Thursday, April 28, 2016

Blackthorne--Review: Part IV

image from my archives.


Cinemagenics 26-30

Review--Part IV

“Good news, the treatment for my new screenplay, RIDE
VALIANT, is completed, as now I blue-pencil it & type it
up. Meanwhile, we’ll continue with the review of my first
Western, BLACKTHORNE.”--Glenn.

Twenty-Six: Ambuscado--Cheewa growled, & Buck dove out of
the barber chair, while Barnes just stood there, staring sadly.
Horsemen rode by, & there were three shotgun blasts--the front
plate glass window exploded. Buck: Did you get elected? 
Barnes: No, but I got nominated real good. He was gut shot.
Buck rushed outside, Thunderer in one hand, & sawed off shotgun
in the other. The street was empty, but Cheewa noted dust in the
adjacent alley. As Buck checked out the now vacant alley, someone
behind him got the drop on him. It was the town sheriff. Buck is not
pleased being disarmed.

Twenty-Seven: Detainment--The sheriff was Joe Hop, his deputy was
Marcus. Buck, of course, extolls his innocence. Hop checked out the
Colt .41--This weapon has been fired recently. Buck admits to a
“little scuffle” over at the China Doll; Fellow named Ramos gave me
no choice in the matter. There were a dozen witnesses. Hop asked
straight up: Did you shoot our barber? Buck replied: I had no call to
do that. Buck introduces himself, but is still angry & sarcastic. Things
are interrupted by the storekeeper, Henry Wallace: He’s innocent, Joe,
so back off. I wasn’t the only person who saw that bunch gallop by &
blast out Barnes’ window. Hop tries to keep things calm. Wallace
demands to know where Hop was earlier that day when the ruckus
broke out in the China Doll. Irritated, Hop explained that he had been
out of town, journeying to the county seat to see a judge, & had just
returned. Wallace gave his eye witness account. He had been loading
provisions on Buck’s horse when things lit up. He then hears that the
stranger is named Rod Buck.

Twenty-Eight: Release--Wallace asks if the stranger is any relation to
Bill buck--I’m his son. Hop asks who Bill Buck was. Several of the
townspeople gathered around explained, old Bill had been the town
“character”, & that he used to own that sweet ranch up in the foothills
near Bronson’s place. Hop decides to let Buck go for the moment, but
warned him not to leave town. Hop vows to look into the incident in
the saloon as well. Buck: I never go looking for trouble, but it seems
to jump in front of me whenever it pleases. Hop returns Buck’s
weapons, as the stranger & Wallace walk back across the street
over to the General Store.

Twenty-Nine: Aftermath--Buck was charged four dollars for his
groceries. Buck: What’s happened to this town? Wallace: Cash
Bronson. Wallace flashed on the last time he saw Bill Buck. Old
Bill had stood right there in the store, years before. Wallace tried
to get him to eat some breakfast. Bill: Eating is overrated; it gets
in the way of my drinking. Wallace gives him some money, &
instructs him to go to the cafe for a meal. 3 hours later, Wallace
was told that Buck had gotten drunk again, & was on his way
back to the store, when he passed out in the street, right under
the wheels of a moving stagecoach. Wallace then looked at
young Rod Buck, in front of him. He offered Buck a sip of some
“tanglefoot”. They drank together but Wallace’s eye reflected
the old sadness.

Thirty: Whiskey Words--Buck gulped at the home-distilled shine,
& remarked at its mule kick. Buck: Damn your eyes, this juice
could kill ticks. They discussed the shooting at the barber shop.
Wallace figured it was Bronson’s men trying to silence Barnes.
Buck disagreed: Pretty sure they were gunning for me. I had
quite a row with his little brother, Paully, over at the pig wallow.
Wallace considered this, but contended “Shit like that happens
over there way too often. Young man, you’ve only been back in
town for a couple of hours, & already got scorpions in your boots”.
Wallace assumes this all means the stranger will “ride on”. 
Buck assures him: No, I think I’ll be sticking around for a piece.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Fear Eater

image from

Fear Eater

“Life gives us experiences, teaches us lessons, gifts us with 
wisdom that is not for us to hoard selfishly. Most people 
accomplish this this through parenting. I have no children, 
so I write.”--My Mystery Poet.

What some of us discover as we age
       and mellow a bit, blunting the rancor we once
                were so willing to share with the world at large,
                        as we find ourselves forming cyber-fellowships
                with other poets, begin reveling in the reality that
        poetic communities are peopled with wonderful
folks whose homes are dotted all over
this planet, & are privileged to share rich
experiences vicariously through them;
        their fabulous words,
        their world views,
        their personal faith,
                               neighborhoods, &

I do adore so many of my fellow poets,
feeling strongly that we all are extended
family.                         One of the poets          I truly admire
       is a woman with such a zest for life         it permeates
       everything she does, thinks & writes,      but this is not
just a prairie pollyanna--no, her pragmatism is legendary.
                                   She once wrote, 
      There is no joy without the care that comes with pain.

Shakespeare did indeed scribble--
”get thee to a nunnery”--
this is not something just every
young girl would be willing or able
to do,                  but this woman spent 23 years
                           serving her faith
                           and her heart; becoming a nurse
                           within the Order.

                                          Later in her eventful life, she was an 
                        RN, specializing in hospice care, giving comfort
         to the dying, smiling in the face of death, removing its
mask, sharing that beyond pain & fear
death can be a glowing door, as gentle
as taking a loved one’s hand, or a warm
breeze blowing in off the high desert in
July, that death, much maligned, can be
a lovely way station, a focus point for divine
transition.                  Her own mother, now quite frail & mostly
                                  unfocused, has made appearances in
                                  several of her poems:
Yes, Mom, all is well. You can move on when you’re ready.

                                   My own mother-in-law turned 90 last July,
                              and we drove down to Texas to celebrate it
                          with her. Three days after we left, she let go of
                     her pain & slipped away--so this is a scenario that
                 has become all too familiar to many of us. 

This lovely & loving poet faced death herself in 1996, and only
a kidney transplant allowed her to live & write on. I think she has
the creative flare of a Virginia O’Keefe, yet the joyous cowgirl’s
heart of a Dale Evans. May her poetry, short stories & novels
continue, for those of us who celebrate her wondrous words and
her compassionate heart, years & years yet to come.

She has two dogs in
the yard, & once lived in France,
but still wears underpants.

Glenn Buttkus

Thursday, April 21, 2016


image from


“True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of
disjointed memories.”--Florence King.


When my life slows down to a snore,
I think about inhaling old paper
and heading out on a caper;
seeking a familiar book store
with two cats and an oaken door;
there are not only tons of books,
for readers, experts, and some cooks,
but also old magazines for
ephemera nuts seeking lore
to share with friends on Facebook.


Scrapbooking is one of my fun 
pursuits, cutting out images from
old magazines; like movie ads,
classic cars, and other forms of sweet
nostalgia, collecting those great
Coca-Cola ads, plethoras
of celebrity endorsements
for cigarettes, booze, and everything
else under the sun. It’s lovely
to look back, remember, then smile.

No one is, though some really feel
isolated, adrift, without any
moorings, disconnected, so very 
alone; but if they allow some
nostalgia to blossom within
the bleakness of their lives, they
will discover that they are, in fact
an integral link in a chain
of human events, art, science
and historical fellowship.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Blackthorne--Review: Part III


Cimemagenics 21-25

Review--Part III

“My gratitude swells as I read your positive responses to this
review of all that came before--so it continues. As a sidebar,
I am quite busy writing an actual Western screenplay, requested
by a successful actor friend as a future role for him.”--Glenn

Twenty-One: Warning--Buck returns to Millie’s room upstairs, &
begins to get dressed, asking: Who was that tinhorn? Millie is
silent for a moment, then says: Just ride on, back to nowhere, or
wherever the hell you came from. Buck explains that: This town
is my last stop; life has run out of rails. I’m done with running.”
Millie responds: Then you are probably a dead man; can’t you
hear the guns cocking all over town? That was Cash Bronson’s
little brother that you just tossed out of the window like a sack
of sour goat shit. Buck is told that Bronson is the main king pin,
the hairy bear in that town, & he will retaliate for this insult. Lulu,
the blond prostitute he had cold-cocked was Paully’s “girlfriend”.
Paully mostly stayed at the saloon, pretending to be the manager,
whoring, drinking, & gambling. Cash had a huge ranch, the Triple
B, a few miles out of town. No one stands up to Paully, for fear
of his two brothers. Buck shrugged. She asked: Haven’t you
heard about Thor?

Twenty-Two: Dead Time--Millie warns Buck about Thor Bronson,
the eldest son; slippery fast, & rattlesnake mean: He’s killed over
20 men in gunfights, & he’s never had a scratch on him. Buck
seems unimpressed. As he is leaving, he turns & asks: Sweet
Millie, will you remember me?  “Hell no,” she replied,”I like you,
& you’ll probably be dead inside of a week.” He walks out, leaving
5 silver dollars on the dresser. She watches him from her other
window, standing there naked & weeping. 

Twenty-Three: Errands--Buck stopped at Wallace’s General Store;
they were still busy, so there was no sack of provisions hanging
from his saddle. He could see a barber shop two blocks down. He
notices a lot of crowd buzz at the front of the CHINA DOLL. He slips
his .50 caliber Sharps out of its scabbard, cradles it over on arm &
heads off for a shave & possibly a bath. Most people didn’t really
pay much attention to him; this made him uneasy. At the end of the
first block, in an alley, two Mexican whores had set up shop in front
of a red tent. They waved at him. Buck enters Barnes’ Barber Shop,
& as the barber stood up, he asked: Whooa--what is that lethal
smell? Buck replied: Buffalo blood, beer & pussy. The barber
frowned: Thanks for sharing.

Twenty-Four: Shave & a Haircut--Barnes introduced himself, &
had Buck sit in a swivel chair. He opened his front door a bit,
staring back at the pungent stranger. Cheewa came padding in.
Barnes said, “I don’t hold much with dogs in my shop, but Buck
insisted that his dog stay by his side. Barnes agreed. As he steamed
Buck’s face, & began to clip off the salt & pepper beard, he asked
if Buck knew anything about the gun shots that had happened earlier? 
Buck replied, “ A couple of men got to scuffling over one of the whores”,
in the saloon. Barnes complained that a couple of men a week were
killed or injured in the CHINA DOLL, Buck asked: Does this chicken-
shit town have a sheriff? The barber replied: Yup, his name is  Joe 
Hop, & he’s got a badge & everything; but it seems that he & Bronson
have some kind of arrangement--with the sheriff mostly staying out
of the saloon. “So does Bronson write law & dictate policy?”  Barnes
replied thatIt has nothing to do with laws, & everything to do with
power.  Buck shrugged: What the fuck--there’s a Bronson in every

Twenty-Five: Advice--Buck asks why the town hasn’t just hired some
“regulators” to run Bronson off. It seems Bronson is now too entrenched,
has too much money & land, & a private militia of gunsels to enforce
his will. “Is the sheriff a bought bully for Bronson?” But there is no simple
answer--Hopp is a tough law man; he’s tamed several other towns in the
past. He has been in Blackthorne for about a year. The previous two
sheriffs did not fare well--one was back shot, the other just went fishing
& never came back. Buck inquired about the Bronson brothers. “Why
do you want to know?” Barnes inquired. “I think I just tossed Paully
out of a two-story window, & I’m expecting trouble.” Barnes said:
Be smart, ride on. Buck was silent. Barnes then explained that Bronson
had shown up in town a decade earlier, with a satchel full of cash, &
six men as companions. “My son tells me I talk too much; did Bronson
send you to shut me up? Buck smiled: Well shit-fire, it will be a hot old
time in the town when this wicked-ass Jefe & I finally meet. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Romp Phantasmagoric

image from

Romp Phantasmagoric

“The crowd is the veil through which the unfamiliar city beckons
to the flaneur as phantasmagoria--now a landscape, now a room.”
--Walter Benjamin.

Our newest toilet
is a Toto,                    but hey,
                 I’m not so disenchanted       with Kansas
                 that I might flush myself       down it
to finally find
the red poppy fields,
the coven of white witches,
the sinister flying monkeys,
or singing lollipop dwarfs.

One of my closets is indeed a wardrobe,
        because the builder did not fully appreciate
              or comprehend sartorial decorum, just an oaken
                      stand alone with carved wooden doors, but I swear
               on one fevered night the Indian did step out of it,
         with a lion on a red leash, & two eagle feathers
in his teeth. I couldn’t exactly tell what tribe
he was from because the moonlight was
shadowed in dim gauze. 

There are actual islands in the stream
of Puget Sound, & when but a callow
youth I would sit on shore & stare at them,
finally selecting the smallest one for myself,
that I would purchase after becoming a famous
actor & writer. I planned to live on it full time,
in sight of the city, but snug in my own fiefdom.
I would erect a twenty-story tower above the
mansion to use as my writer’s nest--with a
360 degree view & stone parapets. But alas
today it is used by Native Americans for a
tourist salmon-bake stop. 

                                                      I live in a miraculous house in a quiet
                                     suburb that is supercharged with psychic energy,
                              riddled with sweet dimensional portals, complete with
                        ghostly interlopers & walk-throughs, convenient access to
                 amorous kundalini dragons, vast medieval landscapes covered
         with orange castles flying yellow & golden banners, with more than
enough space to accommodate my collection of 30,000 movies, a boundless
imagination, daring dreams,
several computers, three wide-
screen televisions & seven
rambunctious grandchildren.

I have never actually climbed Mt. Rainier, but I have spend a decade
circumnavigating it, photographing it, & worshipping its majesty. In my
zoom lens, several times, I have detected fuzzy flocks of huge white
wings--snowbird angels that frolic over the glaciers perhaps? They must
be quite the sight to behold close-up. There are local mountaineer legends
about bizarre encounters with such creatures, who like Sasquatch, have
a dark side as well.

transports us beyond what is 
real--to fantasy.

Glenn Buttkus

Thursday, April 7, 2016

Sevenling ( I Painted )

image by glenn buttkus

Sevenling ( I Painted )

I painted my ’08 Gran Vitara nine months ago,
& I gave it its first official wash
three days ago.

We drove to the ocean this week;
it beamed fire engine red on the beach
as I snapped three photos of it,

before noticing the newly peeled paint above the windshield.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub MTB