Disclosure

image borrowed from stannsbandstead.blogspot.com 

Disclosure

“A man’s highest moment is when he kneels in the dust, 

& beats his breast, & tells all the sins of his life.”--Oscar Wilde.

Confession

walks hand-in-hand with

Confusion.

Confession is good for the soul--

but              relative to what?                   We all harbor darkness within

                                                     the etherial epidermis of our essence,

                                           and those ebony stripes, that weave abstract

                               patterns within our psyche, are unfortunately forever

                    in flux, mysterious shape-shifting multi-highways constantly

       changing both direction & configuration as the sensory

                    storms of thunderous emotion roll over

                               the vast prairie of our personality.

A murderer confesses his deed

to a priest, or a sin-eater,                       and somehow, miraculously,

                               that is enough to provide absolution, forgiveness,

                                          or acceptance?        Hell, no.

Confession is often aligned with morality,

a Muse, an impetus for disclosure,

as an intense reflection of our

childhood lessons & experiences.                We are taught, or conditioned

                                                          to only verbalize those thoughts that

                                                 are socially acceptable, tinged with candor,

                                             good manners & common sense.

Do we need to exercise the rites

                   of confession for ourselves

                              as we allow our selfishness,

                                                        arrogance, &

                                                        ignorance to cast us

                                                        in the role of asshole?       Probably not,

even though psychologists tell us

                                    that self-delusion can be prevalent. 

Confession is too often mixed up with

apology, regret, guilt, repression, or depression,

so just who does it serve?

Do you really think that God         in any of his guises         really cares about

                    the hidden festering feelings you may have

               regarding homosexuality, other religions, other races, sports

teams, same-sex marriages, or political parties?

In addition          the specters of truth, dishonesty, scamming, exaggeration

                     abuse & ego all join the posse of participants

             when the urge to purge, to confess rises up

like waves of nausea,

like bile or acid reflux,

             as you prepare to spew your perceptions,

                       like projectile vomiting of sin & misdeeds

                               to someone,

                               to something,

                               to the clouds, the crows, or the wind.

We are painfully aware 

that the police, or terrorists are quite capable

of beating confessions out of innocent people, yet we persist

                               in the fallacy that confession

                               can successfully masquerade as a solution. 

It’s just more complicated than that,

like trying to reduce evolution to Darwinism,

or cosmic consciousness to Genesis.         Sure, confession can/should

                       be a tool in our survival kit, but

                 we should never let that tool be misunderstood or misused;

        like using a claw hammer to brush your teeth,

or scratch at an insect bite with a hand saw;

for Confession flies in the same flock as Faith,

& it is just as hard to define

utilize, or completely understand. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

The Smoking Carafe

image taken from designrulz.com

The Smoking Carafe 

“Conscience keeps more people awake than coffee.”

--Anonymous.

they stop out

frontier here. it looks as 

if the carafe

is on firkin.

the smolt blazes bluff from

the hoodlum &

exhaust. the motte

sounds like cannula shots, the

carafe humps wildly

one gym gets

out; Jesus, he says. he

takes a long

dripping from a

canzonet watt baggage & gives

the carafe an

eerie look, the

other gym gets out, &

looks at the

carafe--Jesus, he

says & he takes a 

dripping from a

pinto of whistle,

then passes the bottom to his

frieze. they both

stand & look

at the carafe, one holding

the whistle, the 

other the watt.

they are not dressed in

conventional hippogriff garden,

but in natural

old cloture, faded,

dirty & torn. A buttermilk

goes past my

wine & they get back

into the carafe

& it bucks

off in low like a

roentgan broach. they

are both laughing

& one has the bottom

tilted. the buttermilk

is gone &

ouzo there is a glochidium

of smolt, fossa

fops in circumnutation.

first humblebee beldam I’ve seen

in Los Angeles

in 15 yearnings.

