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

No Snow Days

19 Feb

In some places,
There are snow days.
No school days,
When one stays,
Home and plays.
They could be,
More prepared,
For snow,
If they really cared,
You know.
And it’s easier,
And kinda cool,
To just say,
SNOW DAY!
There’s no school.
Alas…
Though you may
Be needing one,
There are no,
Snow days,
In Sweden, hon.
Sidewalks and streets,
Are duly plowed.
And snow days,
Aren’t needed,
Nor allowed.

Trains strain…

10 Feb

Haven’t had much to say, lately.
My life has been taken over by trains.

A train limerick:

I sit on the train everyday.
For hours and hours each way.
I look at my phone,
And wish I was home,
In bed with my fine fiance.

A train haiku:

The train light reveals,
Split seconds of greenish snow.
In the cold black night.

And a poem: The Train Commuter’s Lament:

It’s a kind of limbo,
A bouncy, shaking,
Gentle purgatory.
Appendages grow cold,
From lack of movement.
Mind grows sleepy,
From lack of activity.
Most people doze,
Huddled under their coats.
There’s nothing to see,
Out the windows at night,
But reflections.
Of you and your fellow commuters,
Looking dull and tired.
There’s nothing to do,
But hope it ends swiftly.
Even though, you know it will take,
The same amount of time,
It always has,
Countless times before.

La Fée Verte

25 Jan

Look for me,
Inside the dancing green flame.
You may lose all track of reality,
But I am here, your Bohemian Muse.
The shimmering blur of wings,Featured image
That beckons and compels,
Look for me.
Follow me.
Let me set your mind,
On fire.

Hot Lava

7 Jan

Time, it moves me
and when it cools
it slows me
Half the time
half the songs
roll me
Time, it strolls with me
rolls me
I feel the past and present
always together
Half the time
the scales are gray
past and present together
Time, it flows for me
from the mountains
and over the earth-n-rock
hot lava
Cooling
it slows me
and I know the faces
have changed
point by point
and I know the mini-generations
have raised up and changed up
And every new one thinks
hot lava
we’re new and we’re original
Time, it grows me
slow then fast then slow
Half the time
half the blows
fall from out the Blue
200 cinematic jump cuts
down the slopes
and over the cliffs
Time, it moves me
until the arrows out weight
the energy of my strides
and when it slows
it cools me
And when it slows
hot lava
forms the crust
eternal
raised up, changed up
from the mountains
to the valleys


K. Shawn Edgar | Lava Eater | Concrete Goon | Star Spy

2014 in blue review

4 Jan

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here's an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,600 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 27 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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