Courtesy panoramio.com

Written by Ken Carman

I live inside the dreams of other men, within the imagination of other women. I live between the lines, the photons, the the dots of ink, the images you type out on your laptops, PCs and Macs.

You can’t see me, but I know you.

There are many of us here you never see. You only know us by telling us to fly, dive, swim and, yes, die.

But we never really die.

You just re-imagine us.

I have been to Mars, seen the Earth explode, been to wizard school, rode Saturn sandworms.

You go wild imagining what I can, could or would be.

There was a time we had some rest between the moments, then one of your writers imagined that they could step between the moments and then that refuge was gone.

Damn Steven King and his Langoliers.

Yet I long for a day with nothing to do, a cup of coffee: watching birds feed at a feeder above my picture window, just to goddamn sleep, for even when you sleep I live on. Every dream pushes me on, takes me where I may not want to go.

You are my God..

…and I hate you.

_______________________________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Courtesy tvtropes.org

Written by Lilith Raymour

I come here to eat often. The strange creatures just toss perfectly good food out into the jungle. I have to compete with other creatures, but I’m faster, tougher… so I do eat occasionally.

Still, I am always so hungry.

Today I heard them toss out some more and, as I ate, I noticed the dropped some. I ate that and found they had dropped some more. Then in the dark I saw a big yellow, warmth, thing, with the creatures surrounding it. I am so cold. So cold. So I crept closer.

No sharp sticks.

No stones.

So I laid down.

One came close and rubbed my head.

I have been so alone. My pack left me behind long ago because I was too slow, too weak.

Now I have found a warm home, and a new pack.

Who cares if they don’t look like me?

_________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Lilith Raymour
all rights reserved

Courtesy coydog.usa

Courtesy kornonia.wordpress.com

Written by Ken Carman

(An Anti-Love-Letter)

So you thought…

You could pretend to care, to use me, to abuse me, then throw me away when I wasn’t as useful as your lust for life demanded: like yesterday’s trash… only to pass by occasionally, or have me over, so you could insult, ignore, be ruse, point, laugh and mock me while with friends, or in front of your new beau?

When we met…

You, on the down, needing someone to make you feel worthy again after being used up and tossed aside yourself.

Me: looking for a lifetime partner, a very close friend: one to share my life, my thoughts, my dreams, my aspirations: my world, with. To become part of my songs, my poetry, my prose: part of me, and me… as much a part of them.

You: on the way to the next fantasy who would never measure up, though you would never see that. And after the next fantasy tossed YOU aside, you’d find someone else to become yesterday’s trash. For some reason that makes you feel good about yourself again, even though you only repeat what was done to you, what you complain about to friends. Then, after tossing that person aside, reach out for the next fantasy capture. Someone as selfish, as self absorbed, as you. Someone merely dressed in the flesh of humanity, as empty inside as you are… never quite realizing you are desperately trying to love yourself by treating others as either amusing puppets, or Gods to be worshiped. Trying desperately to love yourself, and not knowing how. Perhaps you never will.

Later “somehow” your orbit collides with mine again, when you’re on the down, when you need yet another laugh, to do more mocking, find more frivolity in using, abusing, and once again tossing aside yesterday’s trash. Only here because the deep emptiness inside you is so damn demanding… then you wonder why you’re dismissed so readily.

Surprised?

You shouldn’t be.

________________________________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Courtesy michellereneebernard.blogspot.com

Courtesy car-accidents.com

Written by Ken Carman

So sad. I returned to the old Ford truck my cousin had been driving that day. A semi had slid and tipped sideways into us during a brief, freak, ice storm. No one’s fault. He had been killed instantly and the town mourned.

Small town where he had been the basketball hero where basketball was only played by Gods. He had been loved by everyone, and he seemed to return the worship.

Oh, hi. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m the town slut. Not really, damn that Jimmy Higgins. Refuse to let the teen perv into your panties and lies flow like at a political convention. But no one trusts me. No one believes me. No one ever believes “the slut.”

I’ve just escaped the hospital after months of therapy, needles, operations and generally being looked own upon as, “Why couldn’t we save Jimmy instead of a bimbo like you?” The remains of the Ford truck are at Jerry’s towing, and Jerry reluctantly allowed me to get a few things out of the smashed carcass… including Jimmy’s camera.

Jerry, the 60 year old fool, has been hot for me since he found out what everyone in town has been saying. He doesn’t understand why I ignore his moves, though he’s been slapped a few times by his wife for an occasional comment she overhears.

I’ve turned the camera on and I’m looking at the pictures, hoping to see all that’s left of my cousin. The camera is loaded with pictures of dogs and cats, still alive at the moment of the snap. Their fur ripped off. Needles in their ears and eyes. The town had thought there was a pet snatcher prowling around and, yes, there was, wasn’t there Jimmy?

Then there’s the next to last picture of Allison Kreed, in absolute terror. She just disappeared a few days before the accident, they found her as if she had been mauled by a bear. And the last picture is of me, arms outstretched as if holding the camera: nasty grin on my face. I remember when he took this. He told me, because he was always interested in making cameras do weird things, he was trying to make it look like I took it myself.

Oh, Jimmy, what were you doing, and who will believe me?

What do I do now?
________________________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Written by Lilith Raymour

No one owes you happiness
You have to find it
Prowl for it
Some days that’s all it takes
to cast a smile on your face

Happiness plays hide and seek
That’s part of the adventure
The challenge
The joy

Some days
You’re the Road Runner
Some days the Coyote
And no day
No matter what the planning
Is “safe…” from hard landings

The darkest days
Can provide mirth
If only in the mind
“Seek and ye shall find”

For happiness hides
Under the floorboards
In
Or out
of your bed
On top of the house
Occasionally must be fed

Too many people starve happiness
Then wonder why it dies

Beep, beep
________________________________-
©Copyright 2012
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Courtesy theartwallstreet.com

Written by Ye Olde Scribe

Thinking
what Trayvon
thought:

“Fe Fi feh Fo
Is causin trouble just for fun
Fe fi foo who?
Who are ya, mon?
Is smells da smell
George Zimmerman’s
gotta gun
Fe Fo Fu glue
Is gonna beat dis turkey
Look at him da run!
Ei, oh, ow, ee
George went n shot
punk ass me”

So hard to argue
with simplistic minds
of racists
_______________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Ye Olde Scribe
all rights reserved

Courtesy vkb.isvg.org

Written by Ye Olde Scribe

I’m beneath your pocket
Bouncing around
You picked me up at…
a motel
a fair
who knows where

Itch
Scratch
Burn scrape
For my ability to irritate
I wear a super cape!

Some call me…
a fungal infection
Where lotion is sold
But in microbial world
When my name is told
They just call me…

“A nasty old ‘Skin Troll’”
__________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Ye Olde Scribe
all rights reserved

Courtesy skinrashespictures.com And Scribe adds: “They sure have websites for EVERYTHING, don’t they?”

Written by Ken Carman

Where did you go? I miss our long walks, jumping in the pond with you, sitting together under a tree during the summer. Waiting for you to come home in the cooler afternoons of fall to spring.

You were my best friend.

Oh, your parents try to cheer me up, but they don’t understand me like you did. They don’t throw the Frisbee like you did. They don’t pet me as they feed me, or ask me to roll over and rub my belly like you did.

I remember laying by your bedroom door, you parents wouldn’t allow me in to jump up on the bed like I always did. The few times I saw you I nuzzled your hand and you weakly caressed my head… how unlike you. I was hoping for that firm scruffing to the top of my head from your strong, young, hand. Or to be invited out for another adventure: looking at bugs, skipping rocks, watch as you climbed high into a tree.

I wish I could do that. Maybe the squirrels wouldn’t tease me so.

I remember the last time you climbed… higher… higher… you came down so fast. How did you do that? Then the people came and they took you away.

Then they brought you home, but the last time I saw you they were taking you away. You said nothing. You smelled odd. It was as if you were no longer there.

What does this mean?

I don’t understand.

Please come back.

If you do, I’d gladly lick your face over and over while you hug me. You always loved that.

I miss you so much…
______________________________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

The Lutin Muse Literary Magazine: Summer-early Fall- 2012