Glenn Buttkus

****************************************

the smoking car

they stop out front here

it looks as if the car is on fire

the smoke blazes blue from the hood & exhaust

the motor sounds like cannon shots

the car humps wildly.

one guy gets out,

Jesus, he says. he takes a long drink from a

canvas water bag

& gives the car an eerie look.

the other guy gets out & looks at the car.

Jesus, he says,

& he takes a drink from a pint of whiskey

then passes the bottle to his 

friend.

they both stand & look at the car,

one holding the whiskey,

the other the water bag.

they are not dressed in conventional hippie garb

but in natural old clothes,

faded, dirty, & torn.

a butterfly goes past my window

& they get back in the

car

& it bucks off in low

like a rodeo bronc.

they are both laughing

& one has the bottle

tilted....

the butterfly is gone

& outside there is a glob of smoke

40 feet in circumference.

first human beings I’ve seen in Los Angeles

in 15 years.

Charles Bukowski

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Anna is host at the Pub calling for "tools for inspiration". I chose the Oulipo N+7 

in the Collom Lune form, working from a Bukowski poem.

Would you like to hear the author read this poetic exercise to you?

Quagmire

image from tommcnease.net


Quagmire

“Militant Islam tells us that the enemy of our enemy

is still our enemy.”--Benjamin Netanyahu.

Today Benjamin Netanyahu

                          gave a long speech to the Congress

                                              of the United States, invited by

                          the Republicans not by the administration, not

                  by Barack Obama. It was given calmly, well-rehearsed, 

             sans histrionics,  as it was streamed live

on Goggle, with witnesses, standing room only,

tweeting results moments after every talking point. 

Clearly             there must be, are issues, facts, factions, politics

          & diplomacy below the surface here,

that we are not, 

& may never be          privy to--yet, hey,

         what the hell are we to think?

The hard clapping, smiling Republicans welcomed

the Prime Minister of Israel

                like he was long-lost Uncle Bernie, parading

                him like a trained seal under the gaze

                of the President, at the same time our

Secretary of State, John Kerry, is in Geneva       endeavoring to broker

                a Peace Agreement with Iran “diplomats”.

The picture painted by Netanyahu

was ebony bleak indeed, reminding        us that Iran has been sponsoring

                International Terrorism for over 30 years, 

                            & that their mock competition with ISIS

                over who will become the big Ayatollah of Militant Islam

is a sham; ISIS is but a motley conglomerate of zealous thugs

& we must not forget that Iran is a country, with huge resources

& a million axes to grind. His mantra was repeated like a Zen chant--

                 if Iran is left unchecked

                 it will develop nuclear weapons in less than a year,

                            & much like North Korea it will stockpile those weapons

                             like a troupe of rabid squirrels hoarding chestnuts. 

Daily we are advised by genuine Islamic leaders       & scholars, that

Militant Islam is not, never has been Islamic by its

very nature, any more than David Koresh at Waco 

                    actually represented Christianity. 

Netanyahu compares himself to a 

shouted-down Winston Churchill in         the 1930’s, warning

          his country, & the whole world, that Adolf Hitler

          & his Nazi denizens needed to be checked, & stopped. 

“Remember,” Netanyahu said, “America is called the Great Satan”,

                          & that a marriage between Militant Islam 

                          & nuclear weapons can only lead headlong

               into deadly catastrophe, where all the nations of the Middle East

         would be forced into an arms race, wanting warehouses

    of their own nuclear bombs as a knee-jerk panacea,

as the most dangerous region in the world

would become a tinderbox, a powder keg. 

How is it possible to negotiate

with a group of people who will never consider

accommodation,          who consider us Infidels, unworthy, unclean, Godless.

They gave those recently kidnapped Christians

a simple choice--convert to (their version of) Islam      or die.

We feel like appointed ambassadors to Jonestown,

trying to appeal to Jim Jones’ humanity,

as the beheadings & beastiality continue, &

are considered forms of acceptable behavior. 

So what are we to do?

