Thursday, June 27, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 97




image from pinterest.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Seven

Prelude

“Go to the poets, they will speak to thee more
of purer creatures.”
--William Wordsworth, THE PRELUDE.

1(two shot) Buck turned to her.
2(sound cue) piano and cello.
3(medium close up) She was sitting next to the
gnarly oak, her legs folded Indian fashion, her
hands in her lap, her eyes fastened on him,
wearing a small smile.
Salina: Why don’t you take your hat off and stay
a while.
4(return to two shot) He came to her.
Buck: Don’t mind if I do--whatever the lady wants.
He took off his hat, the rawhide strap dangling, and
placed it gently in the clover. She removed her black
hat with the tassels, and placed it alongside his; two
ebon head gear, his and hers, side by side.
Salina: Put your head in my lap.
He sat down--whatever the lady wants.
He turned over and rested his shaggy head on her 
lap. He could feel the corset and her thighs beneath
her skirt. She smoothed his thick brown hair,
wrapping her long fingers in it, tugging gently.
5(cut to overhead crane shot, that descends slowly)
Buck: Thank you for lunch.
She touched his cheek, and then ran two fingers
over his full lower lip.
Salina: You are very welcome
6(tight two-shot) He sat up and faced her.
7(sound cue) violins and harp.
He took her hands, kissed them, took her forearms
took her shoulders, then held her face. Her jade eyes
met his blue ones. She kissed his hands. He put his
mouth to hers gently. She closed her eyes and
returned his kiss, open mouthed. She put her arms
around his neck, like a woman does. He put his
strong arms around her, and he held her. She
hugged him, and he could feel her breasts pressing
against his chest.
Her hair smelled clean and fresh, and faintly of 
perfumed soap. He could smell himself, and he
lamented the work sweat he wore. She only
smelled a man. He ran his hands through her
long hair, rubbing her neck. She looked up, and
he kissed again, passionately. She reciprocated
his ardor. He unbuckled his gun belt, and
plunked it into a brass pile. She put her arms
around his neck again. She playfully kissed his
nose, his eyes, his chin, and his neck.
Salina, breathless: Careful, you keep this up, and
I may have to eat you alive.
Buck: I’ve wanted you since the first moment I 
laid eyes on you.
Salina: If you take this ride, you may be sorry you
let me have my head.
Buck: Let ‘er rip. I’m pretty good at staying in the
saddle, and hell, I’ve been bucked off before.
Salina: So what are we going to do about this?
Buck: We could rut like rabbits, or back off and
pretend we’re both still virgins.
Salina: I think you know that the bloom’s off this
rose.
Buck: Nothing left but the hard pit on this cherry.
Salina: I could tell you though, it feels different with
us. You make feel unblemished.
Buck: Different?
Salina: I could tell you that you’re the one I’ve been
waiting for, that every man who has ever touched me
was just preparing me for you.
Buck: Pretty good line. I could tell you I feel the same.
Salina: Do you?
8(sound cue) piano and violins.
Buck: Two peas in a pod, twins.
Salina: Whoa Hoss, how about kissing cousins?
Buck: That works for me, time to fish or cut bait.
Salina: Well, hell--let’s get to it!


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Verduous Veritas




image from istockphoto.com


Verduous Veritas

“I love it when a flower, or a little tuft of grass, grows
through a crack in the concrete--it is so fucking
heroic.”--George Carlin.

Since the dawn primeval,
when the great green canopy
blacked out the sun,
creatures struggling below 
flicked their olive tongues,
still wet from licking
the dew off the moss.

I’m here to report
nature’s essence is not red,
it is deep pulsating green,
like sucking the heart
out of green tomatoes,
like penicillin, Islamic flags,
ivy and budding leaves;

or life after death,
tarter on dead teeth,
mold on sun-bleached bones,
or odiferous rot
as flesh and wood and organs
decompose,
and make their way
home,
to the earth’s verdant womb.

I have to suggest
that each of you
needs to seek out
a peaceful glen,
expanses of grass, clover
and buttercups,
then lie on your back,
eyes flashing emerald,
arms wide open to a green sun,
hearts brimming with green fire;

and let the legions tramp by
their silver armor clanking,
their bloody pilum held high, 
because even the cockroaches know
that hell and war and greed
ride a raven-black stead,
and are never green.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, June 24, 2019

Magma Memories




image from pinterest.com


Magma Memories

“The time is past when mankind can selfishly draw
down on Earth’s exhaustible resources. This planet
is not a Commodity.”--Francois Hollande,
President of the French Republic.

3.54 billion years ago, this planet was just a molten
ball, and it had no surface oxygen. It took millions
of years to cool, to form a crust, and cover itself
with oceans.

Life began in the dark womb depths of the sea.
Prehistoric man emerged 3 million years ago.
Science has tread on biblical Genesis for many
centuries. Mankind’s piece of the cosmic pie
chart is just a slender faint thread of the Great
Tapestry, a glaze on a grain of sand in the
Sahara of Time.

Plate tectonics continue to reshape oceans and
continents. From 3,000 years ago to the present, 
Man has evolved into the dominant species, and
as such has become capable and guilty of
affecting global change, the biosphere, the Earth’s
surface, the hydrosphere, and the atmosphere.
Oh, what bad boys are we--now is there actually
time for redemption and reconciliation?

This old planet has
undergone drastic changes, like
the Ice Age; what’s next?



Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Haibun

Thursday, June 20, 2019

Quagmire Awaits




Death to America--AOL.com


Quagmire Awaits

“There was a lesson taught in Viet Nam and Iraq,
and we should have learned it by now. 
--Barack Obama .

The Middle East wears the robes of Hell.
Trump has provided the hand basket.
I can hear the Liberty Bell
tolling for thousands of future caskets.

I fear there will be another war in Iran.
Please, you must understand--
Trump is a dunce led by hawks,
military action could override talks.

18 years we have been in Afghanistan.
The Islamic lions prove to be very tough,
and they thrive in the mountainous rough. 
They will continue to fight to the last man,

woman and child. Did Iraq teach us
nothing, whelped by political lies?
Forget advancing, we must seek exodus.
No more cannon fodder midst the quagmire. 



Glenn Buttkus

Quatrain

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Monday, June 17, 2019

Freten das Dummkopf




image from businessinsider.com


Freten das Dummkopf

“Intrigue is the power of the weak, because even
the idiot is able to hurt.”--William Shakespeare.

When a fretter
eats a fritter,
will they use their hands?

Stay calm,
don’t fret,
no sweat--
a bad case of
Trumpitis,
will pass
through the colon
like food poisoning.

Time has just fretted
away youth, health, vigor, smooth
skin, and a tight butt.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 96





image from mycomicshop.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Six

Onset

Be willing to be a beginner every single
morning.”--Meister Eckhart.

