Saturday, March 30, 2013

Judas Saves

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Judas Saves

“You shall be cursed for generations, but you will exceed all of them--
for you will sacrifice the man who clothes me.” --Jesus to Judas--
the “Gospel of Judas”. 

I met the guy in a smoky bar in Marrakech last week, while
traveling in Morocco looking for Burroughs’ Tangierian exiles,
you dig--searching for the ultimate high, the black meat, that
mugwump mind-fuck dust that would certainly realign my world;

for I was actively fleeing homosexuals, the John Birchers, dykes
on bikes, Islamic Jihadists, high gas prices, America’s broken
partisan promises, a failed marriage, a daughter I hooked on
heroin who now turned tricks in alleys behind redneck bars, 
a fag for a son who had a sex-change and demands to be
called Dolores--and the mystery dude called himself Jude.

He had a flaming red beard, piercing blue eyes, wore Arabic duds
and sat deep in the shadows at the back sipping absinthe and
smoking hasheech.

“Do you know me, man?” he asked.

“You sound pretty Jewish to me, are you an Israeli comedian
who can’t find his way back to the Catskills?”

No, man, I am a Hebrew prophet, and I am not obscure, but
then no one really knows me, or ever really did--so they just
made up bullshit stories & myths about me.”

“I’m from Seattle--how about you?”

“Actually I was born in a Judean village called Kerioth. I ran with
a fast bunch called the Zealots, revolutionaries.”

“That’s heavy, man--so what’s your handle?”

“My proud family name is Iscairot, and it has been twisted raw
as a goat’s tit for centuries by self-righteous Christians, leading
to rampant anti-Semitism--Judah meaning the praised one, and
Sicarious meaning assassin--just a walking set of conflicted
contradictions, brother.”

“Wait a minute,” I stammered, my nostrils clogged with hashish smoke,
“Does that mean you knew Jesus?

“Knew him, loved him, and did his bidding.”

“What do you mean?”

I mean he called me brother, the “best of the apostles”, and one
day he informed me that we two had to save the world.”

“Save it from what, man?”

From itself, obviously--he ordered me to betray him to Caiaphas,
in` order to fulfill prophesy, to trigger humanity’s salvation.”

“Wasn’t it hard to do that?”

“I asked him if the situation had been reversed, could he have betrayed me--
and he told me that he did not have the strength to do it, and that’s why he
had chosen the easier task of being crucified.”

“Wow, man, and yet here you are, talking to me just like any other dude?
So....tell me what you think about Francis, the new pope?”

“Christ, you will soon find out that the new pope is just like the old pope,
that the Vatican conservatives will still be rattling the martyr’s bones, and
parish priests will continue to bugger every choir boy they can corner; 
but don’t get me started on the fucking Catholic Church?”

I raised my fists and stared for a moment at the ceiling fan,
“What about the Mongol hordes & the Islamic terrorists? Do you think
we will have more American boots on the ground soon in the
Korean Peninsula and in Tehran?”

Stark silence was his reply. I looked across the small
leather-covered reed table and the half-glass of absinthe was 
all that remained of our discourse. So I drained the dram
and roughly pushed my way out of the exotic bar.

I stood out in the street in the rain for a long time,
not sure if now I was enlightened,
or damned, or both. 

Glenn Buttkus

March 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics

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Thursday, March 28, 2013

Iscariot's Truth

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Iscariot’s Truth

“The real meaning of enlightenment is to gaze with
undimmed eyes on all darkness.”--Nikos Kazantzakis

We all know tomorrow is Good Friday,
the day we honor Christ’s crucifixion.
What about dealing with the affection
that Judas had for Christ, his price to pay,
just doing the bidding via Yahweh?

Gospel of Judas shows adoration,
not betrayal, just prep for ascension,
keeping his hot zealot’s demons at bay.

Did Christ ascend earlier than believed,
transforming Judas to loving likeness,

fooling all? Was Judas the one who died
on the cross, Judas the one that’s grieved,
then stolen from tomb, saved from the abyss?
If that’s so, then who were the ones who lied?

Glenn Buttkus

March 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

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Saturday, March 23, 2013

The Cupola

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The Cupola

“Mankind, when left to themselves, are not
fit for their own government.”--George Washington

I left D.C. at 6:30 a.m. on an already hot July morning,
driving fast over the Memorial Bridge, hell bent South
the 16 miles to Mt. Vernon, Virginia; finally taking time
to check out George’s crib.

The estate is vast, almost a colonial village in itself.
The Mansion stands at the north end, like a great
white patriarchal crown, with its red roof shining.
Strolling around the large circular drive I passed
a plaque that read First in War--First in Peace. 

I was determined to get my 17 bucks worth. Entering
the front door, I slid past the first floor guard and scoped
out the Central Passage, being irritated by the large
plastic shields that blocked access to most of the rooms,
all smelling strongly of cleansing supplies, old fabric,
shellac & dust.

Climbing a tall staircase I found the second floor
to be charming, but rather austere. This is where
Martha had all the plethora of guest rooms. 
We all could peek into the Lafayette bedroom; 
big deal.

At the back side I noticed there was an ornate circular
staircase that wound itself like a sweetly carved serpent
up to the third floor, to the Cupola, proudly wearing
its Dove of Peace weather vane. It was posted as
CLOSED--except for two days during the Christmas season.

I sat on a hard bench staring at the serpentine seductress 
for a hour, then suddenly noticing a rare moment when
guests and guides were absent. Without hesitation
I crawled over the low gate and quickly made my way
up to the forbidden third floor. 

I burst victoriously into a huge round room that was
completely surrounded by large paned leaded glass
windows, with a 360 degree view of the compound.

I was quite surprised to find someone else there,
a tall man seated at a desk with his wide back to me,
dressed appropriately in a dark 16th century costume,
his long hair tied back, and powdered, not favoring a wig.

He stood up and turned around--
Christ, it was old George himself.

“What are you, some kind of Disney hologram?”

“No,” he said, flashing his perfectly white elephant ivory
dentures, “I own the place. Sit down, brave sir. Let’s have
a chat. I don’t get many visitors up here.”

My amazed expression must have amused him.

Let me answer some of your obvious questions. I am 6’ 2”,
quite tall for my time, and yes, I know Lincoln was 6’4”.
No, I never had a pair of wooden teeth. In my day dentists
carved dentures out of ivory, but they never really fit properly
and they gave me constant pain, and yes, I did use
laudanum regularly to manage the discomfort.”

“What do you think of our gun control issues?” I stammered.

“Firearms for all Americans are essential, for without them
their liberty is barren & toothless. Did you know that I only
had one real tooth left when I became President?”

“Did you really free all of your slaves in your will?”

Yes, and I really hoped that one day there would be a plan adopted
for the abolition of slavery.”

“How do you think we are really doing with our Civil Rights issues?”

There are important strides that have been taken, but racism
is a rabid rotting fungus, and it is difficult to completely eradicate;
but I will say that Obama as a twice-elected President brightens
every one of my dark days.”

“So, how are we doing so far?”

“Remember government is not reason, it is not eloquent, 
it is a force like fire--a dangerous servant and a
fearful master.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” came a voice behind me.
I turned to face a security guard wearing a three corned hat.

“Ah, nobody really, I was just practicing my Civics speech.”

I was escorted roughly from the Mansion, and driven in
a red-white-& blue golf cart to my vehicle. I was informed
that my name would now appear on a NOT ABLE TO VISIT
list, and that I would not be welcome for a return visit--
but I still am very curious as to what the slave quarters
looked like. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics

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Thursday, March 21, 2013


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“All God’s plans have the mark of the cross on them,
and His plans have death to self in them.”--E.M. Bounds

I, once was a great cedar tree standing
taller than my brethren on the hills outside
of Jerusalem. In 33 A.D., I was chopped down
by Jewish woodsmen, then carried to a Roman
miller, who fashioned me into a crux ansata,
my thick trunk made into a 12 meter center pole,
my biggest branch into a 2 meter cross beam
and a half meter foot rest, the suppedaneum.

We, of the thick pine forest were, of course, aware
of crucifixion, hearing whispers for countless centuries
how the Persians, Carthaginians, Macedonians, and now
the Romans used our wood to make corpus crosses.

I fell proudly, but had no inkling that my fate was to become
the True Cross, the center piece first at Calvary, then
the whole civilized world. I was presented to Christ,
all 285 pounds of me, by Pilate’s thugs, as Jesus
stood tall and scourged, wearing his crown of thorns
like a macabre king.

He had to drag me through the dirty streets of Jerusalem,
through ornate Roman gates, and my bulk drove Him 
to His knees many times, but He always rose under
the whip and shouldered me and continued on His journey
outside the city, up the hill to Golgatha, where I was placed
on the ground and He was placed onto me, where three
6 inch metal spikes were nailed through his palms
and ankles, before we three crosses there, an unholy trinity 
of murderous wood, were stood up into our post holes.

Even I was horrified by the actual death of Jesus. 
I was literally bathed in the Savior’s blood, and
as it coated me in steaming crimson splendor
I could feel it sealing my life force for eternity,
mixing into my pitch and creosote to preserve
my legacy.

Jesus had tremendous strength, despite His wounds,
and He held himself up for several hours before
exhaustion following the darkness at noon
led to His eventual asphyxiation.

I love the legends that have sprung up about me
originally being part of the Tree of Life, sprung
from a holy seed carried in Adam’s mouth,
made into a bridge, later pulled apart, the lumber
reused to make crucifixes--all a fairy tale.

