Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Blackthorne Episode 114

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Cinemagenic 114


“I like playing a “pressure cooker” kind of
character, where the lid’s on, and it’s left
to simmer for a long while.--Stellan Skarsgard.

1(two-shot) Wallace raced around the counter and
intercepted Buck before he reached the door.
Wallace: Wait, wait, wait, Hoss--his hands up in
Buck’s face. Are you going to do this legal. or are
you going to raise hellfire and maybe hurt some
innocent people?
Buck lowered his chin and glowered at Henry.
2(sound cue) a pistol cylinder spinning over harmonica.
3(close-up) Buck: No, Johnny and Mateo were right.
I’m just too damned naive to see it. I’m headed across
the street. When the sheriff gets back, you can tell
him where I am. I was standing here a moment ago
and I realized that I’ve been hiding behind aprons
and skirts, and that’s not for me. You go back
upstairs and watch over things. I have a man’s
work to do.
4(two-shot) Wallace: Use your head, son. You’ve
got friends here--and that should mean something.
Come on, you can’t take on Bronson alone. Christ,
you’ve got the law on your side.
Buck: Fuck it. He pushed past the storekeeper, and
stepped through the half doors.
5(cut to exterior, crane shot) Buck joined the throng
of Mateo’s friends at the base of the doctor’s steps.
The big Indian stood at his side.
Buck: Time for the nut-cutting.
He turned and started down the street toward the
CHINA DOLL. The Indian walked alongside. 
6(sound cue) snare drum and coronet.
7(medium close-up) Buck unsnapped the stud over
his sawed off shotgun and jerked it from its holster.
He checked the load and holstered it. He did the
same with the Thunderer, the self-cocking Colt that
hung on his right hip. As tall men, they took big
steps, raising flour-like dust, even in the dark.
8(sound cue) drumbeat speeding up, joined by guitar.
9(overhead drone shot) As Buck and the Indian 
passed the BRONSON HOUSE, a small group of
porch riders came to their feet and crossed the
dark street, falling in behind them. As they
approached the saloon, its front steps and
benches were barren. 
10(cut to street level wide shot) Inside, the bright
lights, laughter, and out-of-tune bar piano blared.
Buck headed straight for it, stopping in front. The
red false front looked scarlet in the dim light. The
six foot high letters spelling CHINA DOLL were
rippled from being painted over thick uneven siding.
11(wide two-shot) Buck paused, addressing the
tall Indian: What’s your name?
Indian: I am a friend. I will cover your back. I have
no name until we both walk out of this place.
Buck tramped through the fancy swinging doors.
The Indian followed him in. No one else in the
crowd moved .
12(sound cue) snare drum bap, guitar strum.
13(cut to interior, POV from above, top of the
stairs) Buck and his companion stepped inside,
and the door shivered shut behind them.
14(cut to main floor wide shot--behind Buck and
the Indian) The din in the room went to all-stop.
Smoke hung in a blue haze over green felt tables,
masking some of the faces. 
Hey, Indian! came a voice out of the smoke.
Get your red butt out of here! You fucking know
dirty Indians ain’t allowed in here. Go back to
the Cantina.
Buck turned to his left. A short saloon guard stood
up in his cubicle, a pump shotgun in his arms. Buck
waited. No one else spoke up.
Guard: Did you hear me, redskin?
Buck: He’s with me. We didn’t come here to drink.
The guard flicked his eyes toward the bar. Thor
Bronson stood alone at the middle. He slowly
shook his head no.
Guard: Then see that he don’t.--sitting down.
What the hell do you want here? 
another voice boomed across the room.
15(sound cue) base drum and clarinet.

Glenn Buttkus

Open Link Night

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Mesa Verde

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Mesa Verde

“Amid these centuries-old dwellings, we are 
reminded that this was the first National Park
that was established in America.”--Barbara Bush.

As a kid, I was always fascinated by the
colorful paintings of pueblos, the stone
villages of the Navaho, Hopi and Ute. No skin
tepees for these folks, nope. Each house had
apartments, and could be inhabited by dozens
to hundreds.

In Montezuma County, Colorado, just kitty-
corner from Four Corners in the American
Southwest, there is a grand plateau where a
native population thrived for centuries. Teddy
Roosevelt made it a National Park in 1906. It
has 52,485 acres, over 5,000 extant sites, with
over 600 cliff dwellings. It is the largest
archaeological site in the United States. Taking
the family up there, it was a long steep drive, and
our old minivan overheated.

From 7500 B.C. to 1285 A.D., the Paleo-Indians of
the Stone Mountain complex farmed and hunted on
the vast mesa (green plateau in Spanish). They
designed and built their pueblos out in the open.
A severe drought in the 1100’s forced them to band
together pro-actively, and they began to build their 
homes into the alcoves and rock overhangs in the
face of the canyon walls. The structures were made
of huge sandstone blocks, held together and 
plastered with adobe mortar. They became very
clever at water conservation, aqueducts and food
storage. They all had guard towers, kivas and pit
rooms. They were built with windows facing south
in U,E, and L-shapes, with T-shaped doors. in 1285
another very severe drought overtook them and all
of the cliff dwellings were abandoned.

Eagles on tethers,
on Navaho arms, were both
pets and sentinels.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets P

Monday, April 27, 2020

Bard on Avon

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Bard on Avon

“There is an upstart crow, beautified with our 
feathers, that with his tiger’s heart wrapped in a
player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to
bombast out a blank verse as the best of you.”
--Robert Greene.

In 1582, with my hormones all aglow, I married
the 26 year old attractive Miss Anne Hathaway.
In three years we had three children, Susanna,
and the twins Hamnet and Judith. She knew I
had artistic dreams of writing plays, but as long
as I worked as a teacher, and stayed home, we
had a reasonably happy marriage.

But dreams are laced with fairy dust, unbridled
lust and love, and carnival landscapes. Theater
beckoned to me like a siren, and I was seduced
by her attractiveness. Soon I was off to London
to pursue this sultry harlot, this comely maiden.
Anne stayed home with the children. Several
years of long absences took a toll on the thin
fabric of my marriage. By 1592 I was enjoying 
modest success as an actor-playwright. Marlowe, 
Nash, and Greene, as university-educated writers 
became my critics. Theater was a wild turbulent 
world for me, rife with romance and adulation. 

I made less and less trips home. My son, Hamnet,
became melancholy and disturbed. I considered 
taking him with me to London, but he was only 10.
in 1596, at 11, he drown himself in our pond. Anne
blamed me, and I blamed her. It was the end of any
civility between us. Liaisons with married women
and handsome young men salved my libido.Then
the black Death raged between 1603-1610, and
this emptied the theaters

In 1613, at 49, I retired and went home, leaving a
legacy of 39 plays. My Annie had become a 58 year
old shrew, with the complexion of a dried prune, and
the waistline of a baker’s wife. I lasted until 1616,
when I succumbed to a drunkard’s liver and a 
broken heart.

The white drake on my
coat-of-arms was perched above
an English broad sword.

Glenn Buttkus 


Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Thursday, April 23, 2020

Being Ernest

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Being Ernest

“The world breaks everyone; afterward, some are
stronger at the broken places.” --Ernest Hemingway.

During the torrents of spring,
across the river and into the trees,
always to have and have not
in our time.

Yes, there is a farewell to arms,
for whom the bell tolls,
for the old man and the sea,
and for the faithful bull;

thank God the sun also rises
on a moveable feast,
on those hills like white elephants,
on the snows of Kilimanjaro,
on the green hills of Africa,
and the garden of eden
on the islands in the stream.

On Paris,
the only thing that counts
are his 88 poems.

During the dangerous summer,
men without women,
experience death in the afternoon;
it’s winner take nothing,
always at first light.

The Ambassador,
like the leeches of Minnesota.

Nick Adams can tell you
that for men at war,
there is no camping out,
not even an Indian camp.

Glenn Buttkus

spine poetics

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Tuesday, April 21, 2020


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“No matter how much cats fight, there always seem
to be plenty of kittens.”--Abraham Lincoln .

A plethora of pets
loom large in literature,
films and television.

Arnold, the pig, on GREEN ACRES.
Potter had his owl,
Big Lennie had his pocket mouse,
after hugging a pup to death.
We all loved Lassie, who always
fetched help when Timmy fell in a well,
who was always called a good girl,
even though he was a collie in drag,
making me wonder why females
were not trainable.

Mister Ed was the TV version
of Francis the Talking Mule,
and Chill Wills did the voice work
for both of them. Nothing ever
comes out perfect. The Francis 
series had six movies, the first five
co-starred Donald O’Conner, who
refused to return for the last one,
and so they used Mickey Rooney.

The Lone Ranger had Silver,
Roy Rogers had Trigger,
Gene Autry had Champion,
and all three horses starred
in their own comic books.

Rin Tin Tin went from being
a big movie star in the 30’s,
to being a TV star in the 50’s,
a pet to a precocious runt
growing up in Fort Apache.

There’s sled dog Buck
and he’s had Clark Gable, Charlton Heston
and Harrison Ford as Masters, and I
understand that in the latest version, 
Buck is completely CGI.

As a kid, I remember living in the projects
in the Renton Highlands, and the guy up
the street owned a fifty pound cat that was
the bane of all the dogs in the neighborhood.

And yeah, we loved our spaniel Taffy,
even though she became quite daffy
in her old age, going outside to pee,
forgetting why she went out, only to
come back inside and pee on the carpet.

Anyone who actually thinks they have control
over their mutt, has to face poop patrol.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub