Vitriolic Valentine

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Vitriolic Valentine

“We are each of us angels with only one wing,

and we can only fly by embracing one another.”

--Lucretius

I rose up rambunctious this morning,

raging & ranting against the machine,

cranky as a bruin with boils, wanting,

demanding answers, closure, results,

pernicious pounds of flesh,

positive pieces of mind, succor

or at least some modicum of

verisimilitude.

Tell me why

does the wind whine like a whimsical

weather-bitch in Wimbledon while

professionals are attempting

to tend to serious tennis?

Will we as a species ever

experience global peace?

Because nobody negates

the numbing notion that all nations

need a nicer way to wage war;

for human nature is just too

naturally bellicose to embrace it.

Let me tell you, as a member

of the morbidly obese, if

one weighs two tons, and just

cannot surmount or control hunger,

it’s like riding a Brahma bull hand’s free--

so damn it, what dip-shit doesn’t dent decorum

while fasting off the fat?

My neighbor’s garage rafters are riddled

with rabid rats, while only slim yards away,

as our Keezie cat stands vigil, we do hope

our gentle garage will never become

a similar rodent sanctuary. 

My silver Suzuki SUV doesn’t like

living outside in the in-climate weather

while my wife’s cute hybrid Camry

rests snug & warm within

our one-car garage, but my

vehicular pal patiently puts up

with the designated disrespect.

Our tomcat complains loudly

if I am too slow to feed him,

and the tawdry tale he tells

me wife is niggard nonsense.

By mid-morning I had to accept

the fatuous fact that I could never

pick out all the bucolic burrs

under my shepherd’s saddle,

so I soon found myself clicked into Facebook

searching out serious romantic images

to share with my spouse, who

would most certainly just delete them,

dismissing my gesture as silly

& sentimental tokens of distaff devotion,

but I do know she will probably

enjoy the garrulous gesture.

Glenn Buttkus

February 14, 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

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Backstreet Boy

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Backstreet Boy

“Cutting off a mule’s ears doesn’t make it 

a horse.”--Creole proverb.

Found myself one Saturday

late summer prowling

the back alleys of New Orleans;

besotted, curious, dazed,

searching out one of those Haitian Creole

Voodoo shops with the petrified frogs

and rooster heads nailed over the door;

blood red curtains drawn, inside

things dimly candle-lit, with large earthen jars

lined up on dusty shelves, a refuge

for myth, magic, and primitive religiosity, 

a perfect place to find healing incantations,

black genies in silver whaling lamps,

kidnapped shamanic herbs,

animal skulls & skins,

snake scale green tea--

moving, twitching, overly-animated,

nervous & clumsy, through narrow aisles

of restoration potions and enchanted

dried flowers, leaves, and roots,

my nostrils assaulted by odors

of rich damp soil,

of rot, of moss, of pitch, of creosote, 

of honey mixed with whiskey;

and in tall hand-made colonial cabinets

there were well-honed straight razors,

long skinning knives,

aboriginal archery artifacts,

stone arrowheads, bone & antler daggers,

witch doctor beads & face paint,

demonic tarnished gold coins,

shrunken heads with sewn-up eyes, 

silver figurines of wolves, panther, bear,

pythons, alligators, & wild boars;

with smeared dirty jars holding dead snakes,

copperheads, cottonmouths, thick rattlesnakes,

even brilliantly colored coral snakes--

a purposeful exclusion of all softness,

everything hard-edged, lethal, poisonous,

macabre & nightmarish--

until I chanced onto an area by a small window

that was only partially covered by a tattered

holy potato gunny-sack, allowing some sunlight

to penetrate the swarmy gloomy sanctum,

greeted by some small shelves covered

with bright colored paper, littered

with cans of Cajun spices,

provincial cook books, and

thick worn-edged volumes

of Cajun-Creole mythology.

From the shadows suddenly

a tall black woman in a turban,

wearing scarlet robes, appeared,

her dark eyes flashing,

and through perfect white teeth

she spoke first in Cajun French

and then in broken English, 

asking me what I might be searching for.

Catching my breath I stammered

and confessed my impetuosity,

my gnawing curiosity,

and my sudden need to find egress.

Smiling, she pointed a long bejeweled finger

at the exit, a large metal door covered

in scrubbed bronze rivets. I noticed

the EX was burned out on the sign,

leaving only IT to make my escape through;

which I did hastily, then standing outside

gulping good Gulf air.

After a few calming minutes,

I revamped my courage

and went back into the shop,

engaging that Cajun girl

in intense conversation,

asking her about my chronic insomnia,

hallucinations, and the fact

that I habitually saw a demon’s

red-coal eyes in the moonlit 

reflection of my own face

much too often.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN

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Buckskin Elegy

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Buckskin Elegy

“At the Lychgate we may all pass as our own conduct

and our own judgement comes under a searching

review.”---Winston Churchill

The old man stood as still

as the deep shadows he hid within,

observing an ugly slash

of clear cut, big-butted stumps

and broken logs poking up

dead white like the forest’s bones,

watching with bright hazel eyes,

once those of a peregrine, squinting

now grimly behind ground glass,

staring at a densely wooden glen

teeming with game, creeks splashing

with fat sunset-bellied trout, air smoldering

with butterflies, sparrows, and the yellow jackets

of honey bees buzzing over thick bunches

of wild buttercups that no longer existed,

and had not for countless empty years;

patiently waiting for a scrub brush dog-sized

black-tailed buck he had been tracking,

pretty sure it would cross that scourged spot

on that dying hillside dotted in clumps

of tenth growth tiny sickly trees, scavenger oak

and twisted humpback thorny seedlings.

He could hear the echo of chainsaws

in the distance, disturbing the silence

as he saw only the tan ever-winding

logging roads on the sloping crew-cut shoulders

of nearby foothills;

there was no pristine hush beneath towering

brown-barked giants, no wild melodies

serenading him from the dark womb

of a thick forest--no forest;

he was startled by sudden movement

bursting into that bald scarred meadow

beneath him as a small three-point buck

stopped to survey the area, its nose,

ears and tail twitching, its back toward him.

The WWI 30-06 came up slowly to the man’s

patient shoulder, peering into the peep sight

with his good eye--the big gun cracked once

like a broken tree and the buck pitched

forward, the head shot splitting open

half its skull, shattering one of its antlers,

dropping down on its front legs,

refusing to die easily,

and the old man heard its death cry,

a short high bleat that froze his blood,

for the sound hung in the air

and the animal had called his name

clearly.

The hunter turned away, moving

like he was in a bad dream,

leaving the bleeding buck

for the several carrion birds

that perched in the thorn bushes

gulping the new blood smell,

who took to wing immediately,

their red eyes on the meal,

their putrid breath puffing,

their talons stretching before them,

paying no heed to the deerslayer

struggling off in the gathering gloom. 

Glenn Buttkus

February 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets

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Snapped

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Snapped

“I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for

everyone--but they’ve always worked for me.”

--Hunter S. Thompson

Christopher Dormer 

runs like Rambo 

in the Sierra Madre;

former special forces,

former LAPD officer,

“suspected”

of murdering four people,

including a cop.

He posted his manifesto,

praising Tim Tebow, 

Ellen Degeneres,

Charlie Sheen;

 told Sheen he is

“fucking awesome”,

Degeneres’

critics were

“pieces of shit.”

It’s hard to believe

this is the

real deal.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2013

Posted over on G-Man's Flash 55

In Lesson

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In Lesson

“I have an almost religious zeal for the Internet,

which is for me, the nervous system of Mother

Earth--which I see as a living creature linking up.”

--Dan Millman

When I hit 60,

I was breaking a lot of speed limits

and embarking on my sweetest decade,

a sexagenarian techno-voyage of discovery.

I barely knew my way around the Net,

only possessed utilitarian quasi-luddite skills,

and when I could clearly see Retirement

skipping along the horizon like a wild thing

to be captured and cultivated before

I could integrate it into my life,

somehow it dawned on me

that my ignorance was both

intolerable and unnecessary.

I needed to dig in, to shed light

on those dark mysterious gaps

in my supposed wisdom--

not just be content to play

on my still young blog site;

for I hungered to tackle obstacles,

needed to participate in the shining vastness

of International Fellowship,

to seek out those unknown treasures

I had heard about in hushed whispers,

to introduce myself

as writer, loose cannon, liberal, budding photographer,

boomer, teacher, and former actor.

Nothing less than an intense training regiment;

in bed by 8 p.m.--up at 3 a.m.,

boots on the ground before sunrise,

wheels on the freeway before

the vehicle hordes gathered,

sliding stealth-fully clean

through zero dark thirty

like a mind missile on a drone mission;

giving myself two full hours to study,

to play, to create a cherished future;

getting my morning pump by writing

more poetry, introducing myself

to Facebook, YouTube, & then Twitter,

gleefully garnering new friends,

mostly artists and poets,

mixed liberally with old friends,

rocketing across the years,

reinstating personal connections

that were vague, hoary, covered

in dust bunnies and spider webs,

reaching back and reaching forward

simultaneously;

flying high and getting low,

getting absolutely addicted,

but truly digging it, with that

cyber-hook swallowed, its tendrils

bulging in my proud cheeks,

shaking like a cat shitting tacks,

excited, stimulated, satiated

as I leaped into the dark sink hole

that opened up yawning before me,

dropping like a sack of rocks

before finding that I had wings

under my shirt, butterflies in my pockets,

birdsong bursting in my chest,

becoming radiantly aware that with what

was left of my lifetime I would never

hit the bottom, never arrive

in China.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Lunatic Loopholes

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Lunatic Loopholes

“I just think that Rosa Parks was overrated. Last

time I checked, she got famous for breaking the law.”

--Stephen Colbert

I just read today that it is still illegal for women

to wear pants in Paris unless on a bike or a horse. 

Mitt Romney cited a 1800’s law to validate his 

political stance on banning abortions. 

Blue laws and stupid legislation still lurk

on the shady pages of law in many places.

                         Florida

No woman can legally parachute from a plane

on the Sabbath.

A woman can still be fined for falling asleep

under a salon hair dryer.

No man may be seen publicly wearing

any kind of strapless gown.

No one can have sex with a porcupine.

If you want to park an elephant at a meter,

you must pay full motor vehicle costs.

No one may fart in a public place after

6 p.m. on Thursdays.

                           Arizona

Donkeys are prohibited from sleeping in bath tubs.

                            Alabama

Putting salt on a railroad track may be punishable by death.

                             Connecticut

It is against the law to educate dogs.

                               Utah

It is illegal for a woman to have sex with a man in an ambulance.

                                 Virginia

It is not legal for a woman to leave the house without

wearing a proper corset.

                                Tennessee

It is against the law for a woman to drive a car unless

there is a man with a red flag in front of the car

alerting other drivers.

                                  Ohio

It is illegal for a woman to stand naked in front of a man’s

picture.

                                    

While lobbying for the passage of stricter

gun legislation, with the Middle East perched

on several powder kegs, with Iran & N. Korea

threatening to produce nuclear weapons--

perhaps it is silly to point out the absurdity

of some antiquated laws that are presently

“enforceable”, but I assure you if all politicians

were mandated by Federal law to have to wear

pink pedal-pushers every Tuesday,

maybe something akin to legislative

housekeeping would ensue.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2013.

Posted over on dVerse Poets -poetics

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Shadow Play

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Shadow Play

“Alas! Must it ever be so? Do we stand in our own

light, and fight for our own shadows forever?

---Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton

Today, Punxatawney Phil, the “seer of seers”,

(supposedly) awakened from his winter slumber

and emerged bright-eyed from his burrow

at Gobbler’s Knob and made his 127th

prognostication--and after not seeing 

his shadow, predicted that spring (might)

come early this year. 

Performing this feat in front of 20,000 people,

this being the weekend--many of them

wearing top hats & tuxedos.

There is a seamless thread for this sacrement

to other animal predictions of the weather,

stretching back across the shoulders of centuries;

tied to the Romans, and the Catholic ceremony

of Candlemass. The early Germans decided

to use the European hedgehog as prophet--

when a large population of Germanic folks

first settled into Pennsylvania, they found

a profusion of groundhogs, so the honors

were lovingly transfered to a new rodent.

In 1886, Phil was first called Br-er Groundhog,

and they relocated the ceremony to the Knob

in 1887. Like Superman & Lassie, Phil is ageless.

There are, of course, several usurpers out there

coveting his notoriety & throne. 

Staten Island Chuck in New York State.

General Beauregard Lee in Atlanta, &

Wiarton Willie up north in Ontario.

“They are all just rodent pretenders”

reported the Inner Circle.

Phil has been manipulated by media whores

for decades, and he seemed content with this;

During Prohibition, he threatened 60 more weeks

of winter if he couldn’t get a stiff drink.

In 1958, after Sputik & Muttnik, he was dubbed

the official United States Chucknik.

In 1981 he wore a yellow ribbon to honor

the American hostages in Iran.

In 1993 he starred in a movie with Bill Murray.

In 1995 he appeared on the Oprah Show.

It is said that Phil is never “wrong”

with his predictions, just sometimes

“less accurate secondary to freak circumstances”.

That sounds too much like the incessant patter

I used to hear from my stepfather.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets-poetics

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