LT Saloon

July Edition 2009

Looking at the Pain

Written by Ken Carman

Pain
Twist it
Turn it
Spin it around
Play catch
Eat it
Expel
Consume again

I examine pain
Like a collector
Looks at a butterfly
All the tormented colors
Stark
But beautiful

You never understood
You never really knew
Those who do the hurting
Rarely do

All the pain
What could have been
What was
What will never be
All that pain
Has made me
Me

More real
Than your every fake smile
The…
“Let’s be friends”
“See you in a while”

All those lies
That I don’t miss
Hesistant hug
Phoney kiss
Missing them has made me
More real
Than even I knew
Back when meaningless sex
Made you
You

Pain feeds the poet
The humble
And starves what’s lame
Pain well placed
Keeps the creative sane

There’s a time for pain
And for pity too
This poem’s my time for pity
Pity…
you
____________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Collapsing the Conundrum

Written by Ken Carman

The time traveler sat on his bed in his cell when they came to get him. Maflo, the head of the guard, had grown to like the time traveler and decided to try one more time…

“Look, I think I can still get them to stop the execution if you tell us why you did it..”

“I have nothing to say.”

They walked to the demolecularization chamber, he talked and the traveler mostly listened.

“If we hadn’t developed the ability to track those who interfere with the natural course of events by traveling through time we wouldn’t have caught you. In a way, I wish we hadn’t. I am going to miss our four dimensional chess games. Maybe some day the knight I could have used to get you into checkmate will show up. I’m sure you shifted it into the future, I just can’t figure out when.”

The traveler just smiled.

“I don’t understand. Why did you leave us that book so many years ago that claimed to tell the future, but was all wrong? Will you ever tell us? How many people died because of that prank? Most crimes no longer get the death penalty, but homicide on that scale… well, exceptions sometimes must be made.”

They positioned him in the chamber.

“Why?”

As he faded into simple molecules he said, “I have traveled and this finishes the final alteration. You ask me why? To collapse the conundrum…” and he was gone. In his place was something wrapped in a note: the knight.

It read…

“If I had written about what you should do, you would not have learned how to determine what was the right way. To really advance, one must learn how to pick the right path first. We have discovered that the best way to help any society, any individual, how to to get where they need to go is to tell them to do the opposite of what they should do. Once they learn about real consequences; not just imagined ones, they enter into the future determined to follow the right path, believing in themselves: inspired to use their minds to advance beyond extinction. Even if I had told you about this moments before my death and you had stopped the execution I may have changed your present and my past. Now that I am gone, you will understand. Centuries ago suicide bombers made you more cautious, more concerned with security. In an odd way, we are like them. Now that you know and you will find yourselves beginning an organization I was a member of: dedicated to collapsing the conundrum by sacrificing yourselves. Even now some of you will feel the calling to join this noble cause.”

“We wish you luck, and know you will have it.”

He folded the note gently.

Never had he felt so hopeful.

Never had he felt such gratitude.

And since he felt the calling…

Never had he felt so scared.
_______________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Miraculous Flower

Written by Millie Jenny C.

Fragile flower

Susceptible to so much . . .

Effected by every breeze that blows

Awkwardly balanced on top

Of a less than pencil-thin stem

Your multi-layered

Splash . . .of color

Jumping out at me.

The rain pours . . . Down in torrents.

You are bent down. . .

Almost to the ground.

Miraculously . . .

The downpour halts . . .

With barely a second to spare.

You do not break . . .

You inched . . .so very. . . slowly upward again

As you dry. . .

You drink-in luxuriously the essential

Nutrients in the raindrops. . .

The sun

Burst back onto the scene. . .

Now with the magical mixture of

Heat and moisture. . .

Your growth continues.
_________________________________________

©Copyright 2004 and 2008
Millie Jenny C
all rights reserved

"Splash of color"

Unimaginative Minds

Courtesy of faqs.org

Written by Ken Carman

Unimaginative minds
See only the world
For what they think it must be
Half empty glass heads
That find it impossible
To even ponder
A “maybe”
Or “instead.”

To unimaginative minds
Dreams are infestations
Demanding extermination
Needing fumigation
Their favorite poison…

…hopelessness

Above the grave
They’d willingly dig for you
In a land of lost possibilities
Here they plot
Making sure hope
Will be buried alive
Over eager to throw the dirt
Taking pleasure in the hurt

Gravediggers
For the mind
______________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Bust My Buttons

Written by Sennebec

I wasn’t sure whether the message on my answering machine was more unexpected or unwelcome. Marcus Dinsmore was a name from my high school days and certainly not someone with a good reason to get in touch with me.

The voice sounded more mature, but familiar, bringing back memories of spring, 1989 when we were about to graduate from high school. I beat out Marcus by asking Shannon Merck to the graduation prom, completely unaware that they had been dating. He had gone ballistic, threatening me in senior English and later spray painting all the windows on my beloved 57 Chevy. He missed getting expelled by a hair and wasn’t allowed to graduate with the rest of us. Oddly enough, Shannon and I discovered we had nothing in common and never went out again. That was almost 20 years ago. I had gone to college, then graduate school and was a slightly balding software engineer in Emeryville, California, far removed from Simonton, Maine. Heck, I hadn’t even been back to visit in ten years.

Curiosity won and I listened to the message again. “Hi James, bet you never expected to hear from me, did you. I saw on the web that you were doing some really cool stuff with 3-D graphics in computer applications. Way beyond anything I’d ever do. Anyhow, I found your phone number in your online resume and thought, hey, maybe it’s time to make things right for what happened way back when, if you know what I mean. I’d like to meet and clear the air. I’m staying at the Radisson for the next few days. Give me a call if you want to meet. Later, Marcus.”

As the events of that spring ran through my mind, I started to dial the number, hesitated and then thought what the heck. He answered on the second ring and after some awkward small talk, we agreed to meet at an obscure sushi place in North Beach the following evening.

I recognized him immediately as I came down the stairs into a quietly lit and very small restaurant. Japanese music was playing softly in the background and there was an Asian couple engrossed in each other at the far end of the bar. He waved me over and stood as I got close, extending his hand. I shook it and took the seat next to him.

After a bit of awkward small talk, I started to relax and asked what he had been up to since high school. My question seemed to defuse his edginess as well and for the next hour, we caught each other up on post-high school experiences and news of classmates. I didn’t realize it at the time, but most of what Marcus told me about his own experiences was just vague enough so none of it was traceable.

He seemed to know the sushi chef quite well and insisted on treating me to an array of samples, many of which I had never heard of before. Not wanting to offend him, I sampled each one, even though I’m not the greatest raw fish fan. They were surprisingly good and I cleaned the plate while Marcus ate sparingly, urging me on whenever I seemed to be sated. Several hours later, we parted amicably after exchanging emails and phone numbers.

The next day, I received a cryptic email from Marcus; “Thanks for getting together and letting me repay you for old times, Marcus.”

I was buried in a new project a couple days later when I started experiencing waves of nausea which quickly turned into gut-wrenching pain. It became so bad I knew there was no way I’d get to my doctor unaided. I called 911.

The paramedic lifted my shirt, took one look at my distended abdomen and wasted no time. While he and his partner wheeled me to the ambulance, he called the ER to have a surgeon standing by and as soon as I was safely strapped in, he took off like a bat from hell.

I was so focused on the pain which was now so powerful I was alternating screaming and whimpering, I didn’t remember reaching the hospital, but everything came to a blinding stop right after they wheeled me into the examination room. I felt one last tearing sensation before the surgeon swore and ripped my shirt open, sending buttons flying in every direction. While the EMTs and a nurse struggled to get an IV started, the surgeon cursed again and without waiting to get me to the OR, started an incision right over whatever was tearing me apart. Whatever was in the IV blessedly started taking the raw edge off my building agony just as blood and bits of torn tissue erupted from the incision followed by a translucent creature which continued to writhe as it oozed from my open abdomen. In my hazy state, I barely registered its size and the incredible mandibles clacking viciously as it searched for something else to destroy.

Three days later, I emerged from a drug-induced coma to find the surgeon regarding me with a mixed look of pity and compassion.

“Wha…” I tried to ask around the tube going down my throat.

“Someone really dislikes you, Mr. Radnik. I’ve treated numerous cases of Anisakiasis, but I never encountered anything like the parasite we tried excising from you. In fact I had to consult with colleagues at Tokyo General to get an inkling of what we were dealing with. Someone slipped you a serving of Hokkonu Haddafrass, a species seldom seen and nothing any sane person would consider consuming. It hosts a segmented parasite which can reproduce when a section is severed and is nearly impossible to detect, even with modern techniques.”

I barely heard anything he said after the word tried.
__________________________________________________________________________

©Copyright 2009
Sennebec
All Rights Reserved

"Oh, %$#@!!!!"

Horny Little Devil

(Or: Final Judgment for a Womanizer)

Written by Ye Olde Scribe

Her husband just shot me with both barrels.

Where am I?

Hmmm… that feels good.

Come on baby. Oh, yeah! Harder. Faster. You’re my bitch. Straddle me and ride me; your stallion. Oh, yeah, bring up the lights. I want to see my conquest. I’m in heaven! I’m in heaven! Wait, what’s that smell? Tusks? TUSKS??? Oh, God, get that filthy boar-woman-thing off me. OH GOD, NO.

I need good bath after that. Now that feels good. Suck some of the slime off, please. Dare I look?

It’s…

It’s…

Some kind of snake creature with a big mouth filled with sharp teeth. NO, DON’T BITE DOWN. Let go! Let go! Let go!

When you get sent to Hell, be careful what you imagine, be careful what you desire. You may get just what you want for an eternity.

__________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ye Olde Scribe
all rights reserved

Just Not Enough Time

Written by Millie Jenny C.

There is just not enough time to do what needs to be done.

Not enough hours in the days that seem to cascade by. . .

Faster and faster

Year after year.

What was it,  in childhood,   that made the days. .  .

J     U     S     T            D     R     A     G           B   Y.

Perhaps it is just me,  then again,  I have heard this same sentiment

Expressed by many of my colleagues and friends.

Is it just that there are so many more options now?

So many more paths to choose?

Or is it,  as I grow older . . . I become more scattered. . .

Spread myself too thin.

To accomplish all the tasks that I schedule.

I know sometimes I place obstacles  RIGHT THERE in front of me.

Yet sometimes. . . they just APPEAR THERE. . . Blocking  / /  MY  PATH ONWARD.

Where they appear from I couldn’t tell you.

All I know is . . . one second there is a clear path. . .

And the next thing I know. . . I almost fall FLAT on my face …

Because there is a  BOULDER in my way.

Other times, it’s more SNEAKY. . .  like Black Ice. . .  Invisible. . .

All I know is. . .

THERE IS JUST. . .    NOT    ENOUGH   TIME !

_________________________________________

©Copyright 2009 and 2002

Millie Jenny C

all rights reserved

Image courtesy of starpulse.com

Isn’t a War?

(Picture courtesy of r2rfestival.org)

Written by Ana Gararian

Isn’t a war

Just the big boys

Fight in the locker room?

What if no one watched,

If the halls stayed empty

And there were no

Cheers or Jeers?

What if the bar patrons simply

Turned their backs

And ordered up another round?

Could the, would the dispute

Be worked out

With some posturing

And a jab or two?

Even in a knockout

Wouldn’t there be less

Damage and folderol?

You say

“What about the bullies?”

Doesn’t it seem the bullies have

The biggest crowd anyway?

Let them/make them

Work it out on their own

Without witness

Or posse.

Would the bully not fear compromise

As it would not compromise his reputation?

Would the victim find voice

When not having to

Overcome the crowded chaos?

______________________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ana Garaian
all rights reserved

———–Lutin Muse———-

The LT Saloon Lutin Muse Literary Journal July 2009