The Grove

14 Dec

Bruce:

I’ve been thinking too much about what they did to the Grove. They owned it, and I understand they think it was for the best; their best interest. But what interest did it serve the folks who already lived there?

I was only four years old then, well before the changes. My family soon moved to Philomath, leaving the park while it was in its pure state, so my memories of Sonoma Grove, though good, are slim and hinge mostly on stories and old photographs.

I know, Bruce, be like water. I should just flow forward and let it go. Only the place holds a place bigger in my mind because it dwells not were pictorial remembrances are shelved, but where feelings float free, giving out details truer than thought.

The fence we climbed, to run in the field we saw, all so tactile even now. The bales of hay, stacked like ancient monuments, became a play ground better than any intended for such. Those days of sun scream beneath my skin not in pictures, not in words, but in pure fresh blood.

Bruce, back then your posters and magazines guided me and taught me strength from virtue. They showed me the need for exercise of both mind and body. Only this is going to get rough now. The sun is far gone. The hay bales, long since settled to dust. Even your strong, kite-like shoulder blades may not be enough to carry us. Your posters are all rolled up in tubes somewhere I’ve forgotten.

Read further, Bruce, without judgement; I know my words will cut against your natural grain. The waters have dried up, and I can only be like I am.

Truly,
P.K. Ripper

To be continued

K. Shawn Edgar | Death Knoll | Freelance Human | Goat Poet

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Aggravated Man Stubble @ Angled Overpass 16

12 Dec

She’s gotta move; she’s gotta get out;
she’s gotta find a new place.

A cat can’t scream, “I can’t shove my head any further up my ass.” Not in English, and it’s better off for it. These words we humans curl, color the Dutch-shovel gray glow of the full moon burnt umber; rakishly bleeding all meaning from thought and sending harsh echoes flying overhead.

The pearl-eyed woman at the micro-grocery under the overpass tells me she’s learning to think outside her box of fleshy, interstitial curves. But she’s always dampened by the memory of toothpick words from the hard mouths of fancy car drivers. This woman, dressed in full metal-plate apron, collects small-talk shrapnel and compresses it slowly into diamonds.

Outside her box, I’m thinking lively luck too: it’s the swirl of a Slushie. You never fully drink its spinning twisting cosmos breaking depths dry. And the cats scream, “We can’t shove our heads any further up, up, up. All the men have angry, scruffy shadowed faces.

In winter, I always lie with my knees drawn up; words curling up the sky. Women of false fathers, ignorers all, draw their knees around older men. It’s their inwardly curved form, outwardly projected into every dimension until they break the specter of unfulfilled praise.


K. Shawn Edgar | White Stripe | Holmesian | Goth Poet

Dire Warning

10 Dec

“Winter is Coming,”
Once said a strong man,
The King of the North,
In a make-believe land.
“Winter is Coming,”
And it will be stark,
Lots of ignorant snow,
Cold, dreary and dark.
And at last now I see,
All this white coming down.
Looks like winter is coming,
All over the ground.

Garfunkel

10 Dec

Vascular scars
in voices chained by whimsy
drab lead confetti
falling hard, Betty

The streets are a city’s
truth
distorted by modular
separations
past, present, future

No friends
Money gone
Chances nil

His solid urethane escape
has changed to
700c and Panaracer fixed cog

We go buzzing the mean-street autos
circling stalled parking lot zombies
bombing old logging roads to dirt trails

Eat nails—healing all breaks is a trust
bonded stronger by desire
if weaker in actuality

After each step forward
you think
this will never be the same
never to sprint up the stairs
with ease of youthful springs

Yet, look, the pedaling’s smooth
the challenges, bright and clear

It’s not unlike trying to watch
solo Garfunkel in the movie
where everything’s so drab and heavy
bombarded by lead confetti: cinema tears
never truly bursting from the eye rims
because you’re spinning a cycle, unending


K. Shawn Edgar | Single Sided | Mute

Coming To

8 Dec

I emerged from the deep black abyss,
Of the propofol oblivion,
Sobbing like a newborn baby.
It’s probably not far off,
From the experience of birth.
Everything is dark and still,
And you are nothing,
But floating thoughts,
That haven’t arrived yet.
Then your nine-month meditation,
Comes to a record-scratching end.
You fall down a hole and then,
Every sensation is activated at once.
Ready or not, you are here.

Lampyridae with Luminous Spots

8 Dec

On the bed again,
in the soft-hued moonlight,
Sebastian is stretched out three blocks long,
dreaming of the chase,
as Mr. Pants slips seal-like under the covers at my side.

Warm fur,
kneading claws,
I start to teeter and drift off,
falling
flop drop,
toward sleep.

And then you are there,
so softly
flashing shutter frame translucent,
until you solidify
into warm skin and cool breath.

Eyes smiling
with familiar nonverbal truths of us.
You flicker in a green light,
emitting a kiss and a sigh
as my eyelids blink.

Our luciferin becomes oxyluciferin;
winged beetles of grace,
until our organs luminesce
like loving little fireflies
flashing brilliantly, and then
we become whole again.

K. Shawn Edgar | Poet | Tramp | Lurker

Bonfire by the Fifth-Wheel

5 Dec

pic of kshawn with racket

K. Shawn’s ready for Bonfire Battledore!



Bonfire by the Fifth-Wheel

Chrystal Gale drums on Kipper’s shaved head; rhythm of movement

Sixteen paws, rambunctious to the core of their wild kitten hearts,

dance through the tall tan grasses and into the rutted goat tracks

Hurdling the utility-orange extension chords, sixteen paws thrive

Liam is fostering coals from last season’s flame in a dry soup can

Carefully he introduces them to a nest of pinecones and twigs

We count down: five for the nightingale, four for the gargoyle

We cast ashes of our ancestors as Liam stacks the knurled logs up

Three for the toadstool, two for the lamassu, and one for the fire

The chill air puts on a smokey coat, wrapping us in its long scarfs

Sixteen paws under eight sparkles: cats’ eyes reflect new flame’s light

Liam is shadow casting stories on the fifth-wheel’s off-white exterior

a mythical grandeur toned common gray; medium is his co-captain

Its years of dust, pollution and oxidation weaved into the timeless art

the sprouting of symbol from meaning and gesture from understanding

the contagion of comfort from repetition, a comfort from familiarity

Liam’s inoculations, in lofty tones, sooth the beating hearts to silence

K. Shawn Edgar | Salad Slayer | Tower Dweller | Writer of Words

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