Blackthorne Episode 147

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 147

Ballet Of Beasts

“In May 2011 I posted this poem for OLN. Folks

were a bit perplexed by it. Perhaps today it can

be recognized as a poetic extension of the novel’s

denouement.”--Me.

Now he could see himself

landing lightly in a pool of quiet dust,
firing his pistol and his sawed-off

as he touched the ground,

dropping his guns immediately,

leaping back into the thick air,

lunging across a shaft of golden light,

as he heard hooves;

then he became hooves

pounding the hard packed earth,

millions of unshod hooves beating

against the face of the prairie;

then he was on the Appaloosa

and Johnny Eagle was on White Bob

galloping in the musky midst

of an angry ocean of humps and horns

a ballet of beasts dancing at quarter speed,

time condensed within the clenched fist

of that dangerous moment,

as massive muscles rippled slowly,

the undulating transfer of meat

into extreme slow-motion.

and soon a slower visual realm still

until flaring nostrils and panicked eyes

became frozen, just before

the cacophony of gunfire--

Sharps, Spencers, Winchesters and Colts,

their crackling crescendo washing over

the cries from the herd, 

as that great horde of hair

began crashing into the tall grass

skidding in blood, breaking bones

as collisions piled up, and at the bottom

the leaders were dying

in a cataclysmic chorus of death songs,

and out of the blood mist runs Buck, on foot,

making long strides toward the purple

mountains, with bison death breath thick

and visceral, clinging sticky to his soul,

but not alone in the race, becoming a trio,

his father on one side of him,

and the Eagle on the other;

for a time they moved along together,

matching each other’s stride, running

as one six-legged creature

as the rifles barked on,

the running barely touching

the viscous viscus of cosmic pain,

rifle blasts still thundering in his tympanum

when he heard his patriarch fall, but

he did not slow or turn to the old man,

for he had to run on, pumping his arms,

the Hunter and the Eagle fleet as antelopes,

hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, tearing

up clods as they sprinted, their faces blue,

their lungs aching, and then the Indian went

down, landing lightly like a fluttering feather,

a beautiful soft death. Buck’s eyes blazed

with tears as he ran on, his big hands reaching

for the distant mountains, pushing himself

until there was only the running, and

the running had no heart, no spirit, until

he was overcome with a terrible fatigue,

and the race for the red horizon faded,

as the murderous lightning of a thousand

rifle discharges rolled over him;

the guns went silent, and the sky became

a black funnel, his eyes lost their focus,

and his lungs turned to stone, so very

quiet as the reeds fluted the air,

and the grass hugged him farewell,

until he was full stop,

and he finally turned

to face the horns. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub