06/2009

Written by Ken Carman I’m a reporter for The Observer Dispatch. I don’t want to hear any wise cracks from Utica residents like, “What reporters?” I’ve heard them all. Yeah, there’s a few of us, too often relegated to local puff pieces; but we’re there. I also have a contact within the Oneida County Deputy Sheriffs who owes me a lead. Highly placed. I’ll tell you my story first, then ask a question. I was sleeping in my bedroom on Seymour; just north of the Parkway. The area has gone down hill since I inherited this place, but it’s still OK compared to further on down towards South Street. Sincerely, beyond that? I suggest you don’t go there. Late Spring day, just warm enough for a swim… if you’re brave enough, the cell phone rang. Well, it actually did a version of the Batman theme. I’m an old TV show buff. I flipped my cheap cell open. It was the sheriff. “Look, I’ve been promising to give you a little help. Meet me…” I hopped into my old rattle infested; northern rot-rusted Honda Civic. Beautiful, warm day. Just before the community college I head south and uphill to a ridge.…

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By Jenn Weinshenker We want to move To grasp what is just out of reach But we lack the ability We try to secure enough balance To determine our direction But we incessantly wobble In a sea of vane futility Walled in We strive like …Reeds bursting through …The icy crust of a bog in early spring We stretch and reach …Our primal scream …Echoes through the bedrock of sheer frustration We continue to grip and claw Upward toward a 360 degree view Of all of it Only to find The Center doesnt exist We cannot hold onto what we have And even with our best efforts Another fall is a certainty We see all of this We know where we want to go But we dont know how to get there And yet we keep trying To know love and vulnerability And to prize the beauty and elegance of nature As it is Is to become an extension of this living compass This magma-tic Ebb and flow Finding a way Of neutralizing polar Pushes and pulls; Disillusionments; hopes And the subsequent expectations That frustrate us Is the key to freedom The obstacles we face The opposites we seek And…

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Written by Professor Good Ales The boiling of the barley Rejoice in hops and malt IPA, Stout Barleywine or Alt Tis a sacred sacrament Time worthwhile spent Liquid Gold Waiting to ferment Til the blessed union Doth occur Yeast to fermentibles “Whatcha doin sugars?” ____________________________ Copyright 2009 Professor Good Ales all rights reserved

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Written by Ye Olde Scribe Twiddle De Twiddle Dum Decided they would Play with a gun A double barrel bonanza Of 12 gauge fun Dum did pull De gave a few tugs Both barrels filled With deer slugs Together they had less brains Than two half witted pugs… BANG BANG Both slugs went On their way One bounced off a metal leg Owned by Rick O’ Shay One went into a sick rabbit Named Ray D Lepper What… Were you expecting Has N. Pheffer? The bounced one barely missed A tiger named Tigger And a fat lady of the night YO! Vanna Licker It found its horsey mark Only slightly bigger Guess you could say this gun Had a… “hare Trigger” _____________________________ Copyright 2009 Ye Olde Scribe all rights reserved As Trigger goes off to that great butcher shop in the sky, Scribe sings… “Happy trails to you, until we… meat… again…”

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Written by R.S. Janes Youve got to have beauty, if youve got talent, thats a plus. If youve got neither you might as well get back on the bus and head on home to Palookaville or Altoona or Pittsburgh, P. A. Without those dollar signs in your eyeballs, your face has nothing to say. Madame Profit runs the brothel here the phony handshake, the elbow in the ribs, the lurid neon leer. The Corn God of the Midwest may lurk near your brassiere but youre just another quick chrome job to a monster in high gear here. Flash a tight smile, fix your nose, imitate sincere, youre riding on the gravy train of unholy fake-boobed cheer. The ticket price may overwhelm you, but have no fear, we can enema you with overpriced celebrity and parade you like a prize steer. Modern Madonnas meet Hollywood anacondas bear your plastic Jesus now, dear. Ornamental angels, high on the ramparts of Babylon, suddenly decide its a leap year. Lift up your skirt, turn around, and look in a mirror, heres all that youve become since you first came here. ________________________________ 2001 – 2009 R. S. Janes All Rights Reserved

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Written by Ken Carman I grew up Under emotionally sculpted skies Passionate Crystal clear northern breezes Blowing raggedy cotton ball clouds Over bright blue lakes Deep, dense, dark green forests And a deep, wide river Unless… Life’s clouds hung heavy Or high A different kind of sculpted sky All in All A time when passionate dreams dared to fly Solo How close passion and I were back when I would let passion devour me Well Every now and then But it always spat me back up Freshly challenged Oh… When did this slimy, slippery Emotionless mist Start to insist On dampening this passionate heart? When did the weeks The months Each year Start to dull even fear Into textureless Tasteless Cream of Wheat days? When did I let Like a once beloved pet Passion be buried on cemetery hill And how did my dreams get To curl into the corners of only yesterday? A process that seemed slower than tortoise As hope went all Rigor mortis Before its time Occasionally Through too many moonless nights Through the steady Quick Drip Drip Drip Of each year I hear The ghost of passion still Howling up on cemetery hill And think… He…

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The LT Saloon Lutin Muse Literary Journal June 2009

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Where summertime dreams and imagination takes flight…

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