilled in the oven.

The biggest thrill of all

was Saturday mornings

when Mom would fry up

a couple of pounds of bacon,

and a big pile of French Toast

that had been soaked

in eggs, milk, and vanilla.

A myriad of favorite meals

inhabit my recall--

childish choices that colored

my tastes for a lifetime.

To this day, I have never found

anyone who could make

potato salad like

my mother’s.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Shitstorm

image from fineartamerica.com

Shitstorm

“Life is a shitstorm, in which art is our

only umbrella.”--Mario Vargas Llosa.

Unlike some more tolerant folks, I abhor crowds.

I always have. If you want to be witness to my

stress triggers, put me in a long line, or send me

out Christmas shopping. In crowds I feel like a

white lab rodent in an overcrowded nest. The

transfer of anxiety and angst from one to another

is like feeling a vicious jolt from a cop’s taser.

Yet, that face to face, butt to butt carnival is 

actually preferable to me compared to a mile

long dead stop traffic jam. The stresses are

amplified by being completely impersonal,

hidden by bumper to bumper angry scowls,

masked within their mundane cookie-cutter

malicious machines; no exit, no escape, no

wiggle room--all stop and clamped down.

This ill ease, for me, is an urban disease that

no one in its grip is immune to. Some utilize

indifference, malaise, daydreaming or techno-

distractions as their counterpoint, but after

ample exposure, they become leaden-eyed

and android clones. Somehow, my anger has

vaccinated me, leaving me uninfected, and my

poet’s eyes miss nothing.

Pigeons wing over

the throbbing masses, blithely

picking their targets.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub