Wednesday, February 17, 2021

Blackthorne Episode 130

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Cinemagenic 130


“Poetry is not turning loose,of emotion--it’s an

escape from it.”--T.S. Eliot.

1(sound cue) metal hitting flesh.

2(two-shot) the lawman folded forward, his torso

onto the cache of pistols on his desk. Out cold, he

looked like he was sleeping. Buck bent down and

placed two fingers behind Hop’s ear. The pulse was

strong. Hop moaned. 

3(sound cue) soft drumbeat over guitar chords.

Buck stepped around Hop, and jerked open the

lower left drawer of his desk. 

4(close up) The Thunderer and the sawed-off

crouched in their holsters.

5(sound cue) Indian seed rattle and guitar blues slide.

6(close up) The hunter buckled the heavy gun belt on 

and tied down both holsters. His hands filled up with

blood as they hovered over his own weapons.

7(medium wide shot) He plucked his jacket from a coat 

rack, and hurriedly put it on. He swooped up his Sharps.

Hop moved a little, his face buried in the spider’s nest

of gun belts and iron. With the Sharp’s in one hand, he

stepped quickly to the front door. He opened the door

and stepped out.

8(sound cue) Metallic creak as the door opened, over

snare drum jazz brushing.

9(cut to outside, overhead drone shot) Buck stands for

a moment on the puncheon walkway. 

10(cut to reverse wide shot, Buck’s back) Four oil lamp

street lights were still lit. A foggy cold mist lie on the

town. His nose tingled as stepped down into the damp

morning air. The sun of gold was stirring on the horizon,

behind the purple mountains, over the top of the Grange

Hall, the warehouse, the CHINA DOLL, the bank, the

freight office, and the big auction barns. It’s fiery

forehead began to appear in the tangerine sky. Some

of the markers, crosses, and stones up on Boot Hill

were catching the first random rays, and their sad

edges were soaked in blood.

11(medium close-up) Buck’s eyes scanning.

12(wide shot) Blackthorne was quiet, as silent as

the grotesque pile of stiff bodies on Hop’s front

porch. There were two horses tied to a hitching rail

near the jail. Buck cautiously moved in their direction,

the Sharps at the ready, his eyes clear, his flared

nostrils huffing steam puffs.

  As he walks, we see the windows in front of the

CHINA DOLL were broken, and overturned green

felt table tops were rolled up to them. A light came

on at the Bronson House Hotel, above Wallace’s

dark store.

13(sound cue) soft banjo and harmonica.

14(shot tightens up) One of the horses was a brown mare,

standing on three legs, slumbering and securely wrap-

reined. The other was a younger raven-black gelding,

who was alert, and watching Buck. The tack on it’s

broad back was worn, but well made. The gelding talked

to Buck. The hunter stroked its neck, and reached for the

pommel. Something moved. Buck whirled, the Sharps

leveled. A tiger-striped cat burst out of a bush. It ran

hissing and growling across the street and scurried

under the boardwalk. Buck heard a dog whine, Cheewa

appeared out of the shadows, staring up at him, its eyes

flashing red.

  Buck stepped up into the stirrup of someone else’s

saddle, and settled into a comfortable outfit. He had

never stolen a horse before. He slid his Sharps into

an empty rifle boot. He backed up a couple steps,

and turned the sleek gelding’s head north.

15(the shot begins to widen) The horse slowly

picked his way through the pale dust on the dark

street. He saw the open road in front of him, and

he strained to canter, but Buck held him to a walk.

Cheewa trotted out ahead of them, his thick tail

wagging. Buck turned in the saddle. No one

stirred up the quiet. The light in the second floor

of the Bronson House was now out. The Wallace

house was asleep. He thought of his sweet

Salina, exhausted and wrapped up in green silk


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN

Tuesday, February 16, 2021

Rouge de Guerre

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Rouge de Guerre

“There is a shade of red for every woman.”

--Audrey Hepburn.

I’m kind of a big shot

in the color spectrum,

part of the trinity of

primary colors--hand

in hand with yellow and blue.

I’m kind of the Gemini in the group,

symbolizing everything from

l’amour to la guerre.

I am the vigorous hue

at the end of the visible light spectrum.

I have a brilliantly mantled clan

of cousins, from yelllow-tinged

scarlet and vermillion to blueish-

red crimson, or pinkish-blue violet,

to pale petal pink to deep red burgundy,

or dusky rubies and weather-worn brick,

from almost black currant to apple and

berry jams.

All mammals can see me,

but dogs and cattle can not.

They only see yellow & blue.

I seem gray to them.

Yes, that means a bull can’t see

red--he is just irritated by the

movement of the cape.

Most folks just call me Red,

but I vastly prefer Rojo.

My esthetic side leads to

love, passion, lust, shame,

embarrassment and orgasm.

My malevolent side leads to

conflict, combat, war, danger

and Satan.

From day one to wound one

I have been associated with blood,

secondary to oxygenated hemoglobin.

