Trinity Tales

by Glenn Buttkus

“Pessimism, distrust, & irony are the holy trinity of
my personal religion; irony in particular.”–Brando Skyhorse. 
I stood downtown
            in front of a department store window
                        that was being busily decorated
                        for Halloween;        ghosts,
                                              gnarly green giants;
            pumpkin princes,
            pirate’s parrots,
            pernicious pariahs,
            puzzling palindromes;
donut mushrooms, &
death defying ducks–              & I was barely aware
                       of the other people busily
                       crowding around me;                babbling,
                       buzzing, agitated, frightened, not seeing
the young woman lying on her back
                       on the pavement,
turning blue,
limbs twitching in
full seizure,
eyes rolled back,
with coffee-colored foam            covering red lips,
                        staining her yellow silk blouse.
Leaving the Art theater
              with a female friend,
                        right after viewing a revival
                                         of Bergman’s PERSONA,
my arms sawing the air,
my excited words rising & falling
                  in the evening’s chill,
                  trying to explain, what I perceived as
                                              the psychological existential symbolism
within the classic Swedish film,
the commonly encountered nature
                       of those who are too easily
                       other-directed, & the too human
                                               need for some to follow (blindly)
                                               & others to lead (arrogantly),
carefully drawing a fascinating parallel
                       to the topical reality of young malcontents
                       being too easily recruited, trained, & turned
                                               into home-grown terrorists;
then suddenly
        finding our path blocked
        by two men in black hoodies, just as
I saw the muzzle of the Glock;
       We’ll be taking your wallets & watches, mother fuckers,
                        the shorter one said.
For delicious decades,
we have lived in a house
                        rife with portals, humming
                        with metaphysical psychic meditative imagery,
and often, too often
                 according to my three daughters,
                 we all detect movement & presence
in our periphery–
          people & pets             who are not there,
                                             but were there
          for a few fleeting moments.
We call them the Visitors, and for the most part
         they have always been gregarious,
         as they stroll & slice through
                      several dimensional veils, even
         the ones who actually materialize
for a minute, or an elongated part of one,
visiting with us in plain sight.             My wife & I
         have always been receptive to
                      and in tune with
these visits;
& that’s made all the difference.

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