1(wide shot) The ebony carriage climbed for a
half mile through clumps of fir and aspen, past
small glens dotted with riotously colored wild
flowers. The air was sweet with fir needles and
shaded grass. 
2(cut to medium wide shot) a verdant meadow;
a Mule deer doe grazed peacefully with her
spotted fawn. 
3( raise up with crane shot) the carriage passes
from right to left across the frame below the deer.
4(cut to a tighter shot) the deer; the doe raised its
head, and twitched its long ears. The fawn hopped
into a swarm of yellow butterflies on its spindly
legs, wagging its white tail.
5(overhead drone shot) The carriage dropped down 
between two large oaks.
6(sound cue) piano and cello over horse’s hooves
and spinning wagon wheels.
7(continue overhead shot, but begin descent)
They were greeted by a small lake, its water
shimmering blue-green. There were crowded
clusters of cattails at the far end of it, with
spiraling swarms of blackbirds flying above
their Spring nests, clucking in the reeds like
complaining chickens.
8(medium wide shot) the carriage rolled to a
stop at the water’s edge. The man and the
woman got out. Salina was carrying the picnic
basket and a gingham quilt.
9(cut to a two shot) from the water. Buck suddenly
drew the Thunderer and fired a shot into the air.
10(sound cue) blast of a coronet, Buck yelling
“Yahoo”, and the thunderous crack of the big
pistol echoing across the still water.
11(cut to wide shot) the cattails exploded, and
the sky darkened with blackbirds. The flock
murmurated in the air like a sidewinder, rising 
straight up, before descending in smaller and
smaller circles over the lake, winged alacrity
as they settled back into the reeds. A minute
later, the sky was barren of birds, and  their
frenzied cackling resumed.
12(sound cue) piano and violins.
13(cut to two-shot) Salina: Christ in a wheel
burrow--did you have to do that? I may have
wet myself.
Buck, turning to her, shrugging his shoulders:
Yeah, I kind of did.
Salina: You can be a bad boy sometimes.
Buck, smiling: You bring the best out of me.
14( medium wide shot) Salina spread the blanket
out in the deep shade beneath a brokeback oak,
and opened up the picnic basket--extracting a
pair of tin cups; she asked: Is the water in this
puddle good enough to drink?
Buck took the two cups to the lake and scooped
up cold clear water. He tipped one up, and gulped
a swallow: It’s fed by mountain streams. My
horses drink it.
She tucked a linen napkin into the neck of his 
shirt and they began to eat. I used to come up
here, she mumbled around biting a piece of
chicken: I would fish and daydream. You were
gone, of course. I had never met you, but your
father talked about you a lot. He was a helpless
old man at the end.
Buck: So I’ve heard.
Salina: He used to say that everyone he loved
was dead--except for you.
Buck: Well, he was confused. He was dead to me
long before he passed out in the street and was
crushed by a lumber wagon. If he loved me, he
had a peculiar way of showing it. It took me
forever to heal my own broken heart.
Salina: I’m not saying you were right or wrong
by leaving. I’m not in a position to judge.
They finished their meal. Salina packed the garbage
in some butcher paper, and tucked it into the basket.
Buck was skipping flat rocks across the glassy
surface.
Come here, she said.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Pike Place Market




image from pinterest.com


Pike Place Market

“When farming begins, the arts follow. So the
farmers are the founders of civilization.”
--Daniel Webster.

In the early 50’s,
when I was a kid,
there were no real supermarkets.
We shopped in small
Mom and Pop neighborhood markets.
There was no fast food.
You had to buy a hamburger
in a diner or a fountain lunch counter.

My mother struggled
with a meager budget.
So she always searched
for savings and bargains
in fruit, vegetables and meat.
( Have you ever eaten horse meat?
It used to be cheaper than beef.)

On Saturday afternoons,
we kids would go with Mom
on a drive into Seattle
to shop at the
Pike Place Public Market. 

It sprawls out
over four blocks,
from Pike St. to Virginia St.
It has been there since 1907,
when ten farmers sold produce
out of their wagons; making it
one of the oldest continuously operated
public farmer’s markets in America.

It is built on the edge of a steep hill
overlooking busy Elliott Bay, churning
with freighters, ferries, sailboats and cruise ships.
There are two lower levels below
the produce arcade stalls,
where orchidists, butchers, fish mongers,
and vegetable farmers hawk their wares, 
a noisy cacophony of voices
with Irish, Asian, Greek and Middle
European accents add to the din.
The lower levels contain book stores, 
craft stalls, clothing, antiques and
several exotic restaurants. 

This Market averages
more than ten million visitors annually,
making it the 33rd most visited
tourist attraction in the world.

65 years ago,
all the produce sold was locally grown,
and all the crafts were hand-made
by the sellers--but presently
China, Japan, Mexico, Central and
South America show up on the labels.

