Faith

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Faith

“Faith without doubt leads to moral arrogance, which

is the eternal pratfall of the religiously convinced.”

--Joe Klein.

                                       Faith

                                 a girl’s name

                              could be, or a boy’s

                       --to wear, to carry to defend

                 like a tattooed lace collar, or plucked

                                   eyebrows.

Faith,

for me,

always pops

up false, like a

simpleton’s trembling

smile, or those spinning

metal duck targets in a carnival

shooting gallery.

                                                   Even 

                                                   as a child,

                                                   I found the bright

                                                   zealous eyes of the faithful

to

  be

     empty,

            a sell-out,

                   false & phony,

                           the worshipping

of

big

attractive

lies,

charismatic

con-men

and

very

dangerous

demagogues.

We see that faith

      and subsequent belief systems,

                go hand in hand, go steady like

                      some junior high crush, and that

                   relationship is as fragile as a

               paper mache boat--too easily

          sinkable, unbalanced, unhinged

without wheels, without genuine

propulsion--yet claiming, even

boasting of its stability.

Faith, by definition, is a strong belief in something

of/for which there is no empirical truth, an admission

& a celebration of ignorance--where someone buys

the con, the premise & moves into a compound in

Waco, or a village in Guayana, or travels to Syria

to learn how to kill Infidels, rape young boys, suppress

women, & literally reverse reality, shifting it back into

the barbaric past, or elect a pompous arrogant

billionaire who makes promises of change based upon

sleight of hand & the pernicious greed of the 1%. 

So here I stand, absent of faith in our government,

politicians or the police, with my acrid skepticism

being reinforced daily.

Perhaps faith itself

is not a false journey, and

we must accept that

our personal choices do

demonstrate our need for it.             

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Comparisons

image by Emily Blincoe over at http://www.emilyblincoe.com

Comparisons

“Personality begins where comparisons leave off.”

--Shannon L. Alder

Pessimism bitch slaps optimism.

The earth & its moon tend to hide their dark side.

Comparisons are inevitable,

night and day,

yin & yang,

monochrome images juxtaposed to color ones,

perfect smiles vs. broken teeth,

athletes competing with the crippled,

molotov cocktails vs. tiger tanks,

men from Mars--women from Venus;

gods of war vs. nymphs of love,

bare knuckles compared to boxing gloves,

50’s shoe skates vs. roller blades,

dusky moths fluttering beside Monarch butterflies,

a 1949 Packard alongside a Nisson Leaf,

a garden spade vs. a steam shovel,

bare hands vs. an industrial crane,

a wheel barrow competing with a box car,

mountains towering over foothills,

a mud puddle in sight of the sea,

a sperm whale swimming with sardines,

& the Donald pretending to debate Hillary.

Art is so vast, it

surrounds & inspires us to

interpret its face.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Denizens

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Denizens

“God is dead, & we killed him--but his

shadow still looms.”--Friedrich Nietsche.

Can anyone

take a stroll

after midnight.

even in a well-lit

city, without fearing

what lurks in the

shadows--                            that netherworld of

                                             scurrilous foes that

                                             live to hunt.

                                                       rob,

                                                       rape,

                                                       murder,

                                                       defile &

                                                       devour

                                              we who walk in the light?

I doubt it.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Review IX--Ep: 50-51

image from mbaldwinfineart.blogspot.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenics 50-51

Review  Part IX

“The couple of these reviews only garnered like a half

dozen comments. I understand, but it is disheartening

to work so hard on catching the readership up on the

story so far, only to witness little interest. Of course,

the reviews are lengthy, & most folks don’t want to

read more than one page; there it is--and now to

continue.”--Glenn

Fifty: Deception--Buck & Johnny built a holding corral in

a small alcove in a cliff. They staked out three unbroken 

mares in it. From ten feet or further, the tall sage that was

cut & stacked against the railings hid the corral--it just

looked like an open passage between two large boulders.

Above them, the Appaloosa & his herd stopped to

investigate. The stallion & the mares conversed. The breeze

blew from behind him. He did not smell the hidden men. 

Several of the mustangs were restless in the herd. The

Appaloosa silenced them. The stallion trotted down the

hill & stood at the opening. The tethered mares urged him

to come to them. After a few minutes of alacrity, he came

into the corral, and began nuzzling the mare. The sound of

the first pole slipping across the opening spooked him. He

whirled around & bolted toward the pole, but rapid fire a

second, third, & fourth pole slid into place blocking him--

& there were two men with ropes behind the poles.

Fifty-One: Capture--The Appaloosa raced around the 

holding pen, as the mare screamed & strained against

their lariats. He jumped, bucked, & kicked out hind legs,

then rose up on them, wild-eyed & punching at the dusty

air. Johnny & Buck stood quietly, their faces flushed with

excitement. The Eagle said, “God’s heuvos, that’s one

damn magnificent horse! Buck said, “Hey, brother. it

worked--Chatawa is ours!!” Johnny responded, “No, my 

Buck, he is all yours, jumping right out of the clouds for

you, folding back his wings, the mist still steaming off 

his spotted rump. He has great medicine & a warrior’s 

heart. One day soon he will be pleased to carry your

big bones.”  Buck, “Well, he’s not mine yet, for he has

run wild for a time, & only the arroyo wind has been his

rider.”  Johnny, “With him at stud, you will build the

finest rancho in the territory. Bronson will shit himself

with envy.” Johnny slipped through the poles, & stood

up, his yellow lariat in one hand--then he said, “Do 

you see his split ear? You luck holds, hombre, for he

is Nez Pierce trained. Appaloosas like him have 

already been tamed & ridden, but their spirit has not

been broken. Now he is calm, & he waits for a new

Master.” Buck sprouted a huge smile. The stallion

stood in front of the mares. Johnny, “Sure, I know,

hellfire stud, these now are your women. We are not

here to hurt them or you. No, no, we will give you 

love. Do you remember love, Chatawa.”  The stallion

held the Indian’s scent in his quivering nostrils, &

upon hearing his Indian name, he calmed down. 

The Eagle continued, “Yes, I’m talking to you, brave

boy--with the ass like thunderclouds. Do you remember

gentle hands, the smell of buffalo?”  Johnny pointed

to Buck, “There is a buffalo , right there. You & he will

be compadres. You two prairie giants have seen

plenty of those big humps crashing to earth, huh?”

He moved closer to the Appaloosa, his rope looped

now. “”Chatawa, do you see this rope?” He tossed 

the rope loop on the ground near the horses hooves.

“That’s right, it’s just an old rope, not a snake, harmless.

It smells of horses, mesquite, buffalo crap, sweat, & me.”

He gathered up the rope & stepped closer. The dappled

stud lunged at him, but Johnny side-stepped, & flicked

the wide lariat loop over the horse’s head, then quickly

swing-wrapped it around a breaking post. The horse

stopped & stood tall. “You see, it’s alright, you are not

hurt.” The Indian bent down & plucked out a handful

of sweet bunch grass, & tossed it near the stallion.

Chatawa accepted the offering, & began to munch it.

Johnny unwrapped his end of the rope, & dropped it

into the red dust. Johnny & Buck leaned against the

railings, just smiling & enjoying the company. Johnny

said, “It grows late, boss. Let’s unstake the mares &

let them all calm down over night. We will continue

this in the morning. I tell you he has a great spirit--I

have never seen greater.” Buck said, “Yes, and he has

known love. That will be our key with him--his heart.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Passionate Plumage

image from fancyfeathers.com

Passionate Plumage

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches

in the soul.”--Emily Dickinson.

As much as most of us love birds,

    appreciate birdsong & colorful plumage,

        we must not forget, as my grandfather used 

    to say, “they are just snakes with wings.”

True that--for feathers evolved from

the types of scales on reptiles and

dinosaurs; they developed much

like hair follicles, & are considered

to be the most complex structure in

all vertebrates.