Just look around--          North Korea & Pakistan already have

               a substantial nuclear arsenal, & so far

               they have been wise enough not to use them.

                                        Vladimir Putin may, or may not have had        

               anything to do with silencing his chief critic.

Muslim extremists in Africa still flourish.

Drug Lords & despots in South America still rule.

                                         Innocent people everywhere,

               in every corner of the globe

    are being held for ransom, raped, starved, assassinated 

& murdered      as the New Millennium Crusades dove-tails

                         with the old conflicts      still unresolved, 

regarding combating tyranny & totalitarianism. 

Meanwhile           in a quiet corner of the     

         international front page,

I found this tiny article about Benjamin’s younger brother, 

        Iddo, who is a doctor & a playwright living in NYC, 

                 who was being interviewed          about the opening

        of his new play, A HAPPY END;            a story about a Jewish family

                  who lived in Berlin in the 1930’s,

                      who were trying to assess the magnitude

of real threat that Adolf Hitler

          & his maniacal horde of Nazis      actually posed;

which really pleased me

as I abandoned the planet’s chaos

          this morning, & dropped it into the lap of irony--

          where Art is allowed to portray both

          a pretense & a portent. 

Glenn Buittkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Blackthorne--Scene 33

image from romanceworks.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Thirty-Three

Memories

“Memories are not the key to the past,

but to the future.”--Corrie Ten Boom

1(three-shot) Wallace & Salina with their backs to the camera--

Buck looking at one, then the other.

2(sound cue) guitar chord.

3(medium close-up) Buck: I’m really not interested at this time.

4(close-up) Salina, eyes flashing: Why the hell not? Right now

you’re waltzing into a rattlesnake nest. Do you really want to

make our situation in this town your fight? You could stay drunk

for a year on what we would pay you.

5(medium reaction shot) Both Wallace & Buck staring at Salina;

not pleased.

6(sound cue) trumpet & Indian seed rattle.

7(medium close-up) Buck, his eyes narrowing: Look, Miss, I

appreciate your offer & your intentions, but I don’t want to get

drunk, & I don’t want to sell my ranch, or ride out, or run from

Bronson. Like I told your father, I’m through with drifting. If it comes

down to it, my bones will be buried on the ranch next to my folks.

8(sound cue) harmonica & guitar.
9(medium close-up) Salina, smiling sadly, looking him squarely

in the eyes: Sounds like you have made up your mind, for now.

We respect that--& if it comes down to it, I will put fresh flowers

on your grave every other Sunday.

10(medium wide shot) She turned & walked past him, smelling like

lavender blossoms & horse sweat. She opened a door behind them,

leaving it open as she strolled out into the back yard. 

11(close up) Buck, remembering--

12(flashback)  the freshly white-washed fences around the Buck family 

plot, & those flowers on the graves.

13(medium close-up) Buck’s face flushed red.

!4(two-shot) Wallace poured a finger of white whiskey into their cups.

--You alright, son?

15(sound cue) violin & soft banjo.

16(angle on Buck over Wallace’s shoulder)

--Yeah, I’m aces. Your daughter seems to have iron staves in

her petticoat.”

17(two-shot) Buck staring out of the open door at Salina.

18(cut to medium shot) Salina near a flower bed, the breeze in

her blackbird tresses, fluttering her Mexican scarf, her hands

on her hips, with yellow, blue, & red flowers at her feet. 

19( extreme close up) Buck’s eyes softening.

20(angle on Salina) bending down to pull some weeds. A chorus

of dogs barked, a high soaring hawk screed. He watched her move

her firm body poking through her riding clothes. 

21(two shot) Buck looking into the camera, with Wallace behind him.

--Wallace: Here, take another complimentary snort.

Buck turned around & accepted the drink.

22(medium close-up) Wallace: Don’t be too concerned about Salina.

I wanted a son. Melissa, my wife, God rest her soul, wanted a

daughter. I guess we were both a bit disappointed. As you can see,

she is very much her own person.

23(sound cue) piano & clarinet.

24(two-shot) over Wallace’s shoulder.

--Buck: You mentioned you knew my father--funny, I don’t really

remember you.

25(two-shot, angle on Wallace)

--You had already lit out, out there galavanting around butchering buff

& servicing Indian maidens--but he used to talk about you often. 

26(angle on Buck)--So you only knew him as a drunk?

27(close-up) Wallace: Bill Buck was my friend--but yeah, I knew him

during the worst years, when you could trip over him any morning,

sleeping on your porch, in your doorway or barn. 

28(cut to medium close-up) Salina weeping, holding a single rose,

staring intently at the prairie horizon between buildings. 

29( sound cue) violin & harmonica.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN

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

Masks

image from thetuscankitchen.com

Masks

“The liberal state is a Mask, behind which there is no face;

it is a scaffolding behind which there is no building.”

--Benito Mussolini.

The face you wear at work          varies a bit

                      from lunch to board room,

                      from the handball court

                              (where you let your supervisor win)

               to the smarmy pithy views you share with Tess

                               (whose husband you went to college with)

                      around the water cooler.

The face you wear at the Credit Union

          as you ask for a personaL loan                 is quite different from

  the one you slip on for the plumber, or

                                      the waitress at Dixie’s, or

                                      the cop who pulled you over for failure

          to yield to a pedestrian in a crosswalk. or

                                       the crippled busker who blows mad mellow

trumpet near the farmer’s market, holding it low, head down,

eyes closed like Chet Baker, or

                                      the drunken Indian, reeking of Budweiser,

           on the beach below the reservation at Toholah, who appeared

                          out of the twilight half-shadows, asking for

                                  more beer or three dollars, who tells you

                          his name is Bear as he melts back into the darkness

            as you shovel angry sand onto the bright embers

of your dying fire.

There are several faces you have perfected even for

your wife, though certainly sometimes

she sees the real one,

                     raw, naked, vulnerable, intense & sensitive,

                     dripping with pain or joy, 

       and more than likely she recognizes You,        flickering past

partially mantled as one of a dozen guises, making

the shuffling sound as a part of a flip-animation notebook,

                     knows the difference, and

has conditioned her responses to each one.

Damn, just consider the face you present to

                                               your siblings,

                                               your parents,

                                               your children & grandchildren, or

                                                   your good friends--

                      each in turn completely relevant

           to who they think you are, or

               who you pretend to be, or

for a moment actually are;

                       for each of us are like the Chinese Mask performers

snapping new faces on instantly

as we turn our head,

or shift our gaze.             Decade standing upon decade,

                       we are all actors superbly playing many parts

like Alec Guiness or Peter Sellers, like Commedia participants

             allowed to wear any of the masks at will.

But while alone

shaving the face in the mirror, or

snipping nose hairs, or

brushing back gray locks

from our actual Face,                            moments elongate,

                         You hear the brakes screeching,

                                        the tires sliding, your vehicle 

out of your control,

as the rainbow scales fall away,

the bark peels back         & You are bathed in a stark realization

                          that one day soon, perhaps

                    even at that very moment, or another,

          without warning, blitzkrieg but brimming with

provocation, punishment & panache,

one day the paint becomes

too heavy for the wall

when you cover it up

so often--

                              & even though your hidden closets

                              & secret drawers are still overflowing

               with colorful lovingly-crafted masks, you find

          that some of them have crystalized    or disintegrated

                                                          or turned to bronze

                                                  or tin or putty or salt, &

You are left with fewer choices each morning.

Your actual Self              smiles defiantly, understanding

that it would soon usurp the folded hordes of imposters

you have habitually carried in your hidden pockets,

one for every occasion;    for in the end, skidding toward the veil,

there can be only one. 

 Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on d√erse Poets MTB

Today jousting as part of Team Brian

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?