For me, Pike Place Market has become
more interested in Marketing than 
authenticity.
Fortunately, I live in the suburbs,
and I can frequent local genuine farmers 
markets; which pleases me immensely.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, June 10, 2019

LURP



image from icemanmcs.com

LURP

“You can kill ten of my men for every one of yours I 
kill--but in the end, you will lose and I will win.”
--Ho Chi Minh.

In 1967, I was part of a Long Distance Recon Team
(LURP) in Viet Nam. We had been in the bush for
a month. My 6 man team was part of Tiger Force, 
bad-ass paratroopers. I was a cherry, two months
out of the Recon school at Nha Trang. 

My first encounter with the VC was only one week
in. I had slunk off into the jungle to take a wicked
crap. It was mid-dump when far away, an inter-
rupted cry became a fire fight. I found my squad
pinned down by a force of VC. using my BAR, I
was able to lay down a deadly crossfire that 
turned the tide.

We had raided a village at 1300; our Charlie body
count was 41. Col. Morse would love that--he was
a mad dog motherfucker. My nightmares haunt
me still.

Glenn Buttkus

Flash Fiction

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub FF

Thursday, June 6, 2019

Butt Buddies




image from thehypertext.com 


Butt Buddies

“I will fight for you with every breath in my body,
and I will never, ever let you down.”
--Donald J. Trump.

In the last 900 days, Trump has told 10,300 lies.

T45= Trump
BM= Mussolini

T45: I won because I love the poorly educated.
As true as global warming.

BM: Democracy is great in theory, but in practice
it’s fallacy--a Fascist’s alternate truth.

T45: Everybody loves me because I’ve always been
successful--a kick in truth’s junk.

BM: A dictator can be loved; people love a strong man.
Delusion sold as truth.

T45: We will no longer surrender America the illusion
of globalism--truth as a carbuncle.

BM: Democracy is when the people are given the 
illusion of sovereignty.--truth being sodomized.

T45: To be patriotic, there is no room for prejudice.
The truth masquerading as a lie.

BM: If people disagree with you, destroy them.
Truth twisted into a pretzel. 

T45: The press are the most dishonest, sleazy,
terrible people I’ve met--antithesis of truth.

BM: Italy’s press remains free, as long as it supports
the regime--Truth as Fascist puppets.

They are both deranged buffoons, and we already
know what his people did to Mussolini.


Ghazal

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, June 4, 2019

Lullaby (goodnight my angel) - Billy Joel - With Lyrics

Lullaby in Blues




image from wallpaperplay.com


Lullaby in Blues

“Some day we’ll all be gone, but lullabies go
on and on.”--Billy Joel.

Good night, my angel, Billy sang,
even though the villains did not hang,
and many of the punks joined the gang,
and the comic book guns said bang.

I heard it first
on the anniversary of my mother’s death,
recalling I never heard my son’s first breath,
as my actual daughter refused my parentage,
and my actual father remained a ghost,
calling my name on midnight’s tongue.

Lullabies,
I never heard them.
Lullabies,
I never wrote them, or sang them,
those damn ditties comprised 
of divers strings;

wailing violins and throbbing cellos,
all bowing that one sustained chord
that always makes me,
allows me to weep;
because of the promises
I couldn’t keep,
failing those challenges
that were too steep,
as my shredded pride 
lies in a heap,
since what’s terribly broken
runs so deep,
forcing me,
so like a child,
to muffle it all
as I sleep.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

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Monday, June 3, 2019

Dragonworld




image from Amazon.co.uk


Dragonworld

“My scales are like ten-fold shields, my teeth 
are swords, my claws spears, my tail a thunder 
bolt, and my breath death.”--J.R.R. Tolkien.

 Somewhere.
in the vastness
of the Cosmos,
there is a
Dragonworld;

where one can find
Goldbacks,
Silver Tips,
Yellow Tails,
Black Divers,
White Wings, and
Red Bellies.

There will be
some dragon slayers
too.

Hannibal had his
elephants, but Merlin had
his fiery dragons.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44