Christ, wines and divers religions

have made me a popular


I am proud to be wedding dresses 

in India, and flags in Japan and China,

flapping in every language. I remember

well a 1,000 B.C. when prehistoric men

mixed me from ochre for their cave art.

I am a power color.

Extroverts adore me.

From power ties (except for Trump’s)

to sleek sports cars,

I will get your attention.

I can make you hungry or horny,

can designate you as saint or sinner,

and accompany Cardinals

as feathered breasts

and Vatican robes.

Yellow and Blue are OK,

like unleavened bread is OK, 

but when it comes to energy and power--

I’m your Guy.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub  

Monday, February 15, 2021

My Hazel

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 My Hazel

“We are reminded of the fairies’ hazelnuts, in which

diamonds were concealed.”--Neville Cardus.

As an only child,

I would play beneath

our hazel plant.

It grew in the loving shade

of an ancient oak.

My family loved hazelnuts.

My mother would grind them up.

making a paste

that she smeared on her baked goods.

My father called it a hazel tree,

but it was more shrub than tree.

I was mysteriously drawn to it.

It became my special place,

my refuge and emotional bastion.

I would take my writer’s notebook

out there and compose poetry.

I called it Hazel, as my companion

and pretend sister.

One day my father

went off to War,

to fight the Nazis.

Six months later, an Army sedan

drove into the yard.

They told us

that my father had been killed.

I went out to the hazel wood

because a fire was in my head.

She held me until

the flames became ash.

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Thursday, February 11, 2021

Down at Mickey's

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 Down at Mickey’s

“A poet could write volumes about American diners,

because they are so beautiful.” --David Lynch.

On Saturday nights,

in our small town

we all used to hang out

at Mickey’s Diner,

a remodeled

Northern Pacific dining car.

Before specific hamburger restaurants

were invented in the late 50’s, diners

and drug stores were the only places

one could get a hamburger.

There was just something

so Art Deco about those

converted railroad car diners

that showed up after WWII.

Mickey’s had been built

in 1946. 

My Dad use to take me there,

just me and him,

as a treat after

one of my little league

baseball games.

I was a pretty good

first baseman.

Parked all around Mickey’s

were thrilling shiny cars.

Parked amongst the pre-war sedans

were ’57 Impalas,

         ’54 Bel Airs,

         ’56 Roadmasters,

         ’53 Packards

         ’58 Oldsmobile Rockets, and

         ’55 Lincolns.

These cars were trimmed

with tons of bright chrome,

steel bumpers and massive grills,

each with its unique hood ornament,

matching the brilliance

of the stainless steel trim

on the dining car.

Ike was President,

and the pounds of chrome

on every door, and 

the behemoth V-8 engines,

and the twin glass packs,

announced to the world

that 10 miles to the gallon of gas

was OK, and America was

the most prosperous country ever.

Inside the diner, a row

of chrome-necked red stools

were bolted to the floor 

in front of a stainless steel bar.

The grills and fryers were

in plain sight. 

The booths, all plush

with their red Naugahyde covers,

lined the window side of the car.

I preferred sitting in a booth.

I always ordered

a cheeseburger, curly fries,

and a chocolate shake.

They used real ice cream, 

and they left the chrome canister

with the left overs in it.         

The .19 cent burger places

that replaced the diners

never had the magic and allure

that the diner cars had.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub MTB

Tuesday, February 9, 2021

We of the Fungi

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 We of the Fungi

“There are thousands of little mosses and fungi that

are seen mostly as unsightly objects, but when seen

with the eyes of a poet, they become radiant of 

beauty.”--Henry David Thoreau.

Welcome to the Kingdom of Fungi.

My name is Malcolm Mushroom.

My best pals are Timothy Toadstool,

                            Yancy Yeast,

                             Robert Rot,

                             Marion Mold, and

                             Mildred Mildew.

We denizens are often 

          misunderstood, and often 

                  survive unnoticed. Our colonies

                       range from microscopic to mammoth.

                   You think you know us, but believe

            me, we have secrets that predate

recorded history. Until recently

Botanists considered us to be

plants, but actually we are of

a separate kingdom from both

plants and animals, and we lean

most toward animal characteristics.

                                        We are complex co-creators.

                               We are the principal decomposers

                      of all organic materials, and ecosystems.

                 We, kind of like you, are heterotrophs--you

              know, incapable of making our own food. We

           are unidevourers, liking to chow down on both

        plants and animals. Our love-life is both sexual 

and asexual. 

We are whelped

from 3.8 million species,

and you have only studied

and labeled 148,000. That leaves

a lot of mystery between us. Some of

our more fecund varieties secrete psychotropic

compounds. The hippies and philosophers really dug

us, like pigs and their truffles. We consider our

selves triple erotic, but we are told we

are eutarotic. 

We can tolerate that some of us

can be a food source for you,

but like any of your other neighbors,

we can be friendly, or

we can kick your ass.

So don’t forget

to acknowledge 

our complexities,

and respect

our properties.

We of the Fungi,

thriving beneath your feet, wish

you the best of health.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub