Time Travelers

image borrowed from monolithic.com

Time Travelers

“We could warp space-time so much that you

could go in a rocket & return before you set out.”

--Stephen Hawking

Quantum physics

meets

meta-physics

on a gossamer thin thread

of time--                   

                              a transparent throbbing vein,

                            shaped like the living split

                          between the left and right brain.

                              

                              Beyond the veil, time is

                        reputed to be superfluous,

                    where past-present & future

                  are One;       perhaps linear,

                                       perhaps circular,

                                       perhaps amorphous.

Beyond our tiny galaxy,            a cosmos within

a billion-billion universes          a cosmos within

gyrate like hungry pinworms    a cosmos within

devouring rotting flesh,             a cosmos within

like mountains of granite          a pea,       within

being crushed into infinite        God’s half acre--

grains of sand. like munching   beyond 

molecules in a dust bunny--      comprehension,

                                                  beyond

                              imagination, beyond thought;

those stars behind & beyond those dead ones we

see in our night skies, because we are barely able

to cope with the notion that travel outside of our

galaxy will require leaving our body behind in some

sort of cryonic stasis, embarking on a soul journey

after we learn to fold time & penetrate black holes,

expanding our minuscule consciousness--also

consider that

traveling beyond the beyond will only be the

beginning of our cosmic selves, & most certainly

we’ll need poets along on the journey(s) to insure

that posterity will accurately chronicle the 

tumultuous tale of humanity turning itself 

inside-out, to witness Time being filleted 

like a fat flounder, split open to the white

meat, probed, smoked & deboned.

We must become time

travelers in order to be

at one with our gods.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Night of the Reaper

image borrowed from dlyonsart.blogspot.com

Night of the Reaper

“Believe that love is the strongest thing in the

world; stronger that hate, evil, or death--and

believe further that Love was born in

Bethlehem 2000 years ago.”--Henry Van Dyke.

A decade ago, my wife & I were visiting her mother

in Texas, My mother-in-law was 80, but still mentally

sharp. Three nights before Christmas, we were playing

pinochle, & she was gleefully winning. My father-in-

law was staying in a Rehab facility. Six months before,

he’d fallen asleep at the wheel of his truck & struck a

tree. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so he was launched

through the windshield & suffered traumatic brain injury.

He had always been a kind man, but he had turned

mean in the midst of his delirium. My sweet mother-in-law

could not adjust to his consummate cruelty toward her

& the medical staff.

Suddenly my sister-in-law showed up, telling us that my

father-in-law had died an hour earlier. We immediately

caravanned up to the facility & viewed the body; his great

chest stilled, a small smile on his lips. I watched grief on

the faces of the family wrestle with relief--hoping that

clarity had been granted to him on his journey, and that

cruelty had to hunt for a new residence.

A funeral for

Christmas bestowed mixed blessings;

so unique for each.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The City Stirs

image from fineartsamerica.com

The City Stirs

“Nature is a petrified magic city.”--Novalis

Sirens awaken me alltissmo & blaring;

perhaps     a meat wagon,   the police,

              or a firetruck--          charging

toward some calamity, deliberate and

              bellicoso.

A canto of pigeons coo on the edge of

the roof, all dolce & delicato--quite the

contrast to my Mickey Mouse alarm

clock blasting its brassy bell aria. I silence

it with a swift colpugno.

              Foghorns in the harbor

              bleat abafando in the

              distance. My tongue tastes metallic as

                             I burp pepperoni pizza, greasy

                             and abbandono.

               Some truck with twin

               stacks bellows & spews

               as it labors through its

                              crunching chorus of gears, before

                              fading con calando.

As I brew coffee,

     needing to consume

         caffeine devoto, I tap

            my fingers to the onerous

                  barbaro beat of a twin jackhammer

                       duet, busily reducing concrete to a

                          acciaccato dust pudding.

Mere blocks from the office, I move adante through

the´cacophony of the crowds crescendo, untouched,

nearly invisible, finding their frowns & epithets capricco,

the white noise within me fully abandono, but only in

the security of the elevator does my heartbeat return

to abattuta.

                          The city awakens

                           con allegrezza, as I

                           grasp joy in fermata.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Beauty Rises

image by glenn buttkus

Beauty Rises

“The future belongs to those who believe in the

beauty of their dreams.”--Eleanor Roosevelt.

Beauty is transcendent, 

                illusionary,

                eternal,

                sadness,

                triumphant,

                momentary, &

                ecstasy.         It can be body art, garish, eclectic

                                tattoos that use flesh as a canvas,

                           a fatal fad, a moment’s folly or love

                      in the rapture of bloom, that may lose

                  its luster as fashion becomes altered

              by cascading, tumultuous decades.

Those people who are born gorgeous as 

             models. stared at by all, once they

                  override their conceits, can come to

                        lament their beauty, often wishing to

                                 merely be an anonymous participant

                                        in the crowded landscape, rather

                                        than something akin to alabaster

                                        on a bronze pedestal;

But it is Nature, in all its guises, whether in a forested glen

swarming with golden & black Monarchs, or atop verdant

foothills at the feet of a fire mountain in early morning, 

while wild strawberry light slides across ermine glaciers,

with Mandarin orange clouds hanging like a general’s 

epaulets on the shoulders of the peak, or at a black beach

during a tropical sunset while the sea’s white caps frost the

smooth tops of infinite rows of waves & frenzied gulls pick

at the stringy pink flesh within yellow crab shells--where we

discover God’s living palette--

and finally, true beauty 

becomes the earnest appreciation

of aging, decay, and oxidation;

midst rotting wood, peeling paint

& rusting metal--where we 

re-evaluate a mature lover’s body,

though no longer hard-muscled,

but still the wondrous encasement

of the loving glow from their eyes,

the tenderness of their touch,

and the undying loyalty, sacrifice,

accommodation & reciprocity that

inhabits every fiber of their essence.

Beauty emerges from

every corner of our life.

resplendent to each. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

                                 

Charred

image from hd.wallpaperswide.com

Charred

“Only the Charred Council--not angels or demons, could

hold the warring factions at bay.”--from the Darksiders,

When char replaces flesh

and bleaches bone black,

fire scars burn deep--

beyond reconstructive surgery,

beyond recognition,

beyond humanity,

where upon the bark,

protoplasm, pulp and sinew,

sentinel and soul,

are converted to

first bright and

then dark energy--

when

cremation

obliterates

the creation.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Scene 54

image borrowed from pinterest.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Four

Predicament

“Life is just the predicament that precedes death.”

--Henry James.

1(sound cue) banjo & harmonica.

2(medium close up) Johnny Eagle staring at Bronson:

--So what the hell is burrowed up your backside so early?

3(reverse close-up) Cash Bronson:

--Aww, we’re just looking for strays & trouble--
makers. I was told that you were out here somewhere, so 
it’s a piece of luck finding you like this. I think you & 
I have some things to discuss, Johnny.

4(three-shot) angle on Buck: Anyone want some coffee; 
tastes like sawdust, but it’s hot.--tossing the inquiry like a
rock.

5(medium close-up) Bronson turned in the saddle, his dark 
eyes narrowing: So, you would be the mysterious buffalo 
hunter who has stirred up so much shit for me in town?

6(sound cue) slide guitar riff.

7(cut to overhead crane shot) the five riders facing the two 
men.

8(sound cue) Guitar strumming & snare drum baps.

9(two-shot) angle over Bronson’s shoulder, Buck smirking

--Yeah, that would probably be me

10(medium close-up) Bronson, tight-lipped, nodding his 
head:--OK, well I’m Cash Bronson, and one of these days 
we need to palaver over your mistaken notion that you 
actually can rebuild this ramshackle ranch of yours.

11(close-up) Buck, tight-jawed:  Sure, why not? I’d be 
pleased to jaw a bit with the one-eyed jack in these parts.

12(two-shot) Thor sat up tall, stretched & drawled: 
Not today, hombres. Fuck your coffee & fuck you. So 
tell them what we want, big brother.

13(hold the shot) angle over Thor’s shoulder, Bronson, his 
tone approaching a growl--Just sit on that itch, boy; then
returning his gaze to the two men afoot in front of him--My 
brother makes a valid point though. It is possible that this 
is not a friendly visit.

14(medium close-up) the Eagle: Would you call it an 
unfriendly one? as he rolled his throwing knife in his big
hands, an old Colt prominent on his hip.

15(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & branch flute trills.

16(two-shot) angle over Johnny’s shoulder, Bronson:

--It could be--it could be; kind of depends on you fellows.

17(cut to close-up) Buck: Is that a fact, how so?

18(two-shot) angle on Bronson--I don’t know where to

begin with you, big man--so let’s talk to Johnny first.

19(medium close-up) the Eagle: So, let’s get to it.

20(three shot) angle on Bronson: Come to find out

you had a big misunderstanding recently with my

auction manager over some wages?

21(close-up) Johnny: You know that pinche gordo had

it coming--that baboso doesn’t bring you any honor.

22(sound cue) saxophone & guitar.

23(medium close up) Bronson: So you gave it to him?

24(close-up) Johnny: Hell, no--Sheriff Hop showed up

& stopped the dance.

25(two-shot) angle on Bronson: You know, that’s not 

the way I heard it.

26(medium close-up) cut to Buck: That’s the way it was.

27(cut to medium wide shot) over the stiff backs of the 
five riders, with Buck & Johnny facing them.

28(series of jump-cut close-ups) Bronson, the Eagle, 
Thor, Buck, & the three cowhands.

29(sound cue) harmonica, saddles creaking, horses 
shifting hooves, & a dog growling.

30(close-up) bacon burning & smoking in a 
frying pan.

31(medium wide shot) Buck casually bent down, 
keeping Thor in his periphery, then lifted up the
blackened pan out of the low orange flames, & sat it
on a flat rock.

32(reverse the shot) Buck & Johnny with backs to the 
camera; --Bronson: Sorry about your vittles--straightening
up in the saddle, & folding his arms. Truth be told, 
Graff is a minor problem, & I choose to let you slide--
because when it comes to horse busting, I like your style; 
but get this clear, if you want wages from me, You will have 
to find a way to get along with Graff.

33(sound cue) guitar strumming.

34(two-shot) angle on Johnny, his features stoic, not respon-
ding.--Bronson: That brings us to a more serious problem--
that we need to deal with today; right now.

35( medium close-up) Buck: And what might that be?

--Bronson: I think that you boys need to know that you’re on 
my land.

36(sound cue) castanets & coronet.

Glenn Buttkus

OK, buckaroos, this is the last of the Review; from here on the episodes

will be new. Thanks to all the patient readers who trudged through all

54 scenes--and to the dozens of you who called for this review--you

are welcome. I am going on a three week road trip to TX starting next

week, so the saga continues after Thanksgiving. Hugs.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Wallspeak

image by glenn buttkus

Wallspeak

“Even paradise could become a prison if one had

enough time to take notice of the walls.”

--Morgan Rhodes.

There are a few of us left,

     deep in the inner cities--walls

           on ancient buildings, walls of brick,

                     that back in the 20’s & 30’s were 

           decorated with billboard art, hand

     painted advertisements, many 

over the top of others, now

resembling a decopasge,

or several layers of peeling

wallpaper, just

                           part of a musty past that did not

                  have the media options to boost sales

          & public exposure. I’m still shocked to hear 

  that most people spend 12 bucks to see a single

movie and then have to sit through a tedious myriad

of television commercials on the sainted silver screen

                        while suffering the indignation of having

                        a third of the audience playing with their

                        smart phones throughout the feature.

I am the north wall of the exalted Pythian Temple, 
crumbling bravely on Broadway in the theater district in
Tacoma. I face a parking lot, where once a department store
stood shoulder to shoulder with me. My aching bricks are
festooned with fading overlapping ads for cigars, jewelry, a
painless dentist, Turkish cigarettes, & the New York &
Washington Outfitting Co, where “a dollar a week will dress you”, 
sad smile, or at least it would in 1924.

The Temple used to house over a hundred members, rich

businessmen (all fat white cats--no Jews or ethnic minor
-ities), the Donalds of their day, rivaling the Masons &
Kiwanis. There are less than twenty members at present, old
men in moldy double-breasted suits, huddled in dark corners
smoking pungent cigars--while hybrid & electric cars
back into me, smashing my ankles, graffiti swaths cover a
section of me by the alley, drunks urinate on me after dark,
& most folks just pass by hurriedly without greeting or
acknowledging me. Such is the plight of most century old
walls.

I realize that I have a fateful date with a behemoth

wrecking ball soon. There’s a rumor that following

my unceremonious demolishment the pesky parking

lot adjacent to me will double in size; terrific--then

folks who work downtown can cough up 20 bucks

a day to park their jalopies on my proud bones. Yes.

progress can be both trollop & succubus.

Pioneer buildings

are rarely saved by those who

need a place to park. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub