Saturday, November 29, 2014

Blackthorne: Scene 31

image from dominoquery,com 


Cinemagenic Thirty-One

Sipping & Jawing

“There is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can
set upon the freedom of my mind.”--Virginia Woolf.

Wallace: So how are things out at Antlered Buck?
Buck: Pardon, what do you know about the ranch?
2(medium close-up) 
Wallace: I know it’s prime grazing land that’s been sitting idle
for a long time. I know that Bronson wants it--& I know that
someone has been paying the taxes every year like clockwork.
3(sound cue) sweet harmonica.
4(close-up) Buck, smiling: You are pretty well informed.
5(two shot) Wallace with angle over Buck’s broad shoulder.
--Hell’s fire, every dumb ass in town knows that much.
Buck: Really?
6(close up) Wallace, him smiling now:
--Yeah, a year or so ago, Bronson sent his foreman up to the county
seat at Silver City to find out the legal status of the place.
7(sound cues) Stagecoach rumbling by, dogs barking, piano chords.
8(medium close up) Buck just stared quietly at the old storekeeper.
9(angle on) Wallace:
--Word was that they don’t like the Bronsons much up there, & the county
clerk sent their bought-butts packing. 
10(two shot)
Buck: What was the verdict?
Wallace: Christ’s eyes, son, you know what it was--the ranch is legally owned.
Buck: No shit?
This time it was Wallace that did the staring.
11(close-up) Buck:
--Well, yeah.....I think it is about time for me to take up residence again.
I got some plans for fixing it up.
12(medium two-shot)
Wallace: Might be tricky if you need a loan; Bronson owns the fucking
bank too.
Buck: Money is not really an issue.
13(wider two-shot)
Wallace swallowed the last of the home hooch in his metal cup, & set
it down on a shelf; Buck did the same with his.
14(sound cue) clink-clink, one cup after the other.
15(tighter two-shot) 
Buck was staring at a colorful Mexican serape hung on the wall.
Wallace: Boy..
Buck met his gaze.
Wallace: I knew your Pa. 
16(sound cue) banjo & saxophone.
17(medium wide shot) Cut to the front door opening, its welcoming
bells chirping.
18(medium close-up) A young woman with raven-black hair rushes into
the store. Her flashing green eyes were angry as she strode deliberately
up to the men. Her starched white blouse has Spanish lace at the neck
& bodice, & it rose & fell over large breasts. Her buckskin riding outfit was
spotted with gray-white dust.
19(three-shot) with her back to the camera. She carried a small riding quirt,
& wore high top black boots without spurs. The backside of her leather skirt
was shiny from much riding.
20(close-up) The Woman:
--God damn it, Dad! I just heard you’ve been mouthing off to Joe Hop. Jesus,
that was real smart. 
21(three-shot) Wallace in the middle, replying calmly, quite accustomed to
her emotionalism:
--Salina--this is Mr. Rod Buck.
22(sound cue) guitar & cello chords.
23(medium close-up) Salina:
--I know who he is. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets OLN

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Thursday, November 27, 2014

Christ Tastes Like Turkey

image borrowed from backtoclassics,com

Christ Tastes Like Turkey

“Give thanks to television, for this is the first time
that the young are seeing history made before before
it is censored by their elders.”--Margaret Mead.

Mid-term elections are over, 
               & Republicans scramble about freely
               gobble-gobbling crap about entitlement,
impeachment, birth certificates, & saber rattling, as
                                religious leaders, the media &
               Madison Avenue put their stamp & spin
right on the tail feathers of blessed Thanksgiving.

               We, the people,
                             are taught, or
                                    have learned that being thankful
                for even the slightest of blessings
is a healthy exercise for our troubled souls; & yet
it is a sad fact that
                too many families, pulled apart
by world events, personal soap operas, or technology
& merchandizing, immorality, dishonesty & ignorance, fail
                to grasp the significance, the brilliance of simply
                     gathering together & giving thanks, 
                     breaking bread at someone’s designated home,
serving steaming pies of humility, foregoing
                                        slices of sarcasm, baskets of bile &
                                        dishes of discord.

Days of fasting then feasting, celebrating thankfulness
were brought to our shores
by our New England forbearers, & every school child
                    knows that around 1621 the Plymouth colonists
                                       sat down with the Wampanoag Indians
                                                       & shared an autumn feast
of venison, swan, squirrel, wild boar, & perhaps
                    a wild turkey or two--there were no functional ovens
                    in  Plymouth, so several fire pits cooked the humble fare.
  There was no sugar left, so the pastries were absent.

If we were to nominate, or consecrate a Saint of Thanksgiving,
surely it would have to be the kind warrior, Squanto,
                    who knew English after being kidnapped 
                                    & sold into slavery in England, who was
                    the one who taught the colonists how
                                       to cultivate corn, & how to extract sap
 from the plentiful maple trees.

When we look to history, as certainly
we should in order to discover & honor our heritage,
                     we find that the Egyptians, Greeks, & Romans always
                     set aside days of thankfulness, in order to pay tribute
                                         to the gods after a harvest, & before them
the Jews had the Harvest Festival of Sukket  

George Washington,
John Adams, &
James Madison                  during their presidencies, also designated
                                           days of thankfulness, but it was old
Abe Lincoln in 1863 who proclaimed that
                                           in order to heal the wounds of a nation
there would be a national Thanksgiving Day held
the last Thursday in November.

my lovely wife & I are alone,               as our children are all attending
                                              gatherings & meals at their in-laws.
We will stay in our pajamas until noon, read,
                                               watch the silly goings-on on television
as we hug quietly, tenderly within the silence, the peace
of understood abandonment; for it is a different scenario
                                     when the five grandchildren congregate
                                at our home, turning it into a boisterous 
                        school play yard, laced with lilting laughter,
                 indignant yelps, angry reprisals, 
& childish demands; all of which will be enjoyed as our family
gathers in our house for Christmas.

As we prepare our simple meal for two,
just a turkey breast, & the potatoes of piety, 
& the green beans & bacon of generosity,
we will still find time to be thankful
                  for each other,
                  for our burgeoning family,
                  for our dear friends,
                  for our faithful pets; keenly aware
as we clearly see the bad weather, discontent, dissent,
crime & hunger that surrounds us, we feel
that our gratitude will be just a tiny atoll of Love
on all the dark seas of salt & pain, for we understand
                  that true thankfulness,
                   like a genuine smile
             is as infectious, 
         as contagious
as ebola.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted on this Thanksgiving Day over at dVerse Poets

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Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Commedia at Papryus Place

image from

Comedia at Pamprus Place

“We cannot, of course, disprove God, just as we can’t disprove
Thor, fairies, leprechauns, & the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”
--Richard Dawkins.

Sometimes I like to just spend a day with Thor,
                             who is quite a whiz at chess
                             when he is not commanding 
                             the thunder.

Spiderman, I suppose, should be called
Spiderboy,             for like Orphan Annie,
                   he never seems to age, sort of stuck
in MARVELous DCeduious time.
                   I try to play hardcore ping pong with him,
but ever damn time 
I am beating him,
he gets peeved, & uses his web slinger
                    to capture the bird in mid-air, &
                                once it gets all sticky & shit,
                                         it’s Game Over.

There is this blue collar bar
I like to stop at         on the dark side of the tracks in   
                                Metropolis, &
THE INKSPOT,        & even though there is a franchise of them now,
I still  dig stopping by & chugging green beers with
                                                      Nick Fury,
                                                      John Constantine,
                                                      Sgt. Rock & Sgt. Fury &
               lots of arm wrestling, dangerous dart games &
               terrific war stories. 

I did a ride along with Captain America last week,
& I got to tell you,        that cryonic 50 year vacation he took
                                    seemed to invigorate him.
He prefers to drive a souped-up Hummer,
                  with a red roof,
              a blue body,
& wide white stripes down the middle, &
               he hot rods the hell out of that tank,
                  but several times in a drag race, Batman
leaves him in the rubber smoke
driving his new Batmobile.

I bumped into Bruce Wayne, Bruce Banner, Clark Kent &
                       Peter Parker, all having coffee last Thursday
at Cometbuck’s, & it is so cool to hang out with those dudes
                       when their super hero side is under wraps.

But for me, the rush of the week
was a fly along over the Rockies
strapped to Iron Man,             wearing a helmet & O2 tanks
                                   so that I wouldn’t black out at those
                            supersonic speeds that Tony Stark
                       likes to streak at, & even though
               the winds tore off my clothes
& I arrived bare ass in Asgard,
Loki loaned me some leotards
& Thor flew me home. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets

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Thursday, November 20, 2014

Riding the Reptile

the 2014 ford shelby mustang GT500

Riding the Reptile

“The process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself,
& must be prolonged.”--Viktor Shklovsky.

Believe me, I am content to be your passionate paramour,
                                                  your ferocious lover,
                                                  your beautiful bitch, and yet
at the same time to be so ripped,
                                     so pumped,
                                     so musclebound, that I am also
           your genuine BMF,
           your road companion
           your chick magnet, &
           your for-real time machine.

Five decades ago, you rode my cousins,
                                      drove my brothers, 
                                      dry-humped my Mama,
              & fingered my Father, at a time when
your own sculpted muscles
needed no props or projections, & I forgive you
                                       for bailing out on us when the herd
                              became weaklings, clowns,
                   & Indian paintbox chuckles.

                   Our love affair today,
         after such a long separation
is hotter than ever
         as now I am both your crotch rocket & friend,
                    fully accepting all the quirks
                                 & perks about each other.

I have no trouble scoffing at the folks
who see me as only mindless muscle,
just a 21st Century robotic clone,
a growling, purring reminder
of those big block days when
pretty women would ask,   “Why do you need to have all
                       that power?” then smile sweetly & ask,
                   “When can I have a ride?”

You definitely did your research, man,
       & I can dig it, so glad
       you understand & appreciate my attributes, &
                    at 50K-60K on my price tag, I am pleased
                    you can finally afford me. So
                        my 662 horsepower 5.8 liter V-8
rumbles exhaust notes to die for,
                        my six-speed manual transmission
with OD has a stiff clutch, but not too tough that your honey
can’t compress me, & hey, 
                        my 15 mpg gas consumption
is modest yet serviceable--
                        my front seats mold to your butt
like mink-lined driving gloves,
                        my retro-dash keeps nostalgia stoked,
& when you punch it
                        my acceleration is all G-Force.

Yeah, we both know that like with any relationship,
there is an accommodation factor to consider;
                        my tiny back seat is ridiculous,
with room for an umbrella & briefcase. 
        I have no rear view camera,
                   no side curtain airbags,
                   no telescoping steering wheel,
                   no smooth ride, what with my solid axle
design & very stiff suspension, hopping a bit after a bump, &
                         my rear tires perhaps are not wide enough;
        but hey, cops like to use us as
        pursuit vehicles, I have lots of trunk space, & when
                   you slide into gravel my steering remains stable.

Sometimes I catch you staring at my
sexy rearing Cobra emblems, & you miss
                    the old silver galloping stallion, but
I want you to know,           I am your pony & your rapid reptile.
Even though there are days
when your wife seems envious of our fellowship--
rest assured, Steve McQueen would understand.
He’s probably got three of us
in his celestial garage. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Office Amalgam

image borrowed from

Office Amalgam

“The revolution is an amalgam of former party functionaries, who
are in power now, & represent a dirty hybrid never before seen in
world history.”--Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

My office, once
                 a bedroom, is a
                 supportive space; often mysterious,
as my guilty desk
puts my narcissistic backside         to my bold bookcase,
                 just as sardonic sunbeams bathe
                             the dusty spine of an outraged volume
of Leonard Cohen’s poetry--

                 I do find it odd, after
                        embracing the wonders of Spellcheck & Google
with my loving fingertips, or
                        wireless mouse, I am
still very compassionate
about cracking the brittle forgotten pages
                                        of my huge clever dictionary, once
                         my only ally while foolishly seeking brilliance,
                                        or at least competence.

I cannot help but adore
the deep-throated click
of my massive expensive 8 TB hard drive unit
as it happily burns copies
of classic movies from borrowed DVDs;
                        & it often sings a cyber duet
                        with the angel-white angry document shredder
that is chewing through handfuls 
                         of personal data, hungry, voracious 
as a proper paper piranha.

On the secretive back of the door hangs
            a cautious full-length mirror,
                        cloistered against a sympathetic wall,
                                    not wanting its dreary images
                                              to startle or alarm passers-by.
                                    On my sweet wife’s impervious
                            & adjacent desk, an arrogant pile
                    of new twenty dollar bills still lies
           ungathered, with their untidy folds
playing patty-cake with
the cold white ceramic case
of her stately lap top.
Nearby,             on a beauteously grained wooden
                 folding tray squats scintillating stacks
                 of old & bold poetry, penned in the past,
alongside dVerse anthologies, where
                                                 some of my blissful words appear,
                 weighed down by the onerous bulk
                 of my Blackthorne manuscript, with its
jet-black pious plastic covers, held steadfast 
                 with a shiny chrome trio of thick rings,
                 with its existential Western within. 

I do find a bravery,
              a beauty,
              an awe-inspiring event, by just
                           inhabiting this magnificent meditative space,
              where enthusiasm is unearthed,
                                                laid bare,
               spurred into hearty flames daily.
where digital images are reviewed, cataloged, & posted,
where poetry is first generously scrawled out in longhand,
               then forced to interact with the blue pencil, before
               it finds its inky way to paper & post,
                               at least partially confident that they
                               are in a correct order, with
               the message bordering fresh,
               the metaphor elegant,
               the rhyme scheme ambiguous,
               the meter calm, &
               the verse itself is yet free,
splashed across the naked page
like raucous robins after a rain,
congregated noisily on my back yard
while conducting a passionate worm hunt. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Thursday, November 13, 2014

Once Fallow

image by glenn buttkus

Once Fallow

“Leave a little fallow corner in your heart ready
for any seed the winds may bring.”--Henri Frederic Amiel.

I  M  A  G  E S
                           have always haunted me,
day & night; somehow
                           my recall catalog is a depository
for snapshots,
                            & moving pictures--
                                            & I constantly flash
                                            on memories of things seen,
                            of scenes from movies, or static
                            images posted by others, shared from every
corner of the planet        while busy at other tasks,
                                           while daydreaming,
                                           while exercising,
                                           while gardening,
                                           while meditating,
                                           while showering,
while writing/composing poetry or prose;
a never ending cavalcade, a zephyrous stream
of mental pictures; always distracting,
                                  almost maddening. 

But things changed five years ago
                 when Phil Photography
                 knocked at my door, wearing
a snappy digital suit,
a black Borsalino with a 30 mm hat brim,
                               & offered to move in with me, as
                               he made 40X promises
of joyous adventures,
               breathtaking iconography; further enhancing
                               my worth,
                               my reputation, &
                               my imagination-- said that he completely
           understood that back in the day,
when 35 mm ruled, 
when lenses were detachable,
when film had to be processed,
when walk-in closets became dark rooms,
when red lights & stinky chemicals were essential,
               that clearly I had been too poor, too insecure
                  to solicit his companionship,
or any other ship,           but damn my eyes          this
                    was a brand new day.

So what the deuce, on that very momentous occasion,
Philip Photography
                     came to live with me.
                                   My wife was bothered by him for a time,
                      but even she learned to tolerate his eccentricities
when she saw how happy his comradeship made me;

& wouldn’t you know it,
                       every sparkling boast of his came to pass
as squads of digital photo cards
                       filled with thousands of formerly elusive
                       images, filled dozens of digital albums
                                     blossoming brightly on hard drives,
                                     & in clouds; 

I mean every stunning place I cherished,
every quirky thing I was attracted to, began to pile up,
                        image upon image, as
                        my own vision,
                                            perceptions, &
                                                  memories were all
transfered/transformed into
stark completely in-focus Photo-Art. 

I love it when Phil & I sit down
in front of my computer with the big monitor,
sipping jasmine tea while reviewing
                                road trips, forays, hikes, strolls,
                                & divers fantasies.
He has a very keen eye, & he often cajoles me
                                into pressing the Delete key
more than I want to, but hell, his standards
                 are high, & in the end I do respect that.

We have become lion tamers, 
                                tiger teammates, 
                                bear brothers,
as the wild images are sweetly caged in cyber cells
& the visiting hours are 24/7. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

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