                                  Feathers of all kinds do fascinate

                         those who do not possess them. I can

                       never pass up the inspection of a fallen

                    feather on the beach or in my yard. Eagle

                 & hawk feathers are sacred to the Native

               Americans. In South America they cherish

         Condor feathers, & in India it is the plumage

of the Peacock that they value most.

Although feathers facilitate flight for most birds, we

must not forget that bats, squirrels & insects just use

tissue to catch the air for their form of flight, & they 

seem to fly just fine without feathers.

Personally, I’ve never written with a quill, made mostly 

from goose feathers, but I’ve seen people use them and

I adore the delicious scratching sound it makes when in

contact with paper. Pen comes from the Latin word, penna,

which means feathers. The French word, plume, which can

mean either pen or feather.

Who has not wanted

to soar like a bird, floating

high on hot thermals?

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

Clara Hewe Quartet

image from fineartamerica.com

Clara Hewe Quartet

“ The art of Biography

is different from Geography.

Geography is about maps.

but Biography is about chaps.”

--Edmund Clerihew Bentley.

Rogue candidate Donald J. Trump

would love to give America a hump.

He hides more than he ever reveals,

the truth squirming like a bag of eels.

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

There was a good time when I felt the Bern

as Sanders got screwed at every turn.

Oh how I miss his wishful thinking and

proletarian candor,

and his beauteous Populist banter.

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

Trump should have picked Ms. Wingnut, Sarah Palin

as running mate--to further sink his candidacy 

thats certainly ailing,

but he decided instead to go with Pence,

who probably is much less dense.

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

Now sometimes maligned & ridiculed, Al Gore

beat W by a ton, still Bush Jr. managed

to snare more

electoral votes in Florida, helped by his brother

& hanging chads blessed by his mother.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

New Men's Meat Market

image by Glenn Buttkus

New Men’s Meat Market

“The company’s good and the mornings are quiet, which

is a good time to write.”--Landlord of a Bordello.

When I was 13

                 I was on a road trip 

                      with my grandfather & uncle

                             in the eastern side of the panhandle

                                    of Idaho. It was 1957, and I was big for

                             my age. Sitting around the campfire

                       one morning, my uncle got a twinkle

                   in his eyes & he said, “I’m  going to

            take Butch into town. It’s time that

      he got bred.”

My grandfather chuckled

and went fishing.

The town was Wallace,

famous for silver mines in the late 1800’s,

tucked into a narrow valley,

surrounded by the Rockies,

straddling the Coeur d’Alene River,

a stone’s throw from the Montana border.

                                     My Uncle was a long haul truck driver,

and he was very familiar with one of

                                     the unique features of the town--it had

five whore houses. He walked me up

                  to the front door of one of

                  his favorites--The New Men’s Meat Market.

                  I was both excited & terrified.

We entered the establishment and

       strutted up to a shiny old fashioned bar.

             There were a dozen prostitutes sitting around

                    in black underwear on red velveteen chairs & 
love seats. It was ten o’clock in the mo(u)rning.

The wrinkled Madam, with a bright red beehive hair-do, 
served Dick a beer, & in a voice that sounded like a bull frog,
said, “Hey, Slick, you realize we don’t do children.”

My randy uncle smiled, shrugged, & handed me his wallet, 

before rushing upstairs with a tall blond who had huge 
hooters. I sat awkwardly on a soft overstuffed chair that stank
of cologne. Several of the girls made kissing noises, and/or
whispered to one another, holding up their pinky finger &
staring right at me. I felt a blush boiling up in my cheeks.

                                    Uncle Dick came downstairs in just

                           under fifteen minutes. He pulled up at his

                 britches, finished his tepid beverage, saluted the 

            gathering of naughty ladies & pushed me ahead of
him out of the place. He took on

a serious tone as he remarked,

“It’s probably just as well. You

are a tad young to have your

ashes hauled anyways.” 

This summer, my wife and I visited Wallace, more than sixty

years after that incident. The last cat house had closed down

in 1989. While I strolled around town snapping pics of 
pioneer structures, my wife took a bordello museum tour.
Later, as she recounted the particulars, my grin was wider
than usual.

As hormones rage, most

boys struggle to become men,

and women just smile.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub