Blackthorne Episode 115

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Blackthorne

Episode 115

Boil

“My experimentation with cinematic poetics has

come full circle. I have been successful at merging

the two arts, but it occurred to me last night that

what really matters to my readership is the actual

narrative, not the filming techniques. So from this

episode onward I’ll present the prose straight up.”

  Buck looked up and saw Paul Bronson in the middle

of the stairs with his arms around two saloon whores.

He was drunk. Do you still want to buy my horse?

He cackled and choked and coughed.

  Buck moved three steps closer to Thor. The big

Indian had his rifle at the ready. 

  Buck: Where’s Cash?

  Paul: He’s out to the ranch. What the hell do you want

with him?

  Buck: I’ve got business with him

  Thor: Really? I thought your big pow-wow was 

supposed to be tomorrow: being caustic, stepping

away from the bar, flexing his right hand, his .38

moving on his hip like a part of him

  Buck: Things have changed.

  Thor, smiling: We heard about this ruckus you had

out at your place. So what happened out there?

   Buck: I think you know what happened.

   Thor: No, all we heard is third hand gossip a couple

of hours ago.

    Buck, setting his jaw: The Sheriff is out there as we

speak. He figures someone hired it done.

    Thor: Do tell. Do you have any enemies?

    Buck: Yeah...a couple.

    There was an awkward taunt silence.

    Thor: Uh-huh, so just what are you trying to say?

    Buck: I think you had something to do with sending

those men to bushwhack us.

    Thor: Well...that is quite an accusation. He put his

hands on his hips, and began to speak louder: Now,

let me get this straight. You come in here, without a

shred of proof, and you’re bristling to tangle, to take

the law into your own hands?

    Buck, his eyes narrowing: Eat shit, hardcase,

you’ve been begging for this...and now you got

it. So let’s cut out the preamble and get to it.

    Everyone in the saloon stood up, with a great

shuffling of chairs and scraping of boots, but no

one spoke.

    Indian: Buck...cool your anger. Do not forget

what we came for.

    Buck blinked and sucked in a big breath. The

sweat from his forehead stung his eyes. The

bullet gash on his temple now scabbed over,

swollen up and throbbing. He chewed his lower

lip, staring into the ink-black eyes of Thor

Bronson, his own Thunderer ready to match

powder with a Lightning Colt.

    Buck: Where is Ramos?

    Thor, shaking the cramp out of his right hand:

Ramos? How the hell should I know? Turning to

the crowd hugging the walls. Has anyone seen that

scruffy-assed Ramos here tonight?

     No one stirred. No one answered. The Indian

scanned the short guard on his left, the two men

still standing at the bar, and Paul on the stairs, who

was now sitting down, hanging on to a soiled 

petticoat with one hand, and sipping from his thin

silver flask.

     Buck: He was seen coming in here not thirty

minutes ago.

     Paul, from the stairs: Someone must be mistaken.

That poor bastard doesn’t get around so good any

more. He rarely goes out at night.

     Buck: You fellas are running out of rope. Just tell

me where that slimy sonofabitch is.

     Thor: Are you calling my brother a liar? his forced

smile fading, his right hand beginning to hover over

his Colt again.

     Buck: Oh, I could call him a lot more than that.

     Paul pushed a laugh.

     Indian: There’s twenty men out in the street backing

our play. He stepped away from Buck, his Winchester

cocked at the level.

     Thor: I think you owe my little brother an apology .

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at  d'Verse Poets Pub OLN 

Fleuri Poesie

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Fleuri Poesie

“The earth laughs in flowers.”

--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

A choice between One

and Sixteen leads

to the latter.

Trump wants more than a

dictatorship; he wants to

be the goddamn Czar.

Was Prince really a purple queen,

or was he something in between?

Trumpland has no yellow brick roads;

rather an infinite trail of tears.

Jack Ice

was a petty thug;

not nice.

New Mexico skies

are dazzling blue, trying

to be electric.

A Topaz ring can

house blue fire, like natural

gas flames turned high.

Being a black woman

is more than a black beauty

or a dusky gem.

There is a bridge in

Seattle called Aurora

and George Washington.

You know I love you

tender and true, and nothing

can diminish it.

I’m just a poet,

not a wizard of words, but

I still can aspire.

An hour before the

sun sets, I gaze upon my

sweet golden acres.

A Disney Arab

character always carries

a long purple sword.

My first spouse was a

lazy housewife, but I stayed

with her for five years. 

Glenn Buttkus

Couplet, haiku, and senryu.

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Rougarou

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Rougarou

“The Rougarou saw his shadow; four more weeks

of crayfish season.”--Cajun saying.

Werewolves are not real. This is the prevailing axiom;

but I’m here to tell you, for some of us, monsters are

real. Like UFO’s, those of us who’ve seen them have

a hard time convincing others.

Last year I visited an old high school sussie, who lives

alone in a clapboard cabin deep in the Louisiana 

swamp. He hunts alligators and snakes for a living.

I arrived at his hut after dark. There are no roads.

I had rented a boat. There were a couple of lantern

lights on inside. I could hear spirited zydeco music.

I tied off the boat on his dock. Approaching the front

door, I shouted: T. Leon! Ca Va, you old couillion!

There was no answer. I slowly opened the door.

Leon was on the floor on his back with his throat

ripped out. There was a fire in his stove.

I heard a close by blood-curdling wolf-howl,

followed by loud growling. I fled for my life,

but Leon haunts my dreams, and his shadow

shouts on a nightmare scream.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Donny Dunce

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Donny Dunce

“Donald Trump was the dumbest goddamn

student I ever had.”--Professor William T. Kelley.

Yes, we all worried

that someone would shoot Barack

Obama, but not Trump.

His bizarre surreal term drones

on like the lunatic on

the corner every morning

on your way to work; so sad.

The Corona attacked

Boris Johnson, but did not

take him down, while Trump’s
overwhelming stupidity lets him

dare the virus to smite him.

Damn a universe that lets

Trump/Corona to co-exist.

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

Thats right, I do not feel ashamed

pointing directly at our President,

while shouting the things I have blamed

the Donald for. How many rules can be bent

before you stand up saying: I will not abide

any more moronic misrule.

It’s time to turn back the irrational tide,

time to flush the big orange stool.

Try to even imagine any other scene

where Trump would even be allowed

to lead us down so many twisted and mean

streets, where so many are kowtowed

into being mindless spineless clueless robots.

singing: We’re the Haves--you’re the Have Nots

Glenn Buttkus

Long Tankas

Shakespearian Sonnet

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub MTB

Broken Lance

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Broken Lance

“We should just love, not fall in love, because

everything that falls gets broken.”--Taylor Swift.

There is only one door

to Dreamland,

so we all sleep alone.

This morning I awoke

costumed as Mister Flop Sweat, 

as I staggered

toward the toilet in order

to piss my dreams away;

that place where a legion

of Crusade Templars galloped

over an unknown landscape

in pursuit of godless heathens.

Pilgrims,

we are all

pilgrims,

moaned the mastiff mists

hiding the dark dunes;

because with my lids closed

I inhabit a sunny scenario,

where I have blond locks

and can race the wind--

rather than the light of day

where i belong in the

Army of the Disabled.

not the King’s Guard.

I have noted that

I am never alone

in my dream state--

no, I cavort with the dead,

and travel with faceless figures

from past lives.

Deja Vu is my frequent companion

on many macabre adventures,

where Fords have Hudson grills,

I gobble platypus 4-egg omelets,

and my python speaks French;

and there is this crowded port city

that always feels so familiar to me.

I never know, or can recall,

the city’s name, but oddly

I know all the shops and streets

While in that city,

I clearly have a plan.

If I am broken,

I feel confident

that I can complete

the alterations before

the lightning strikes.

But when I rise to leave,

there is this troll that sits by the door,

saying: You are a tree of broken bones,

with withered limbs, fruitless loins, and

a rotting core--so that when you fall

not even a sparrow will notice.

Liar! I spat: I tell you, your fetid words

shall not shower cremation ash

on my poetic parade...because

I am the one with the pen

and I can write you away!

and I did,

and I do,

night after night.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub