Keep the light out a spell longer
She waits patiently
why the skin, the groove, the finger poke in my mind’s
eye? Why you sore knuckle serenade from on high?
Sparklers and plastic crossbows are not genuine self-defense
options. Water-pistol fights are not true protests or love signals
declining, if their beating heart is friendly fire. You fake kill me.
I fake forget.
Love Note Insert: Mih confused when mih waked up and no Toe! But then mih thinked and ‘membered you had ‘pointment! So mih go to my ‘pointments too!! I have cellphone if you need mih[;] I be back labor!
They can take over, it’s for sure. Regrets. The hapless moments break.
I take one normal stride over a five-year square of cracked sidewalk
to this ongoing, blurry freeze-frame hamlet.
Dub post-rock euro-pop and cyberpunk novel quotes, double fisting keyboards.
A Dutch Bros drive-thru with boombox backseat and two jazzed cats;
our culture loves a road trip.
Love Note Insert: Miss you. Jail break soon, beeb. New moon on Monday. New clam on Tuesday. Sweaty palms help remove the wastes. Mih hear your song as mih drive away, mih hopes. Mih sing the lyrics, both parts. Mih and yous. Wake soon, beeb. The Sleepy become the Regretful.
the lights are blinking unrest. Do without you.
Put feet on floor. Raise eyes to skies. New blue.
That sidewalk square, I think I see its far seam.
Another slab coming into view. Do without you.
Never time at all; more change, less drag.
Today I blink away the flashing Don’t Walk
changing all reds to green, and shake my head
K. Shawn Edgar | Quantum Diplomat | Cat Companion | Headless
well i’m PEACHY
corn still grows in the valley
life here moves like a one-legged man on a unicycle:
cautious, but with a unique turn and always a bit
how the hell are you?
must explain sometime
your email reads like insomnia exonerated
up all night, thinking too much, wanting too much
OE computer lab – late night you – mind humming, body buzzing
wheat grass luster
that’s a beautiful postmodern picture
chlorophyll – i see the image; it click-baits me
super green buzz, you humming on a shot or three of wheat grass
postmodern exotic picture: Nude Drinking Wheat Grass
salve for my sore, glitch-focused eyes; my screen-burnt eyes
that image of you, liz
late night computer-aided you, buzzing neon highlights
alone but happy
k. shawn edgar | pole dancer | adult swimmer | chatroom statue
Contradictions are a necessary part of reality. Their pull and push builds the bridgework, tissue, weave, and wonder. Every element of this world contradicts with some other aspect.
It’s the reason you don’t fall through the sidewalk. Or the gravel layer beneath. Or the soil beneath the gravel. And on through the Earth itself.
It’s the reason I don’t blow away in this wind. Mass and energy. And here’s the thing about it: some elements do blow in the wind.
My words slip out, blow up; they get caught up, tossed. They soar.
It’s the wind saying, This is my voice, our voices in the air, for all times. All ears.
As the concrete says, I’ll hold you up if you continue to lay me down. Spread me, groom me. Patch me when I crack, and forgive my roughness when you fall. But do not worry, you will not fall out the other side. I am concrete. I am solid. And that’s a contradiction because you made me from liquid, powder, and empty spaces.
Artistry, dedication — love and need, indifference and commerce — it’s inevitable. You will fall, that’s a given. You’ll get up, dust off, and the wind will carry your words to the sky, or around the world.
Maybe, right here, those standing closest will not be listening; they won’t hear you. But wait for the whoosh.
On the other edge of the world, the quietest breeze will whisper your best to a total stranger. Concrete. Your words whipped up by the forever wind, telling your tale to unfamiliar ears, and you might not be understood. At all.
K. Shawn Edgar | One True Cog | Bunny Metal | Lion Head
Darker the Barker:
Or Madrid Squeals Mercurials
M, do you remember the line of puckered spider bites along your backbone? I said they were there — four or five — touching each one with my thumb tip. You said, French Dip; and we threw on yesterday’s clothing going out the door.
In the lobby restaurant at Toby’s, we soy-sauced our sour cream apple flapjacks. You had a second breakfast of French Dip on a club roll with pickle spears, and I followed up with a French tricolor banana-split-malted milkshake.
M, do you remember our walk along the greenways after breakfast at Toby’s? Interlocked fingers, a breeze from the East, and a brief string of kisses while sitting on the bench next to the sleeping homeless man. We are and are not alone and together. One from one, out of many. More or less.
The green spaces and parks here act as lungs for an aging city; we’ve smoked too long from the broken pipeline of crude oil and coal. More parks — green, unfettered, biodiverse spaces — would mean more filtering capability. More lung power. The Boz Project for UP Tacoma is our only hope.
M, do you remember the words syncing our footfalls as we walked? More or less:
Frailty, sincerity, progressivism, inclusion, de-entanglement, farsighted sensations….
And then came the opposing cry, or barking, of the street-side cryer. It disjointed our unity with its repetitive banality. Bark, bark, bark!
The words thudding like the hammer of a sick drum: convenience, satisfaction, discounts, definitive delights. Inside, inside, inside — all the things you need, on sale! Satisfaction! Trust our representatives. They’re people just like you.
M, it seems we all need a helpfully healthy dose of helplessness… don’t we? To get us moving forward with purpose.
Our desolate Madrid is in decline. So be it, or be it so? We are at fault. The barker and the listener, alike. The fruit we poop does not simply decay and reenter the living sphere, it stains and remains. So we must be the balance. We must be the keepers of the greenways. The cleaners. For our body, for your light.
M, do you remember?
K. Shawn Edgar | Nightwatchman | Howard’s End | The One True Cog
There are moments I can’t remember, and I wonder what they would mean in the larger resolution. Like several movies from when I was a kid, which I know I loved but can only recall shuttering glimpses of their stories. I’ve attempted to convey their plots to friends and family, only I can’t even put more than a few concrete words to the details and feelings I retain. But I know for sure these movies were not dreams because there’s a hardened texture to them that dream memories don’t usually contain. Those are more shimmering, reflective, and soft along the edges. It is the difference between touching chromoly steel and honeycomb cereal.
In the meantime, the beasts do talk. I can hear it in their eyes. Beaming the oldest nonverbal languages, energetically mingled with tonal chirps and grunts, their facial expressions are as palpable — as meaningful — as our English words. I write these words without irony. The beasts tell me to remember the basics: move, drink water, eat greens, engage light, jump, run, clean, sleep, and stretch it out.
In one movie — the older of the two — a band of fantasy characters reminiscent of classic RPGs like The Bard’s Tale III: Thief of Fate, come together on an adventure through wasted, dangerous lands in defense of an usurped king and a wronged prince. (And no, it’s not Hamlet or The Lord of The Rings.) This movie has a goofiness those works don’t — in a good way. It’s low budget, and maybe a bit campy. However, as I remember it, this movie has one of the best character-plot marriages of All Time. The characters and their actions are equally synthesized with the story’s overall world building.
It makes use of many fantasy tropes so smoothly and humorously, the story they imbue bursts out in an original way even though the themes and character types are so familiar. The archer is a thoughtful, elegant elf who can shoot like six arrows a second, and the main male character is a young, super well-trained, strong leader-to-be. There’s a beautiful, athletic woman who acts as the groups heart and compass. And, of course, a giant warrior/dwarf/half-human character who wields a massive axe. Strangely, in this moment, I am not even sure if I’m remembering this or making it up…? Bruce, what movie is this? Does it still exist somewhere?
Agonizingly, I may never remember for sure. This hell doth torment the soulless! However, on this Earth, the sudden blooming of scene clips, dialogue fragments, or plot points crystallizing in momentary sparkles is Soma to my depressed intellect. Their random occurrence calls me back to the first and only viewing of this masterpiece without a concrete name. And I feel again like the me I’ve lost since.
Is this a good thing? Or is it a bad thing? Is it momentary connection or momentary torture? I may never know for sure.
K. Shawn Edgar | Fragmented Time Traveler | Elegant Elf | Wronged Prince Out of Time