Saturday, August 30, 2014

Blackthorne--Scene Twenty-Eight

image borrowed from bing


Cinemagenic Twenty-Eight


“I told my children that when I die to release balloons
to celebrate that I graduated.”--Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.

1(medium wide shot) Wallace steps up alongside Buck--a comic
moment, for the shorter man could have bit into the red & green
brass cartridges across the taller man’s chest.
2 (2 shot) Wallace’s snowy eyebrows furrowed & crashed together.
He rubbed his dimpled freshly-shaven chin.
--You any relation to Bill Buck?
--Buck: I’m his son--(not looking at Wallace, his gaze into the cold
eyes of Joe Hop).
3(close-up) Hop: Who is Bill Buck?
4(cut to a wide shot) showing us the small crowd.
5(medium close-up) a stout man in a banker’s attire offered:
--He used to be the town drunk. He owned that sweet ranch out
in the foothills above Bronson’ s place.
6(sound cue) pioneer fiddle.
7(three-shot) A big farmer:
--The place has been deserted for years. Word is that Bronson
would like to get his hands on it, but there were some kind of
deed issues.
8(medium wide shot) a moment of silence while the sheriff considered
this new information.
9(sound cue) Spanish guitar & soft singing from the Cantina.
10(2-shot) Buck staring at the lawman.
11(close-up) Buck
--So, sheriff, am I under arrest, or not?
12(sound cue) snare drum.
13(close-up) Sheriff Hop--No, not at this time, Hoss, but stick around
town long enough for me to investigate this ruckus.
14(close-up) Buck: I was planning on it.
15(2-shot) Hop--I still have to look into that incident in the China Doll
too, Slick--so I would advise you to try real hard to stay out of trouble
for a few days.
--Buck: I never go looking for it--it just seems to jump up in front of me
whenever it pleases.
--Hop: Blackthorne is my town, & I don’t cotton to strangers much. So
keep in mind, it you cross me, I will cut you down.
16(sound cue) banjo riff.
17(close-up) Wallace, his face wrinkled with worry.
18(close-up) Buck, smiling slightly:
--Your town, you say? Funny, I heard it a little different.
Bronson seems to be the hairy bear around here.
19(close-up) Hop: I don’t give a ruptured coon’s ass how you
heard it, Mr. Buck (his voice turning cold) I wear the badge, &
I enforce respect for it. If you keep lipping off, I may just slam
your butt into jail for impeding my investigation. I will get to the
shit-bottom of all this, & I’m far from through with you; savvy?
20(sound cue) Indian snake rattle.
21(medium wide shot) The crowd is beginning to disperse.
22(medium close-up) Buck--Well, sheriff, you ride out to Antlered
Buck any time you want. I have come home, & I’ll be staying for
a piece. Am I free to go?
23(medium close-up) The sheriff slid the Thunderer snugly into the
tied down holster as a reply.
24 (close-up) Wallace smiling.
25(medium wide shot) the sheriff handed Buck his sawed-off, which
he slid into into it’s pop-snaps holster. Buck touched the brim of his
flat hat, took the Sharps from the tall deputy & pushed his way through
what was left of the crowd, heading across the street to the general
store with Wallace & the black dog at his heels.
26(sound cue) piano & pioneer fiddle.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN

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Thursday, August 28, 2014

The Thespis Gene

Me as Macduff battling the giant Macbeth.

The Thespis Gene

“The highest form of wisdom is kindness.”
--Talmud quote.

It all started for me when I was ten,
watching movies way too often;
embarking on divers cinematic journeys,
preparing what became my inner thespian.

When alone, dropping to my adolescent knees,
imitating famous movie stars with ease,
teaching myself rhythm, beat, breath & enunciation;
for my naked ambition was far more than a tease.

Soon I mastered concise articulation,
beginning to hear that audible ovation
standing there at a life junction,
needing more than self-praise as my unction.

I stepped out onto the stage while in high school,
winning a silver cup as senior class Best Actor,
which I thought was pretty cool,
only to discover later I had been a fool. 

I pursued a fantasy career portraying odd characters,
doing it alone, without any sort of benefactor,
rushing toward epiphany following heartbreak;
I’d have been wiser to learn to drive a tractor.

For a decade I labored until my soul began to ache,
but a decent living I was never able to make,
as my ego was beaten daily to ground--
so I walked away still erect for my own sake. 

For it was not necessary for me to wear a crown,
because soon after my true self was happily found
as I became a compassionate teacher of the blind,
a healer--now that had authenticity in its very sound.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Tahoma Prime

image by buttkus

Tahoma Prime

As a self-important Seattle brat during the 50’s,
I associated Tacoma with its aroma, 
the armpit of the South Sound; pulp mill paradise--

but after a dark decade living in LA, I couldn’t wait
to return to the NW; & finally did in 1985, but found
no solace, no warmth in the Emerald City.

So I turned my gaze south to Tacoma, a city then
in the midst of regeneration & renewal after nearly
becoming a graveyard, with old City Hall as its
headstone & Union Station as its foot-stone.
I developed new eyes, a bigger heart, a new vocation
here in the South Sound, putting down 30 years of roots.

This is a city known for the collapse of Galloping Gertie,
visited once by Rudyard Kipling who extolled its virtues,
a place where in 1885 hundreds of Chinese were evicted,
marched to the train station & sent to Portland, their homes
burned to the ground, a town where 9 year old George
Weyerhaeuser was kidnapped, ransomed, & returned,
a city that whelped Bing Crosby.

As a retiree, I now am free to prowl the corridors, corners,
& alleys of the City of Destiny, armed with a poet’s sensitivities
& a digital camera I document the wondrous street art, 
the state’s largest conglomerate of Art & History museums,
the underside of its bridges, searching for trolls & fire boats,
the new U of W extension campus,
the state’s first electric light rail service;
from the historic quadrangle beneath the clock tower,
below the Italian balconies of the abandoned Elk’s lodge,
beside the majestic Spanish Steps to the exquisite Victorian
homes on the north side, towering over the sparkling row
of fancy restaurants along the waterfront.

It is safer in Hilltop after dark now as fancy Condos sprout
out of the city’s fecund heart like gold-tinted mushrooms,
& we are known as the Gayest City in America;
oh yes, San Francisco has registered its complaints.

I embrace all of it, my Home, my Town. 
Seattle can go wallow in its own pomposity,
as I enjoy this place “where rails meet sails”.

Glenn Buttkus

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A Cappella is Music

image borrowed from bing

A Cappella is Music

“With a cappella groups, every voice is like one
string on the guitar.”--Ben Folds.

A cappella is music,
                 blank columns,
                 Muslim blankets.
To paraphrase the moon, 
you must activate the intrigue.
My a cappella is laboriously savage; anti-social.
                You are salvation on high,
                             the very foundation of the planet.

Furious loneliness lives       in tunnels;
                             my humanity was lost,
                                            parceled out;
but you are my lovely night,
                             & I entreat you to invade
                             my ponderance.
Partly sober, but vivacious, the forte
                             leaped into my arms; time now
to emerge into flesh
within my embrace.

Please accept the heat of my vengeance,
                              for you are the Love;
A cappella peeled naked,
                  the music is the elixir of life’s ferocity.
Oh, the verses of patricide!
Oh, the eyes of ascension!
Oh, your roses strewn in public!
Oh, your sweet letters so triumphant!

A cappella is my music, persistently
                           within your grace;
my words uttered only create
                           limited answers, leaving my soul
eternal signs,
                           as you smile tirelessly,
                           as you relinquish it all


Cuerpo de mujer

Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blanco,
te pareces al mundo en tu activad del entraga.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava,
y hace saltar el hijo del fundo de la tierra.

Fui solo como un tunel. De mi huian los pajaros,
y en mi la noche entraba su invasion poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme le forje como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en
mi honda.

Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y le amo.
Cuerpo da piel, de musgo, da leche avida y firme.
Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah los rosas del pubis! Ah tu voz lenta y triste!

Cuerpo de mujer mia, persistine en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin limite, mi camino indeciso!
Oscuros caices don de le sed eterna signe,
y la fatiga signe, y el dolor infinito.

Pablo Neruda

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Thursday, August 14, 2014

The Biggest Lie

image borrowed from bing

The Biggest Lie

“Roswell was real, & one day soon governmental & public skepticism
about UFOs will shift dramatically.” --Astronaut Gordon Cooper.

June 14, 1947
when I was three years
old, ranch foreman

William Brazel, working
on the Foster homestead reported
finding “some kind

of flying disc”
that had crashed on the
ranch, 30 miles

north of Roswell, NM; his son had found it first. On the fourth of July, they
returned to gather up debris from a 500 foot long gouging trench at the crash
site. He took a burlap bag of the space junk into Roswell, & turned it over
to the excited Sheriff Wilcox.

Roswell Daily Record
July 8, 1947

RAAF Captures Flying Saucer On
Ranch in Roswell Region

The sheriff called the Roswell Army Air Field, where Col. Tibbets had flown
the Enola Gay out of--on its fateful way to Hiroshima. The Air Force sent the
debris to another base at Ft. Worth, TX, & that’s when the fabricated story was
released about the crash simply being a weather balloon. The story was soon
buried, forgotten, until the 1980’s when it was reported that dozens of witnesses
were surfacing, no longer frightened of government threats if they talked, 
saying,“The debris was not made on this earth; it had super strength, yet was 
thin as tin foil. A suppressed report of another UFO crash in Socorro, NM, 
surfaced, that happened a few days after the one in Roswell. Former mortician, 
Glenn Dennis reported that he witnessed “three alien bodies, one of them still 
alive” at the base in Roswell.

In July 2007, I stood in the old Roswell UFO museum, in a converted movie 
theater downtown, pouring over a huge wall map that showed a red dotted line 
triangle drawn from Area 51, Edwards AFB, & the China Lake Naval Weapons 
Center; an area I was very acquainted with, having had my own UFO sighting 
there in 1982. An elderly man approached me, introducing himself as Glenn 
Dennis; we chuckled at having the same first name. He was part of the 
museum staff. We talked about my sighting, and he requested that I come into 
an anteroom, & recount my incident for the record, to be added to their 
archives; the room was huge & there were thousands of incident report 
folders & tapes on shelves I made my report, signed an affidavit, & I felt 
vindicated, elated, honored.

Everything fades in
the blistering SW sun, but
in the dog

days of summer,
people still see strange crafts
buzzing the night

skies over the
desert; such a common occurrence
these days, it

becomes a non-event;
but some of us know better,
some of us know
the truth. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Home From the Hill

painting by barbara humphreys

Home From the Hill

“Home is the sailor, home from the sea--& the hunter
home from the hill.”--Robert Louis Stevenson.

                          H  O  M  E:
A residency,
         a place where one lives,
                                    a dwelling,
                                             a hogan, teepee, or tent,
                                                            a crib, a shit hole, an abandoned
building, under a bridge, the mean streets, the planet, a warm place where          
                            a family unit can keep out of the storm,
                            an undiscovered country,
                            a dot on the landscape,
                            a red roof with two chimneys as seen
from some Google satellite;

                            A brick house next to, & rented from 
A Baptist church in Ballard.
                           Another house in Greenwood, with
a grapeless arbor leading to dead grass in the backyard,
            with a low roof over the back porch,
            that I could walk out on from my bedroom window,
            & pick the ripest pears from the top of a majestic tree;
A Victorian farm house in Coventry,
                                              when it was still country,
                            next to a large barn where I learned to play
                                               handball, with a wide creek crossing
                            the south end of the property, where we were
                            serenaded by a bullfrog chorus nightly,
& up on the hill, into a green belt, that tree house my little brother
& I built from saplings,
                     short fir & alder branches, pounded
                     together with huge nails we found in a rotting bag
in the barn, strung between four Douglas fir,
                     used thrice, then forgotten. 
                     Another farm house, this one rudimentary, near
Panther Lake, built up on stilts, with plenty of room beneath it
to pile our extra junk, 
                    where we actually had to use an outhouse,
                    summer & winter, & I had to chop the wood
for the two wood stoves, slicing into my foot once with a hatchet,
                    where my loving grandfather, who
                                     felt sorry for our pioneer plight,
                        came out for over a month, dug us a cesspool,
                        put in a septic tank,
and installed a real toilet on the back porch,
                        where we had to hang Army surplus wool blankets
                        that smelled like gun oil & stinky feet for privacy.

                        A large wood frame house right on a main street,
across from a park, one block from an elementary school,
rented from Delridge Auto Sales next door,
                       that had a three car garage, where
                       my Dad, trying to please my sister,
                       bought an old swayback mare, kept it in there,
                       so that we kids & our friends could ride it
up & down the alley until the neighbors complained &
one afternoon the cops came & spirited the nag away;
                       where at 12 years old I was given
                                  my first car; a 1939 Buick, and instructed
to take it all apart, then put it back together again, so that I could
learn about such things.”--which I did, spending two months
                       creating big piles of doors, fenders, & engine parts;
                       but what I actually learned was that
I had no viable mechanical aptitude, & could not put it back together
                       again--disgusted, my Dad tossed all the parts onto
the naked rusted frame, & had it hauled away.

Ten elementary schools,
three Junior Highs,
two high schools--and although we never ran around in colorful
Romani wagons
              or lived in a storefront,
                                  gypsies we were;
so when I think about Home, it was not ever
                                  merely a structure, it was more a place
                                  where my heart resided--
for it became my own responsibility
to calm my restless spirit,
to put down roots,
to work for one employer more than twenty years,
to find the right person to share my life with,
to raise up three daughters,
to create a semblance of permanency,
               a place where grandchildren can visit,
               where old bones could find solace,
               where a heart could memorize lullabies. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Thursday, August 7, 2014

Five Lunes Deep

all images by glenn buttkus

Five Lunes Deep

“3,5,3--my form is not syllable based. It is a
self-contained tercet.”--Jack Collom.

Some golden
dragons disguise themselves
as Hudsons.


A broken
cross actually masks
aching hearts.


Thomas lies
smiling at his
leaf embrace.


Ever notice
that some bridges
are abstract?


Zukeman bore
the cross for
two hours.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB/FFA

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Tuesday, August 5, 2014


image borrowed from bing


“Life is the grimmest & the merriest motley of  phantasmagoria
that will appeal to the gravest or maddest brush ever brought
to palette.”--Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

For Harold Hare, the cities
                                  where made up
                                             of burrows;
and he never subscribed
                                  to the notion that some creatures,
                                  like sea horses, beavers, slugs & lady bugs,
                                  endorsed; a silly theory
that cities were made up of burroughs; absolute clap trap. 

In his harried world, fantasy
was not an illusion. Superman did wonderful
                  commercials for laser & spandex corporations.
                                Spiderman opened up a chain of
                                Exterminator Companies;

G.I. Joe & Sgt. Rock were WWA superstars. 
                  Miss Buffy was a bed bug,
                                & she was skilled as a dust mite slayer.
Commericial icon Flo was banned
from ever mentioning any kind of insurance again,
& she became allergic to bright red lipstick.

                   All cars could talk, could
                   hold intelligent conversations with road graders;
none of this Your door is ajar crap.
                   John Deere ran for political office
& now is the senior Senator from Iowa. Alligators in Florida
& Louisiana went on strike, & the Everglades
                                      were closed down & sold to Bill Gates
                     who turned it into a popular nudist colony. 

Red dragons were discovered,
                      living in exile in condo caves
                      within Mt. Olympus in WA state,
& CA petitioned that they be returned to the Redwood Ghettos,
a place, according to a dragon spokesssserpent,
                      “We would rather burn down to red stumps than
be forced to live in again.”

Batman is selling gentleman’s dress capes
                   in a new department store in Cleveland,
while Robin, now grown up & bitter, 
                   has shaved his head & turned 
                   to the dark side, becoming a leader in a Neo-Nazi
compound at Hayden Lake, ID. 

Captain America suddenly aged tremendously,
                   becoming 93 years old--something about
                                    his Comic-Con expiration date;
so Ted Turner, ever the humanitarian,
                                    hired Cap to be a
                                    military consultant for CNN. 

Air Bus is now manufacturing personal jet packs for commuters,
and has been testing them          in the busy skies of Liverpool,
                                    but there are nasty rumors
                       that drunken fliers have been buzzing innocent
                       pedestrians, & pouring state beer
                                    on baby buggies. 

Chickens, it has been reported, have resorted
                       to becoming prostitutes in Detroit,
& several Chicken Ranch Bordellos have become wildly
successful. Colonel Sanders has become a Pimp Daddy,
                       opening several Chicken Lingerie Shops, which
are now rivaling the infamous Sheep Lingerie Shops
                       in Montana.                  Glenn Beck has thrown his
considerable influence & support to the chickens, stating:
                               “There is nothing better than a threesome
                               with a pair of sexy Hen Whores.”

Yet another revival of the musical CATS
has been picketed by urban cats of all stripes, 
carrying small signs that read:
              Musical theater is demeaning to all felines.”
Fritz, the lead yowler of the punk group HAIRBALL HAREM,
is doing free concerts to raise funds for this effort. 
               Broadway producers have hired
               Lassie & Rin Tin Tin as lawyers,
& we all know this high-powered duo of litigators always
get their teeth into the posteriors of the opposition. 

Breaking News--Harold Hare is considering
putting together a luxurious line
of Lewis Carroll fashion jewelry, & he would welcome any
& all investors to step up ASAP.

Glenn Buttkus 

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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