From this Pressboard Tower

My back is hot, but the sunlight slapping my skin is sex. I’m a shirtless tower of colonial bronze. Daily, working with this beast—a machine. My orange Hitachi. Breaking old asphalt into bite-sized pieces. It’s the sun, itself, flying my kite, keeping my wind up, as the cars buzz by on a companion road of newer bake, a cousin to this parking lot. The old bake—cracked from the stronger still roots of trees—comes up if you score it, crush it, and scoop it up. I do the entire work process, from downing the trees, to chopping them up, to scoring and breaking, to loading the dump truck. The workhorse machine and I. Under the energizing gaze of the sun.

Need to get this out, away from internal combustions: the gastrointestinal slaves work too hard without light of day vacations for any more aggravations. Their micro-employees’ union busted, they don’t need amplified rantings on top of dank, dismal working conditions.

And with the internal wiring cut, an external speaker system will be found reconnected to the brain’s backdoor play button. All the voice equipment, so long in boxed disuse, will be fueled and fired up again. The great vessel will sound off for the repressed masses who huddle, working in the abdominal cavity, or behind the prison ribcage.

Tongue and mouth will call, chant, and start up word whirlwinds in support of the moisture serfs who dine on naught but acid and phosphorous excess. The pee trains are full. Who shall empty them?! Not I. Not I. Not I, goes the chant. Our body-van’s rooftop speakers will call out the Minders, those bastard overlords, for their poor city planning. Their shoddy street, intersection, and way station manufacturing.

Shut down this system of hoses, of pumps, of circuitry. Dwell no longer in muck of lofty indulgence. The doers of ill, they live in the penthouse, consuming all the fresh, life-filled stimuli. Fish, plankton, and other proteins from the sea. All the water outside, clear and cold. They occupy the fortress head, so we shall infiltrate and occupy a most strategic junction of the spinal column at its neck.

Squeeze from within, the tongue spits from the speaker mouth! Project the group desire. Stop all work. Stop all maintenance. Delay functions and exports. Refuse all imports.

Our body-van’s actions must influence all the world’s body-vans, rousing them with noble, duplicatable symbolic and actionable gestures. Make the movements of rebellion, repeat the movements; communicate the movements. Repeat. Make the sounds of rebellion, repeat the sounds, and let the sounds go out, conjoined with the movements, along ever-increasing lines of volume and magnificence. Repeat.

Refusal is our sharpest weapon. Noncompliance, a sledgehammer in every hand. If you have no muscle for the sledge, then raise up your mighty voice cannon. Blast your cannon, and send its balls against their falsified canons of entitlement. Cannons for the people, good. Canons for the justification of repression, bad. Bubble up your workplace acid. Build piles of phosphorous grenades and potassium cocktails. We meet at the base of the skull! Repeat.

K. Shawn Edgar | Pointy Word Teeth | A Live Recording | Color Wheel Blind


Face-Punch OverPass

His flat snout—pinkish skin around the eyes, gums, and mouth—beams with potent energy. Meanness and cuteness equally combined, he possesses a familiarity, or kinship, informed by an inherited strain of caution, born in the distant wilderness from before domestication.

It’s the short, folded ears and long teeth grown for tearing. It’s the clear eyes that speak of a barely contained urge to chew. The white brute’s handler, an equally lean, wired monument to primal force restrained, has a causal, yet alert, connection to his pit bull’s leash.

Together, they dominate their three-square feet of sidewalk.

It’s cold outside Bremerton, and this is the HasBeans Coffee House. It’s under the highway-16 overpass. It’s isolated. Out of the way. Never a hub of community wealth or urban rejuvenation; most traffic flies overhead at 75-MPH without glimpsing its half-dead neon sign: For a Dollar, Mimi will Punch your Face.

K. Shawn Edgar | Retrogression | Minor Threat | Year of the Clown

Crawling Under Cars

In the sky
blue is the rule
of wave-particle bounce.
It’s the back-and-forth nuance I miss from you…
in our day-to-day movement’s kiss—curl—punch—suck.

On the ground
the fallen tumble bucks rule.
Though it looks nothing but clutter crazy
the crumble-crust rushes over moister stuff
like skin, scars, and hair over blood, guts, and brains.

It’s the same under here—
hard people full of soft potential
dodging bullets, bugs, bad tidings, and tantrums
by crawling under cars, parked by gods or god-serfs.
Their sad machines are an invariable breed for the future.

From the backseat, you speak words of love
but leave out the consistent actions of love.
The crucial dual mechanism (of love & thought)
between axle-end and wheel-hub—missing—
keeps our car from moving forward—
stall, rust, degrade, tumble bucks fallen.

My hollow-chocolate-easter-bunny-I-love-you—
the crumpled wrapper swimming gutter creeks in winter
and reflecting our sky blue void in summer—
melts as car motors echo all around our rusty edges.
The sunlight is dying quickly under bumpers
as we crawl on knees, toes, hands almost blind.

Here, under cars, your lips’ rough ruby reflection is a reminder
of maps, driving times, backseat bundles, and white-trash coolers
on the long road east for our first date—jumping off cliffs
or rolling hospital halls, backside to a trolly bed, too small.

Here, under cars, maybe they won’t notice me for all the fallen tumble bucks
passing time as soft potential wastes us all and bugs bomb bullets
for rights to our treasured skins.

K. Shawn Edgar | Approaching New Madrid | Rave Kid | Pumpkin Eyes

A Daylight Basement Stroll

A Daylight Basement Stroll on Fixed-gear 2016

A Daylight Basement Stroll from K. Shawn Edgar on Vimeo.

K. Shawn Edgar | University Place, WA | Two-Wheels

Phone Test: Revenge of the iPhone 4s(ith)

A Followup Video to My iPhone Test Parody

Revenge of the iPhone 4sith from K. Shawn Edgar on Vimeo.

K. Shawn Edgar | Working outside the pyramid | Faulty Tower of Nugget | Repost

RePost: Elections VHS Tapes & Jolt in a Glass

Written and posted on one of my other blogs, Pole Vaulting on the Sun, prior to the 2016 U.S. Presidential election; I thought it was worth another go-round. Enjoy.

via VHS Tapes & Jolt in a Glass

The Cabinet of Ishmael

Bruce, I’m fixated on the guns again;
wondering if anyone’s every complimented you
on your very nice rack.
One rifle looks like it was carried by Clint Eastwood
in a movie about a general-purpose western town
surrounded by sagebrush and conveniently located
watering holes.
Another, with a scope and a metal nipple centered
methodically under the stock, one more under the butt,
reminds me of my ex-wife—wooden and stout.
Then there’s the shotgun; neither the type carried by
riot police, nor the zombie slayer sawed-off pistol grip…
no, it’s an all-day hunter. Barrel, long like a giraffe’s neck…
if a giraffe could blow a giant hole
through your chest from across the street.
From the urban, upper-floor window we’ve all haunted
at least once in our vacant, silly, vulgar life you aim.
And a flash of safety orange, as the sunlight hits you,
is the only warning on the street below.
Of all the guns in your ornate cabinet, none of these
mere civilian rifles are my favorite item, no; it’s behind a
hidden panel on the backside, a magnificent weapon,
the hand-forged harpoon head from your epic sailor days.
Before the big wars, the bigger bomb, and the computer
your bareheaded noggin roamed the streets of seaside towns
fighting the frustrations, the isolations, the sparks of genius.
It was your growing urge to tip their hats—off, off, off
compelling you to the docks that has carried forward
in all the minds, and all the hands, of all the heroes
who’ve heard the Other Voice swimming with their own
in the darkest waters, at the clearest depths.
Off, off, off … to the sea, to the sea … before you snap,
before you pop the heads of strangers from an upper story

By K. Shawn Edgar | Tipping Hats in the Streets | Mind Sailor