Cabbage roll and one-dollar flat noodles, a place to lock the bicycles out front, our booth is by the window. We are reciting kill is kiss as frames of film, jointly remembered, inform our budding courtship. Trapped in a radio station, voices and language will save us, while these chopsticks unite us.
The Trouble with Trouble is•
We start in a parking lot, between two white lines.
Car radio sounds are heard: music to talk to music to talk…
Raw aluminum-alloy lamp posts, tall as prison towers, uniformly point toward the sky.
Women and men with bags and babies. Big mess. Obeisant, humanoid-faced cars wait, some humming mechanical lullabies.
(As if watching someone do voiceover for a Disney animated movie we cannot see.)
I am at home between the loving arms, these white lines. These silent boundaries.
The trouble with Tacoma, there’s a sleepy veil of depression billowing up and drifting back down, daily. Never quite enough to keep the crows and jays from flying, or the people from driving, but stellar association isn’t ever what it might be elsewhere.
Second strange plane flying overhead. So low and quiet, so flat and colorless, most folks don’t even look up. Don’t smile.
K. Shawn Edgar | Bad Actor | Man Flake
From A Deathbed Dream
Don’t use a tool to carve out correctness;
Our method should be more hands to clay,
than chisel to stone.
several asthenic in-sucks of dried out air,
the taste of heavy iron blood, and
seconds of hollow confusion,
until room appeared:
Dry cracked lips, stuffed up nostrils.
The Killing Pain
when stuffed into a plastic bag,
are unable to decompose.
Air is necessary for building up,
and for breaking down.
Between the hiatal glitches in my time stream,
I pause before stepping out of year 1873
and into an undiscovered 1997.
Undiscovered because—from my current perspective—
it will be different than my pervious passthroughs.
when layered beneath acid-free timelines,
are more likely to bred rebellious offspring.
1) Folk Dance
Hear the nearly traceless earthly hum
through cabbage eyes and beetles’ legs
Silly soldier, silly crumb
Silly haunts and silly drums
Hear them say,
heel, flat, long, toe,
short, long, heel, row,
disarm, flee, now grow
Straight and stiff, the obedience strains
Tweak the cadence, disrupt the control,
bark these dogs of war into nomads, and
thinkers beyond the commands
Glad then be our future, whole
K. Shawn Edgar | Staying at Crome Yellow | Druid Orphan | Ceric
Yes, we have the Video:
Yes, we have the Picture:
Picture Credit: Woodheavy Brown, 2015
If Wells Fargo were Safeway, would the money in its vaults taste like Death by Chocolate and cheap beer? Would midnight to 4 AM see an endless queue of drunk, snack-craving depositors and closing-shift employees ready to night-drop bulging till bags of Teriyaki vomit and tattered twenties?
As the ejaculating cars thrust forward, piercing the diaphragmatic intersection, the red glow of the stoplight grows old, blurred and meaningless with the wait. Peak pressure. Full aperture: green light. I remain balanced, track standing for an extra moment next to the street’s vacuous storm drain. Will it rain on Tuesday?
How long could a vulture capitalist scam like Target exist in a society that prized quality and authenticity over quantity and expedience? And, if so realized, would its people’s feet rest easier in socks from manufacturers that supported rather than preyed on the majority of citizens?
Green to yellow, it’s such a brief intercourse, and then yellow to red. I remain balanced on two wheels with two narrow tires made in some other country with softer, less healthy, manufacturing and export regulations for a company that craves a “slight” increase in profits for a slightly increased chance of success … of raises to engorge its top two percent’s cushy wealth.
If Bank of America were Defiance Bicycles on Fawcett Avenue, would its half-dead denizen debtors slowly but assuredly progress into healthier, balanced and self-empowered people on a true path to prosperity?
The red light bursts into an emerald green, blinding all eyes trapped behind windshield glass, and I push forward with a dynamite enthusiasm born on pedals and steel.
K. Shawn Edgar | Limited Edition | Tiger Lily | Mars Rover