Concrete Wonder

24 Apr
pic of a dream

“Only A Dream” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2014

Concrete Wonder

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

21 Apr
self reflection over cat

“Madrid is a Mirror” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Darker the Barker:

Or Madrid Squeals Mercurials

Dear Meridian:

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?

Yours truly,

K. Shawn Edgar | Nightwatchman | Howard’s End | The One True Cog

Soma Sonoma: A Letter in Beast Language

16 Apr
a pic of a place and time

“The Concrete Now” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Soma Sonoma


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

Sonoma Falls: A Letter from Snake Lake

11 Apr
Pic of Pants

“Mr. Pants” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Sonoma Falls: A Letter from Snake Lake

Dear Homie Bruce:

It’s a thicker sock day. My head gets very cold when it’s shaved, and the thicker socks help me feel warmer. They have a reenforced heel and toe, which is a paired plus worth mentioning. I’m hatless on this April Saturday, and I’m almost sure the socks will help.

Pulling those on now. Yes, that’s better. Toasty.

FedEx is outside the window; their truck needs a tuneup. And a visit to the carwash. It’s Spring, after all… so vehicles should be washed in the Springtime. But I’m a hypocrite — I haven’t washed my car in about two years. And that number could actually be a four or a five… time is more blurry in Washington. I think it’s the bugs and dampness. That couple does a tango that can nullify the senses. And isn’t it strange, right? Because there are also a lot of birds here near the Puget Sound… so shouldn’t the birds reduce the bug population?

Tyrant Flycatchers!, why aren’t you doing your job?! Dive, Black Phoebe. Dive!

I’ve made the coffee now. Watch out. I just chased Mr. Pants around our apartment like a ten-year-old ADHD kid on the Crack. But he started our Olympic Games by sprinting from the bedroom window to the fresh-air balcony and then high-jumping the leather chair. Gold! Ancient Greeks and athletics. I should get naked. Of course, except for my thicker socks; they’ll help my chances of metaling in the long jump event. And everybody knows, the hurdles are all about a strong reenforced heel and toe.

As the Great 1990’s poet, Woodheavy Brown, once said: “Out there, somewhere, there’s a face that wants to punch your face in the face. So embrace! Yo self.”


K. Shawn Edgar | Public Display Artist | Franciscan Junk | Loosely Spaced


10 Apr

Irridiscent Flowers

The garden does not
Linger as it used to
The aroma of blood
Among lilacs conspires
Against visitation.
My sanctuary is lost.
The last time I went in
I had to claw my way out.
A church was never
Intended as a home
And a prayer must never
Invalidate commitment.


I prowl the perimeter,
A gravekeeper of sorts
Wondering if those halls
Still echo with my sobs,
If those weathered stones
Still mark the passage of time.
Or if another God
Rattles my osseous harvests.
Sometimes beauty is a veneer
For the hopes we cherish
But do not realize.
My therapist suggested that I try writing poems to my abstract paintings.

Broken Earbud Madness

16 Mar
Photo without a Photographer

Photo Cred: Woodheavy Brown 2015

Broken Earbud

There’s a madness visiting my head, a bright familiarity. It always leads to this:

The decline of one weaves itself into the rough, uncomfortable tonality of all. Our loss of such close or distant companions causes the crags and blotches we can’t hide. Slowly, but faster every day, these abrasions weaken our communal unity.

The broken wire—piercing the lard that sits and swings our heart strings, too tense between—it carries the indivisible motion of sounds, sights, and cinnamon sticks—meaning sensations—because it can, because it does as developed. Not without thought, it’s forever mutable. But without a plan, it’s the thoughtlessness making the wire wired. It’s the sound making the wire dance. And at the same time, the wire is the sound—indivisible waves made of music. It always leads to this:

Folding the blue tarp
Push-broom-ing the dusty asphalt
Hard-wheel skating the rough transitions
Thomas loosens the polkadot necktie
Bonney swirls her bittersweet mocha
Eliot runs a lime-green comb through his hair
Tom Tom sleeps in Salvador’s fulsome arms
Deconstructing the tent poles
Folding the blue tarp
Breathing in the blossoming car perfume

I met a man, and we transacted bicycles. We connected through common communication, words and body language, a familiarity with bike culture. We exchanged ideas, knowledge, steel and aluminum alloy, handshakes and fist bumps, personal details and then—least importantly—money.

I’m a hat without a hatter, or I’m the airplane flight turbulence without the airplane passengers. Lifted. Neutral. Just up here dreaming, dancing, being.

I am only the words. It will fall to someone with bone in legs to walk the actions.

There’s a madness visiting my head.

K. Shawn Edgar | Hatless Madder | All City Drop Out | Bike Redistribution

A Brief Intercourse

26 Feb

Pulling the blue tarp | Walking the wet pavement | Long-legged star above | Worn, dirty sneaks below | Empty screens aft and fore | We shut down while it rains | Thomas tips back Nescafe | Lori tipples an old brandy | As Meagan nurses lil’ Pet’ | The rain fizzles out | Pulling the blue tarp | Walking the wet pavement

It’s like someone listening to 8-tracks five years after cassette tapes came out. I’m still blogging. After 14 years. I’m an 8-track blogger. Fuck me in the ass-head. Twelve dime. Twelve dimes worth of some type of candy long since forgotten. Got me? You ain’t forgot me. The good thing about 8-tracks, so I’m told, is that they have eight full tracks. Hot rock. Jack White, please release your next album on MF-ing 8-track tape.

You do that, Jack, and I’ll continue my weblog madness. I’ll pound away with eight full tracks of letters, numbers, and other symbols per MF-ing inch. Line. Twelve dime. Jack White. Midnight! ELO! I’m the most illuminated on my own pages. NWO: You can’t mind-control this runaway train, because I’ve been beaten, broken, and genetically ass-eaten from before the start—before conception, before birth—so burn me with your futuristic eye-beams; cattle me in your detention pens; you can’t sterilize my viruses, or redact my pungent word poop. The more you try to erase, the more my stinking words will fertilize the rawest, roughest, driest earth and they will out grow your greediest, farsighted plans.

Why? Because these words drop without agenda, without monetary gain; they are aimless, analogue domains of magnetic might on this endless loop of 8-track tape. My fresh flesh-recorder has only a play and a pause. Button. And you can’t stop that which has already been forgotten. Got me?

K. Shawn Edgar | Flea Market Poet | Eight-Track Hillbilly | Public Display Artist

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