It was true, however, that Helena, mother of
the Emperor Constantine did discover
our decomposing trio 300 years after
we were hidden near Christ’s tomb. 

Today, I am still here, reduced to remnants,
fragments of preserved wood, ensconced 
in a glass case as centerpiece in the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre, erected
piously upon the bloody shoulders of Golgatha.

Do not be fooled by the thousands of faker
splinters throughout the world. Come to Jerusalem
where I await your perusal. I love to recount
my glorious story to all that can hear me. 

Glenn A. Buttkus

March 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

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Friday, March 15, 2013

The Apostle Patrick

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The Apostle Patrick

“I hope a great young Reagan
will emerge.”--Pat Boone

Crusty crooner,
Pat Boone, appeared on
Fox News, and called
President Obama
a Marxist.

“He’s pushing America into being
a virtually Socialist Nation.”

Boone sided with Trump
on the Birther Movement
too, as he

bragged about being on
Obama’s “enemies list.”

Consumate Christian that he is,
his opinions reflect the conscience
of an old sinner.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2013

Posted over on G-Man's Flash 55

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Thursday, March 14, 2013


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“A poem is never finished, only abandoned.”
--Paul Valery


Our cat,
once but a stray,
has now a decade been
feline ruler of feeding times
for him.



the First now reigns,
and Catholics can cheer
as a man of the people stands
out front.



more popular
than ever these days, pop up
in television and movie
plots now.



far from perfect,
was our family dog
for twelve wonderful years, but is
long gone. 

Glenn Buttkus

March 2013

Posted over at dVerse Poets FFA

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Saturday, March 9, 2013

Anything Goes

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Anything Goes

“I like to play dangerously, where you’re going to
take a chance on making mistakes in order to create
something you haven’t done before.”--Dave Brubeck

That’s right, folks, it was those bare-butt slave gangs
from the Congo who brought us the rhythms
that would give birth to both the blues and jazz,

as they circumnavigated their master’s no-drumming
codes with spirited stomping, clapping, and
the patting juba, infecting us with a viral beat,

leading to foot tapping and then clogging, allowing
the eventual rise of dynamic drumming bubbling up
like strong hot blood from Afro-Cuban roots.

I just found out that after the Civil War
there used to be a twice-daily ferry between
New Orleans and Havana, as musicians shared

their common musical heritage and legacy, helping
to turn pale ragtime rolls into Dixieland, mixing in
the blues traditions like cayenne pepper, before

what we more readily recognize today as jazz
began to blossom and thrive in the smokey speakeasies
in the big cities during and following Prohibition,

where groups began to groove, to create moods
that would alter melodies, harmonies, & time signatures,
never playing a tune twice the same way, adding

excitement, amazement, & immediacy with the advent
of real improvisation, syncopation, poly & cross rhythms,
swing shuffles, boogie-woogie, bebop & free forms;

America’s music, emerging from church hymnals &
slave spirituals, whelping scatting, R&B, and God help us,
that precocious overbearing pastiche stepchild--Rock & Roll. 

Glenn Buttkus

March 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics

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Thursday, March 7, 2013

Yesterday's Song

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Yesterday’s Song

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.
The important thing is to never stop questioning.”
----Albert Einstein.

Driving easy, thrusting
gently in loving summer strokes,
into the office

at 4:40 a.m,
gleefully greeting the northeastern skies
as they began

to lighten up
already, as those first tentative
reddish rays of

daylight were beginning
to sweetly stain the horizon,
smearing some brickdust

onto the ample
midriffs of the few clouds
that were still

hanging ripe as
puffy-fluff air-fruit on
low heavy branches.

The polished hood
on my cherry red pickup
captured some of

magical morning as
I weaved like a spirit weevil 
from lane to

lane, dodging the
giant 18-wheelers, those gargantuan 
proud arrogant behemoths,

still lit up
like holiday porches, flying high
and rolling tall
in the crisp
air, busily spanking the tarmac
with their thick

numerous notched radials,
beating out both a jazz
base and a

blues riff as
I streamed past like a
whisper, barely noticed.

But soon enough
from my solitary office window
I could breathlessly witness

American Lake creating
alchemy, glazing its surface, turning
it to liquid

gold, as Mt.
Rainier got busy pouring strawberry
bisque over its

wide receptive glaciers. 
I remember an eaglet’s cry,
a gull’s reply,

as a thick
phalanx of snow geese flew
by, winging past

my screened arrow 
--slit on the world, dropping 
below the gray 

steel on my
government sill as I witnessed
the sun clawing

a fiery rill
into the sky’s burgundy bosom,

burnishing the rust
blemishes on my window screen
into lopsided smiles.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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