Stairwell Stanzas

image borrowed from bing

Stairwell Stanzas

“Breed not a savage dog, nor permit

a loose stairway.”--Talmud quote. 

She stared at

                 the

              street

                       but never

                                saw

                               what

                                      was there. 

                                              When a sprinkler

                                                                   bec

                                                                 omes

                                                                        abstract

                                                                                 art

                                                                                 all

                                                                                    the robins

                                                                                           begin

                                                                                                 to

                                                                                        become

                                                                                        art

                                                                                        critics.

 The seventeen 

               cables

                     got

                         busy perfecting

                                                a

                                            new

                                                  knot of metal

                                                              fellow

                                                                 ship.

                                                                      Rusted Fords

                                                                                     make

                                                                                         the

                                                                                             best homes

                                                                                                           for

                                                                                                          lots

                                                                                                   of angry

                                                                                                   hungry

                                                                                                   spiders.

                                                                                       Ah hell,

                                                                                 swing

                                                                               your bale

                                                                         up, Bob;

                                                                     there’s

                                                                  plenty of

                                                              space.

    Then we all went out & gobbled pizza,

                                                              the end.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Today, Gay wants us to develop our own form of poetry; I call this Stairway 

Verse. It is superb descendant dissonance. 

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Keepsakes

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Keepsakes

“Poetry is a pack sack of invisible keepsakes.”

--Carl Sandburg.

Like a dog burying a hambone in the garden,

& then forgetting about it, as a species

we seem to all hoard, save, put aside

every sort of thing--somehow significant

for a moment, for a month--mementos,

souvenirs, impractical gifts, belly button lint,

string, shells, tin foil balls, crystals, driftwood.

Hanging on to the edge of a protruded brick

of our living room fireplace, on the left liberal

side, is my grandfather’s cane, made from

a shellacked bull’s penis, 3 feet in length;

opposite it on the right conservative side

hangs a plain wooden cane that my father-in-law

left behind during a visit fifteen years ago;

both passed on now, both remembered daily

by their dueling canes.

There is a hexagon candy jar

    full of small colored rocks

         that we kept bringing home

                after beach combing & hikes;

part

of a plan I once had

of polishing all

                   of them, and then

displaying them in a beautiful

hand-made wooden bowl

I would get somewhere--

                   but the jar is full,

sitting on a low shelf

in the basement,

alongside

              a clear plastic bag

                                     of perfect sand dollars

that nobody ever sees but me.

The crown jewel of nostalgia

is a small leather suitcase

that my grandfather gave me. 

It had once held his wonderful oil paints

& the brilliant smears of color all over it

make it look Pollock-dripped

or Matisse-dotted.

Inside it now are hundreds of letters.

For a busy decade during my twenties;

while in the Navy,

returning to college twice,

starting my career as an Actor,

then abandoning it for one as a teacher,

he and I

kept up a continuous stream of correspondence.

I kept all of his letters;

he was a wonderful writer,

having the knack

            of seeming just conversational.

Just before

                    he died,

                                  he told me

that he had kept all my letters too,

& that it might be a fun project

to combine them & correlate them.

After he passed away

leaving

a void none of us has ever recovered from,

I organized them,

his letter,

my response--

my letter,

his response;

the perfect memory box.

Years ago,

when I first started blogging,

I thought they were worth sharing,

so I typed up

       a couple of dozen

                of them, until

one day when the absurdity nymphs

stopped by & reminded me

that the world at large didn’t really care

about them as I did,

and besides,

it wasn’t any of their damn business, so

I closed the lid

on the treasured painter’s box,

folding the letters twenty score,

placing it on a high shelf

in the busy furnace room

          at head-height, so that

                      every time I pass by it

                               picking up toilet tissue,

paper towels, 

          feminine products, 

                         or Kleenix, 

we can exchange pleasantries

& knowing glances.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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21 Years

April 3, 1993

21 Years

“Love is the emblem of eternity, it confounds all notions of time,

effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end.”

--Germaine De Stael.

Just another Thursday morning,

waking up achey & stiff

with a pad of steel wool

in my dry mouth, my mind

still stuck partially in hypnogogic 

review, fast-forward/backward dream slides--

my mother in the kitchen, dead

over 40 years now, but there baking bread,

as the house hummed with family;

five grandchildren,

three daughters,

three strapping son-in-laws

puttering around, fixing things--

broken chairs, swollen doors, burned out

light switches, because they knew this

was all stuff I was incapable of doing,

having the mechanical aptitude of a fruit fly.

My grandfather arm wrestling

with my stepfather out on the tile-covered

table in the corner of our large deck,

both dead, both grunting as their

massive biceps knotted, & their dislike

for each other furrowed itself

into their sweaty foreheads--

two dead dogs,

three dead cats,

all there lying about

enjoying the company

& the day;

replaced by the tick of time

from the clock near my head,

accompanied by the empty basement symphony,

the oil furnace whoosh,

the big freezer wheeze,

the industrial sump-pump gurgle,

the utility sink drip,

the damn dog barking next door,

& the strident pleading 

of our Keezie Kat outside,

reminding me that it was time to feed him--

usually my sweet wife fed him, 

for she still had a job, had a routine,

but this morning she was on Spring Break,

& besides she was in Maryland

with our oldest daughter, hugging

two grandsons.

I called her cell phone as soon

as I could get my tongue to work,

& we had a mad singing duet/duel:

Happy Anniversary,

Happy Anniversary,

Happy 21st Anniversary to you!!!

Later I was on Facebook,

on her page, & I read the tender declaration,

praising her old husband for loving her enough

to send her clear across the country to be with

the furthest extremities of our clan.

Oh sure, I thought,

I’m a real prince;

just staying at home

writing more poetry,

reading the new script

of the play I will be in soon,

cat-sitting, feeling footloose,

buying a new set of radials

for my SUV as an anniversary gift;

and after polishing off another Jimmy Dean

breakfast bowl for one, I clicked open

my digital album & reviewed

some of our other anniversary memories,

the week on the big island of Hawaii,

the few days at the Oregon shores,

the freezing room at that strange B&B

near Mt. Rainier, smiling

at the memory of all the God-awful meals

we had in crappy restaurants while 

heralding our special day, all the lumpy

beds we slept in at hotels & motels,

all those road trips, plane flights, & adventures

we embarked on in the name of our nuptials,

now representing more than two decades

of mostly harmonious matrimony;

marveling at how well 

I was dealing with my solitude,

not really alone,

never alone again,

for her spirit, her essence

surrounded me, & even the old tomcat

seemed to know that 

she would be winging home

soon. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Ursus Americanus

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Ursus Americanus

“Whatever happens to the beast, also happens

to the man--all things are connected.”

--Chief Seattle.

When I was ten, I watched my grandfather

skinning out a large black bear. He had shot it

along the Carbon River, near Mt. Rainier,

in the forested foothills of the Cascades. 

It was a big Brownie, probably ran 350 pounds--

it had attacked him while they were both salmon-

fishing. He killed it with five blasts of the .357 Magnum

pistol he always wore while out in the woods. He had

killed bear before, but he often feared that one day

regardless of its wounds, he would meet the bruin

that might have the spirit to keep coming,

and take his life, the pair of them 

dancing with death.

“Never shoot them in the head, it won’t stop them.

If you can get them to stand up on their hind legs,

you shoot them just above the peter, & break

their pelvis, & while they are dragging around

their back legs, you can just walk right up to it,

look him in the eye, & finish the job.”

Working with the carcass in his backyard,

he had removed the head, & as it hung there

on three stout timbers, it looked like a crucified

thief, Barabbas reborn, or like Dan, our

Norwegian mailman; so human-like

it stunned me.

My Pop was a devout Evolutionist, 

& he believed that Bear were a distant relative

to man; it had sweet meat, like pork,

like man himself according to cannibals--

that at some point it just branched off

from great apes, & joined the pack

of Caniforms, letting its snout elongate,

& developing sharp non-retractible claws.

“I call this big guy, Bjorn; notice his cinnamon 

blond color, just like a handsome Swede. I’m

going to make a vest & some house slippers

out of his hide, and a spirit necklace out of

his claws.

He talked about the Native Americans

who worshipped the Bear Totem, respecting

its free spirit, with its definite element of

unpredictability, capable of moving from

berry-eater & fish-catcher to raging warrior

at the drop of a pine cone. 

“Remember, Butch, they look clumsy, but

they can run up to 30 mph, & they climb trees

a hell of a lot faster than you can.”

He told me about hunting Polar bear, Kodiaks,

& grizzlies in Alaska: “I once witnessed

a 1500 pound polar bear attacking a float plane;

tore that plane into corn flakes.”

He always amazed me with his outdoorsman

expertise: “They don’t really hibernate, you know,

they just find a cave & chill out for a couple months,

what they call their “winter sleep”--but they rouse

themselves to crap or piss, or eat some of their

stored up food. So don’t enter a bear’s den during

winter just for the thrill of it, because it will notice,

& it will fuck up your holiday plans.”

In history class I had read about how the Romans

loved to pit bear against lions, gorillas, & even

elephants; how most of the time the bear

were the victors.

“In the wild there is only one predator capable of preying

on adult bear--a tiger; but its real enemy is us, man;

cutting down their habitat, building tract houses

& ugly strip malls, reducing the proud bear clan

to garbage foragers, & pet-killers.

It’s a damn shame.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Blackthorne--Scene Twenty-Five

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Twenty-Five

Advice

“I always pass on good advice--it’s the only thing to do with

it, for it’s never of any use to oneself.”--Oscar Wilde.

1(sound cue) harmonica.

2(two-shot)

--Barnes: sure, like rats in your grain silo.

--Buck: why doesn’t this town just hire some gunfighters

of it’s own & checkmate Bronson?

3(medium close-up) Barnes: because he’s the one with all the

damn money, the gunslingers, & the politicians.

4(close-up) Buck: and I suppose your crackerjack sheriff is hard

on strangers & easy on Bronson?

5(wide two shot) angle on the barber:

--Barnes: it ain’t that simple. Joe Hopp is from Abeline, and he’s good

with a gun, has a hell of a reputation. I’ve seen him pistol whip several

bad hombres. He is no coward. 

--Buck: then what the hell is he?

6(tighten the two-shot) the barber keeps trimming Buck’s thick beard

with his nickel-plate scissors.

--Barnes: careful, I guess, patient--been here a little over a year. The last 

two sheriffs didn’t fare too well; one was back-shot, the other went

fishing & just lit out. Hopp is bidding his time. I don’t think Bronson

bought his badge.

7(sound cue) the scissors cutting hair & a clarinet mimicking the squeak.

8(medium close-up) the beard begins to disappear, thick clumps of hair

lying on the barber sheet, a strong cleft chin beginning to be seen.

--Buck: what’s the story on Bronson’s brothers?

--Barnes: he’s got two of them.

9(two-shot) angle on Barnes as he pours some hot water into a fat

black shaving mug, then whipped up some frothy lather from the

soap cube in the bottom.

--Barnes: why do you ask, mister?

10(sound cue) acoustic guitar chord.

11(medium close-up) Buck stares out into the street at the cold-shadow

people moving through the hot dust--and beyond them to the phantoms

of the past.

--Buck: I tossed one of them out of a second story window & I’m figuring

on some trouble coming my way.

12(tight two-shot) the barber begins dabbing the wet steaming lather into

the pepper fuzz that remained, working it in with the brush.

--Barnes: then be smart, ride on.

--Buck: such a friendly town--you’re the second person

in a half hour to give me that advice.

13(hold the two shot) The barber opens a long straight razor

and begins to shave him.

14(sound cue) the scrape of the sharp blade on a face, blended

with a violin mimicking the scraping.

--Barnes: you look like a drifter, just blow back out onto the prairie,

slap leather before we have to bury you in boot hill.

15(sound cue) cello & snare drums.

16(close-up) Buck: thanks, but I think I’ll be sticking around

for a bit.

17(wide two-shot) angle on the barber, the black dog still under

the table watching the door.

--Barnes: plenty of men have tried to take on the Bronsons, our

cemetery is full of them, & old Cash is still the hairy bear. 

--Buck: I’ve got roots here.

18(close-up) Barnes: this ain’t the same town you left, son--

your roots are dead & gone for sure. 

19(tight two shot) angle on the hunter:

--Buck: Bronson is just a man; he bleeds red like the rest of us.

--Barnes: he behaves like a baron & his army of lead-pushers

is like a twenty-headed Hydra.

20(sound cue) pioneer fiddle bar.

21(medium close-up) the razor makes several passes down his

cheek, & the skin shone both pale & pink. The barber wiped the

lather on a towel over his shoulder.

22(back to the two-shot) over the barber’s shoulder:

--Buck: how’d this town get so dog-fucked?

23( tight two-shot) angle on the barber:

--Barnes: Bronson showed up here about ten years ago, had a

carpet satchel full of money & six men with him. He started out

buying the old ACE DUECE, sprucing it up to become the CHINA

DOLL. He made a fortune, & every year he bought up more of

the town, growing more powerful. He lets cowpokes & strangers

have their fun, takes their money, & then his men escort them

out of town. 

--Buck: I’m not a stranger.

--Barnes: so you say. 

24(medium wide shot) the barber wipes the straight razor clean,

and sets it in a tray; the shave is over.

--Barnes:  look, I’m an old man--my son tells me I talk too much.

Maybe you work for Bronson, maybe he’s finally decided to shut

me up, maybe you are my assassin. You do stink of death.

25(two-shot) Barnes had spoken calmly, matter-of-fact, without

emotion. He wipes the excess lather off of Buck’s face. 

--Buck: I’ve seen more than my share of it.

26(sound cue) coronet & clarinet duet.

27(hold the two-shot) angle on the barber:

--Barnes: Paul is the youngest, a chickenshit tinhorn coward,

he hides behind the guns of the others.

28(medium close-up) the barber returns to the hair-cutting,

running a red comb through the hair, & snipping the ends off.

--Buck: And Thor is the bad ass, right?

--Barnes: Uh-huh, he shot a fifteen year old farm kid to death

right here in the street last month. He ramrods the Triple-B

Ranch, & he sticks to Cash like a foreskin; he is the enforcer,

& the worst of the hired killers would follow him into hell.

29(close-up) Buck: well shit-fire, hell will pop open when

I meet up with that wicked son of a bitch. 

30(sound cue) saxophone squawking.

31(medium close-up) Cheewa growls like a grizzly in a 

bear trap, and jumps to his feet.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets OLN

Yes, it is the last Saturday of the month, and Open Link Night is upon us.

Would you like the author to read this Cinemagenic Poem to you?