Blackthorne Episode 124

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 Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 124

Treachery

“Life is treacherous--we’re all sentenced to death,

living on borrowed time.”--Erik Pevernagie.

1(medium close-up) Buck: When they come, you

might need my gun.

2(one-shot) Hop: You got a bad habit of killing 

people. I hand you a weapon and I loose control of

the situation again. Nope, no gun.

3(two-shot) over Hop’s shoulder, Buck: Joe, there

are bought gunsels out there that will be glad to kill

you while trying to get to me. Johnny’s right, you can’t

reason with a rattler. Thor pulled on me while I was

still palavering. They want blood, and only lead will

get their attention.

Over Buck’s shoulder, Hop: You know Cash Bronson

real well, huh.

Buck: I know him well enough. He’s the one-eyed

jack in this town. I know I’m going to kill him if Johnny

doesn’t make it.

Hop: Christ--you’ve got killing on the brain. You just

calm down and let the law earn its pay. You won’t be

killing anybody. I sent for the U.S. Marshall last week.

He ought to be here any day now. With him here, I

doubt that Bronson will pull any shit.

Buck: In the dictionary, does the word “optimist” have

your picture under it?

Hop chuckled.

4(sound cue) Three large raps came through the over-

sized door.

5(close-up) Buck’s face, wracked with alacrity.

6(sound cue) Two more knocks on the door.

6(close-up) Hop’s face, calm and stoic, as he lit a

cigarette. Yeah?

7(sound cue) It’s Billy over castanets.

8(cut to the big door) which opened slowly and Deputy

Billy stepped into the room.

9(two shot) Hop, his feet up on the corner of the desk:

How are things?

Billy: Things are quiet, maybe too quiet, peering out

from under the rim of his hat, looking for Buck.

Hop: He’s in back, puffing on his thin yellow

cigarette, squinting through the blue smoke.

Billy: The Doc’s got patients all over the place,

a fucking madhouse. His wife and daughter are

helping out.

10(sound cue) Voice-over, Buck: How’s Johnny?

11(medium close-up) the Deputy flinched, startled

by Buck’s inquiry. He’s alive, but in rough shape,

in a coma. Doc says it’s a mild coma, and if he

regains consciousness, he’ll probably pull through.

12 (close-up) Buck: What are his chances?

Billy: Kind of slim. We should know more tomorrow.

Hop: How are we fixed for vittles?

Billy: We got the necessaries, a little bit of everything;

at least enough grub for a week. His bony thumbs were

stuck into his pant’s belt, his shirt sleeve rolled up over 

his forearm wound, sporting a new bandage, rocking

back and forth on his worn boot heels

Billy: Do you want me to rustle up something?

Hop: Hell, no.

Billy: You want some coffee?

Hop: Tell you what...how about you trotting over to

the BRONSON HOUSE and getting us some hot

chuck; three plates should do it. When you get back,

we’ll button up this place. We’ll just fort up for a

couple of days.

Billy: Til the Marshal gets here?

Hop nodded. The deputy started for the door, then

stopped, a puzzled look on his face.

Hop: What’s the matter, forget something?

Billy: Uh--maybe, pointing to the gun rack, I might

should take a scattergun.

Hop: Uh-huh, sure.

Billy crossed to the gun rack. Hop tossed him a key

ring. He unlocked the padlock that fastened a chain 

through all the triggers. He chose a deeply blued

pump shotgun. He opened a drawer below the guns

and pulled out a box of shells. He fed six shells into

the gun. He started for the door again.

Hop: Billy?

Deputy: What? His voice cracked a little. His forehead

was sweating.

Hop: How you gonna carry three hot plates of food?

13(sound cue) coronet and snare drums.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN

Fascist Follies

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 Fascist Follies

“The fool has said in his heart; there is no God.”

--Psalm 14:1

It is folly to

trust herd immunity to

defeat Covid-19.

--Glenn Buttkus

Sometimes one likes a

fool for their folly, rather

than those with wisdom.

--Elizabeth Gaskell

Trump is the mad king

who surrounds himself with a

thousand fools for comfort.

--Glenn Buttkus

The author who writes for

fools only, will assure himself

of a large audience.

--Arthur Schopenhauer

Worse than mere fools, these

Trumpers are morons and idiots,

and they’re proud of it.

--Glenn Buttkus

There is no fire like

passion, no shark like hatred, and 

no snare like folly.

--Siddharta Gautama

I was a fool for 

love at fifteen, ten times in

my sophomore year.

--Glenn Buttkus

A heathen is a

person who has the folly

to believe in facts.

--Ambrose Bierce

Yes, it’s folly to

just count on polls to be your

voting guideposts.

--Glenn Buttkus

If you shield men from

the effects of folly, you

fill the world with fools.

--Herbert Spencer

When the President

is a damn fool, how to you

expect him to act?

--Glenn Buttkus

Experience keeps

a dear school, but fools will learn

scarcely no other.

--Benjamin Franklin

There was a time when

I was foolish enough to want

success in the Arts.

--Glenn Buttkus

The highest form of

bliss is living with a certain

degree of folly.

