Wednesday, October 31, 2018

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

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

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

Monday, October 29, 2018

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

Thursday, October 25, 2018

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

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

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

Thursday, October 11, 2018

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

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

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

Monday, October 8, 2018

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

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

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

Tuesday, October 2, 2018

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

Monday, October 1, 2018

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