ELM STREET

Robert Englund, John Saxon and Johnny Depp,

Teens plagued with disturbing dreams as they slept.
Taunted by a man scarier than Lex Luger,
If he comes while you sleep, his name's Freddy Krueger.

A severely burned figure with razor sharp claws,
And if he gets close, you better have gauze.
He'll slash you and cut you and rip you to bits,
He may even pause to glance at your tits.

Be ready for ole Freddy to visit your dream,
He's only imaginary but real he will seem.
And if you wake with a rip in your gown,
You must not sleep, you mustn't lie down.

From your nightmares -- he will come alive,
He's creepier than anything you could contrive.
Stay awake if you want to beat this old villain,
For once your eyes close, he's ready for killin.

A disfigured face, and his red and green sweater,
His metal-clawed glove he loves even better.
He will come to you at night when you're fast asleep,
Be ready to run, for the wounds will go deep.

He'll stalk you and chase you through the old boiler room,
And if he gets close, you may meet your doom.
No Doz, Speed..swallow what it may take,
To keep you wired and steadfast awake.

His name's Freddy Krueger, he comes in the night,
And even though a nightmare, you better take flight.
If he catches you, he'll slash you, your maker you'll meet,
So DO stay away from Nightmares on Elm Street!

by dena mckinnon

Moving

Nomadic essence...two men and a truck—moving made easy, an oasis sized oxymoron. Mental exhaustion overwhelms all six senses like valium in a volcano. Feeling locked in a raindrop fighting to break free when only you land in a puddle of clouds and there you are standing in your old stomping grounds but bound on a futuristic path of certainty but it weighs on your brain cells like a lunatic leech but you fight like a shark and the city of angels is your ocean. Movers like benjamins disappearing like giggling greenbacks and you fly like Lucy in the sky in search of the diamonds. Shining bright through all the stress, clutter of existence...a light shines brighter than the sun...illuminating the darkest moment...I run to see what this Godlike brightness could be and I find – you.

by dena mckinnon written for a friend during the moving process

The Forest

We're in the darkest, deepest part of the forest. No one else is around us. Even the birds have gone silent in fear. The canopy is thick, blocking the sun. The brush is trouble to get through at times. It's hard to tell east from west. You look at me with that look: 'are you sure this is the way?' And I'm not sure. And you know it. There's no point in lying. We're lost. The darkest hour. Hope fades like the sun beneath heavy clouds. I can't tell you it's the way. I can only tell that with the crowd was not the way. That was certain death. Now we must trust our instincts. The forest is dark and deep. But it gives up its secrets eventually. It does. It wants to reward the bold. Into the heart of the forest we go. Into its bosom. The darkest hour will soon yield to the light. kevin lenihan

Choking on a Blade of Grass

Choking on a blade of grass...coughing up a spider, I lay amongst the poppies and dream of flying monkeys. My body melts into the earth, roots wrap around my beating heart, the blue sky fades to black licorice. I scream but nothing comes out, I fight the grains of sand, of time, persistent, ever maddening and then they come. Perfect rain drops of determination. They soak my soul and a well of life spews like lava out of a volcano on valium. Puddles of thoughts drown my interpretation of a song that doesn't sing but is waiting—to be born.

A Lack of Red

She lays in a silk laden coffin,
Her pale face divided by a solid line of red.
As leftover blood... my blood paints a line of satisfaction from her lips.

I struggle to lick the energy from the sunshine while she sleeps,
I trample across the broken mirror scattered over the marble foyer.
My feet shredded, red blood stains the veins in the floor but I don't stop
A roofie typed trance enhanced by a blood red full blown panic attack.

I run...scream...the pseudo stratified columnar epithelium in my throat-- inflamed,
As the sun shines through the fat rain drops on the window pain, there's no time like the present...
And with the night –she rises again, and this time I mustn't be her bullseye in the clover.

I hide in mine own mind, surrounded by bats and fireflies, struggling to make it to the door,
Out of harms way, a mushroom under a giant, and the magical kind of spore with possibilities.
If only I could make it –far far away, from this toxic, blood thirsty red eyed queen of demons,
Her only love-- to suck the last drop of plasma-- tip the scale of my colloidal osmotic pressure.

But once again, the sunlight kisses my face as she starts to come alive in her tomb,
It's a race –I'm the turtle and she is the hare times a hundred but I have the light on my face...
In my eyes...in my heart...it burns the nostalgia paralyzation from my bones, my cold body warms
As the cells regenerate, my heart pumps red life through a venous network and then there is warmth...

In my body....as I reach the exit –freedom but the devil is persistent, erect she climbs from casket,
The race continues, I fight something that isn't there but that sucks the very life out of me,
My mind cries, my eyes scream, and my lips –do nothing but quiver and she gains on my slow motion
She grabs me, hunts my jugular –but my strength returned ...enough to pull her into the light of day...

The sun kisses her skin with pleasure...And while she burns....I smile-- saved once again from that toxic red vamp knowing she will...

one day...hunt again.

The Scourge

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the west. Or worse, maybe it wasn't even thunder, but something far more terrible. Behind them, the unquenchable Scourge. It was coming, unstoppable, devouring all in its path. Nothing would stop it, they knew, except the great Amberzon River.

The wide, well traveled road led to the east. The crowd surged that way. And why not? The well traveled road was well traveled for a reason, was it not? Dena began to follow. Turned and saw Kevin was not coming with them. He was hesitant to try to urge her to follow him. What if he was wrong?

She worried. Why would he not follow the crowd? Didn't the road make sense? Didn't sticking with the crowd make sense? She had warned him about his arrogance. Told him it was wise to listen to others. He seemed to understand her. Then why did he insist on going west, away from the road? Toward the storm? What did he know?

He explained to her that the Scourge too would take the road. That the Scourge would avoid the storm. Predators hunt the herd, he said. As long as the Scourge had the scent of the herd, they would follow it. He was going west, away from the crowd. Away from the herd. There was no road, but they would find deer paths. He was afraid to convince her and be wrong. He was afraid to not convince her, and be right. The crowd was doomed, he said. The only way to make it was away from the crowd. He was going west, toward the storm. There was no time to waste.

 

by Kevin Lenihan

Distribution

A methodical way to determine one's self worth,

Output...input it's all about weights and measures.

Income distribution, per capita sizing us up like gold or silver,

Negative effects of classifications and black market economic discrimination.

A lucrative invention of moving stuff,

FedEx, UPS, USPS, even Dominos Pizza.

The ability of a particle and its changing spatial accessibility,

An increase in supply will push the gas pedal.

Leading into travel distribution channels,

Car, boats, planes, trains, even a horse and carriage, if you're Amish.

Congestion, pollution, traffic lights, parking tickets,

Equates to nothing more than trips generated and probabilities of cost.

Theatrical release, gross ticket sales, opening day at the box,

Agents, producers, directors and then distribution.

Where our hours of writing has a single chance to shine brighter than the sun,

And travel down that distribution channel of.....sweet success.

FADE OUT

by dena mckinnon

Stained

Stained...interpretation into the unknown universe...

Disorder in the daisy patch as sprites flutter above...

A firefly spits inky black into a sea of neutral...

Marshmallows of insight roast upon a stick of dynamite...

Tanner than a pale yellow and the fire dances combustible dope...

Blotting...blogging....prodding...flogging....

Cat'o nine tails laps a sea of oblivion but the ink doesn't stop...

It drops like rain among the multitude...brains of stains....

The black clogs the white, as good evil does fight....

A battle of nine lives but the cat coughs up a hairball....

The universe on the floor, drowning in the inky shadows...

Ice skating on quarters the size of halves where money doesn't matter...

And insurance isn't assurance and life never ends but is infinite....

In the ink...a finger...it draws a horizontal figure eight on the clouds....

To infinity and beyond, and I'm not even a light year buzzed...

No wood in the furnace but a monster in the closet...

The ink runs down the clouds, lands on my wings...

Like a bird soaked in oil, I fall crashing to the ocean of blackness...

With a splash like the biggest bang, all the ink disappears ….

Leaving only white paper....and in the right corner …

A blot of black ink, left, at the end of it all ...and I swear it says............

FADE OUT

by dena mckinnon

Sun-Ray Theater Jacksonville Florida

A big bright orange, the symbol of life...the sun against a wall of fantasy... but within... and as I descend the colorful rainbow, I follow the plotted brick road into the very door where a large green Frog King swallows up the boring world while a creature from the Sun-Ray Lagoon of yellow fire walks out carrying her—must surely be the princess of the Sun-Ray. Independents plus... showing with an out-of-the-box feel that flies way above any old AMC, high in the sky like Lucy with a jar of purple diamonds. Prince Tim turning the tickets, manning the tap, popping the corn...I turn to see him make a mad dash from ticket to concession to projection and then I realize..this is the super coolest place on Earth! Thanks Tim! I Love the Sun-Ray Theater!

Life

Nothing but a zygote and lust,

An egg and sperm they meet...

All to become again dust,

For survival we all compete.

by dena mckinnon ~ me

The Writer

A frustrated but determined writer had the character of a woman form in his mind. The character did not seem destined for stardom, but she almost forced her way into the writer's mind, a creature determined to be born. She was on odd mixture of shyness and fierce determination; insecure but at the same time knowing and comfortable with who she was. She appreciated the lightness of things at the same time she saw the world for its sharp, swirling colors. Imagination was her tool, the way a carpenter employs the hammer, a boxer his fists, a madame her cleavage.

With surprising ease, the writer brought the character to life in his mind. Her smile, the way she walked, the way she laughed. The way she cowered during a storm or cried during a movie. Before long, her image was as crystal in his mind as his clearest memory.

But the character ached to be brought to life. And a writer cannot do that. Not alone. So the writer tried every angle, turned over every stone. After much effort, he found a producer, one who saw the vision. And the producer applied all his muscle, all his know how. At last a director was found, a studio, camera crews, actors. A character is nothing without these, a ghost waiting to get into the world, living in a universe of ghosts who never make it. But this character was determined to live, determined to take her place on the stage. And when it all finally came together, and the lights came on, and the director yelled "action!"...Dena was born into the world.

 

by Kevin Lenihan ~ about me