--Erasmus

Folly is as folly

does, pants down, eyes shut, letting

it all hang out.

--Glenn Buttkus

I will tear this folly

from my heart, though every fiber

bleeds as I rent it.

--Walter Scott

The choice to be a

fool is yours; it is folly to 

believe in intangibles.

--Vera Nazarian

Glenn Buttkus

Renga: collaborative haiku

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

When Fairies Appear

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 When Fairies Appear

“At Samhain, the circle of the year comes to its

final spoke.”--Diana Rajchel.

I have a Celtic Cross placed in a dark corner of my

back yard, between two ancient maples, drenched 

in shadows except at high noon when gray glows

as white, and the faint sound of bagpipes wafts

softly in the distance.

I pay very little attention to Halloween. It’s Samhain

for me, celebrating the coming of the darker half of

the year, when the cattle, sheep, chickens and

turkeys are slaughtered, when the veil between

dimensions is at its thinnest, when the fairies return,

when angry clouds crowd the ashen skies, their

bellies swollen black with future deluge and flood,

when most harvests are completed, and soon their

bounty will decorate holiday tables. Sadly, Samhain,

All Saints Day, and All Souls Day have merged into

the Madison Avenue artificiality of Halloween.

Rooks and ravens flap

over black cats in October

under a blue moon.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub Haibun

Tirade Time

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Tirade Time

“I rant, therefore I am.”--Dennis Miller

We must avoid the possible Republican mulligan.

When lions lie down

with llamas, they struggle

with different languages,

leaving gaps and long pauses

between licentious litanies.

We must avoid the possible Republican mulligan.

I fist-slapped it

on the political butt,

and the pop, the thud

was bang on,

for it deserved the gobsmack

the serious intentional splat.

We must avoid the possible Republican mulligan.

Approaching that beautiful blue tsunami

I am the giddy liberal swami,

making damn sure I voted early,

feeling all cool, confident and burly,

declaring my choice,

using my voice.

We must avoid the possible Republican mulligan.

Bam-blam, old Uncle Sam,

it’s too late just to suck a lime,

it’s wham-whizz past the time

for his complete departure.

I tell you, history will smack down,

be it dirt poor rural or wealthy town,

every vestige of the Trump years

all the snake oil, hate and fears.

En masse, we will awaken from the nightmare,

electing a President who will care,

as we, the people, reject the super rich

and every greedy lobbyist son-of-a-bitch.

In 2016 we were all so very shocked

as greasy Trump completely locked

up the redneck electorate.

Now’s the time to initiate the protectorate 

for decency, dimples, donuts and democracy.

We must avoid the possible Republican mulligan.

Tyranny, terror and tempestuous tumult

are Trumps tokens and trademark.

Never in the White House has there been

such bullying, bejiggering, boasting, belittling

and bodacious braggadocio. 

We must avoid the possible Republican mulligan.

Trump is merely a lump of cancer,

a lackey with a license to lick the larcenous limbs

of dictators, strongmen, demagogues, fascists,

klansmen, bigots, racists, and white supremacists.

He has made America a sad joke

and sent the Republic up in smoke.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub MTB

Emulation

image of Samuel Greenberg

 Emulation

“A writer is just a reader moved to emulation.”

--Saul Bellow

Lost in concrete crags and steel canyons, where

banana peels pile up in corners, and where

blondes are bimboing

  honey decomposes

     canaries die too soon

         mustard loves to stain

             butterscotch burrows deeply

                 lemons linger and languish

                      all fool’s golden akimbo

                           midst Jewish yellow dreams.

Some of us gather astride mean sodden streets,

loving, honorable, peaceful, and respectful, before

the jack boots

   the red angry eyes

         the constabulary’s snarl

                the ivory riot helmets,

                     the stout hickory nightclubs

                           the tear gas and fire hoses

                                the rubber bullets and bang bombs

                                     all predispositioned thuggees

                                          all absolute lucid farrows.

Where does Truth live, dwell, exist? It has become a

pitiful shadow creature. So

I will embark

  on a pellucid quest,

      seeking purity

          and clarity

                and logic

                     and honesty

                          and dignity

                             mantling the endangered

                                 species of democracy.

Can we find the future while peering backward at

the sacred skeletons of history? Like

skulls of saints

   scapulas of senators

        humerus of home boys

            pelvis from postmen

                  femurs from farmers

                    sternums from sinners

                         vertebra from viceroys

                             ribs from ruffians

                                  tibia from torch-bearers

                                       and sternum from sooth-sayers?

Depression germinates in more than fifty shades of gray,

trembling lips, grinding molars, and clenched fists;

a total grey life

     lava covered craniums

           that melds copper & tin

              into putrid pewter hues,

                 while Holocaust ashes

                    are spread on icy cobblestones

                         oxidized iron spikes adjacent

                           to all those bleached shark bones

                              mostly rhino-rough

                                 and completely lost

                                     in charcoal smudges.

Glenn Buttkus

in the style of Samuel Greenberg

and his The Pale Impromptu.

posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub