Our Trouble with Trouble

The Trouble with Trouble•

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.

Dialogue:

(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.

#kshawnedgar

K. Shawn Edgar | Man Flake | Cube Dweller | Bad Actor

In Brief: Why Voting Third-Party is Viable

From my news blog, “The Olympic Record”


In Brief: Why Third-Parties are Viable

 

Oft-Heard Statement: “Don’t vote for a third-party candidate because you’ll waste your vote.”

This tired statement is false, and here’s why.

The reality in the U.S. is that no vote is wasted, unless you cast it based on fear and ignorance. A great example of a fear-based vote can be seen in those voters who fall for the trap of “You have to vote for the lesser of two evils.” The Democratic Party and the Republican Party use this false mantra to stifle support for third parties by always setting up this imagined “polar opposites”, sports analogy-based fight between themselves. They repeat the false logic of “If you don’t want Clinton to win then you have to vote for Trump, or vice versa.

We must break free of this trap. Your vote is your voice. Speak up clearly.

Voting for a third-party based on best representation of your values, needs and ideals serves two main purposes.

First, your independent vote sends a strong message to our one overpowering party duo —D/R— that they do not speak for you, and you will make your own decisions by looking at all the issues and all of the parties for each election.

Second, it helps establish and build credibility for the candidate and party you choose to vote for. Always vote your conscience, because no well researched and honest vote is wasted. All votes help to render a clearer picture of reality.


K. Shawn Edgar | Goth Thinker | Cog Masher | Libtard

Wednesday’s Aether is a Facsimile

Tuesday Afternoon turned Wednesday ongoing into Summer’s Evening

The tents are red tinged green, inside seashells at sunset. When ladies at picnics merge with chaos and cream, every possible perspective looks the same. It’s overlapping snapshots of fingers, truffles, mouths and the smiles in between. All daffodil parasols twirl, as cranberry winds blow in from the fields, a dainty voice heard whispering: “Eat the truffles, sip the Earl Gray; the sun has stopped moving, all day, all day, all day.” The ladies are spun and spin in harmonious concentricity; the grass is green, the sky is blue, the cream is sweet. All curves, ergonomic; the effortless bending of elbows and rotating of wrists compels cocktail glasses to tip, and to connect, with rounded lips and eager mouths, until pomp turns to graveled lullabies inside soft eardrums. Oh, what the laureled gods will do when blind, ignorant faith runs amuck at a party of the privileged.


K. Shawn Edgar | Frosted on the Inside | Single Cogged | Non-Worshipping

 

The Metal Crushes Above

Overpass Ceilings

Pull you out

out of mouths

a mix of sounds

gradually forming

one word to rule

to override motors

to negate their noise

passing outside windows

My new collection

gathered from voices

passing outside windows

She—Bright—Legs—Heat

Accounts—Forever—Sun—Debit

Focus the secret message

coming from daily clatter

instructions for creation

passing outside windows

I pull you out

out of color and sound vibrations

out of commonplace mouths

to make a dreamy silhouette

dancing on crisp coverlets

touchable, tangible: a solidified whisper

from ears to fingertips and lips, two lips

passing from under overpasses

these vaulted ceilings

fleshy sounds incubating

tornados into toenails

building up from skin cells

passing outside windows

You accumulate inside

synapse snaps—impulsive glitter

passing outside windows

And there you are

tangled in colors and coverlets

vibrating every follicle into singular hysteria

outside my window


K. Shawn Edgar | Vang | Tonal | Unincorporated

Waiting in the Bike Lane at an Intersection in Tacoma

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 its 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 | Cumulative | Alt. 62,000 Ft. | Pumpkin Spiced

Madrid: A Letter from Sonoma Grove

pic of a view

“A View from the Fence” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015


Madrid: A Letter from Sonoma Grove

Dear Bruce:

Cat’s on the window seat. Sun’s there too. A warm photon bath. Sebastian loves his quantum of light lounging, restoring his proportional energy. Radiant. The whole scene. Whiskers. Whispers. Waving the reluctant lengths of this day slowly on.

Outside, the helicopter seeds are still. The green canopy is shining. And I think I see Ninja strolling up the sidewalk along Bridgeport Way. No shirt, white skin, white hair high and tight. It’s him. Alone, though. Odd. Ninja, a lone wolf? Sebastian snores. His ears and paws twitch with a dream, dreaming of dancing with the birds.

So many birds here. So many crows. A serial killing of crows. Murder atop murder; oh, the beauty. They soar and talk and appear together as a cloud. A dark mass, speaking its unity.

Picture this: Cascades of black-feathered lava coming over a high mountain cliff. Madrid will be saved by the crows and by the Griminals.

From which it sprang: Madrid from out of Sonoma Grove, a well and its water — flowing from the broken past to the concrete now to the broken future. Madrid, a future split and split again.

Now. We’re walking on the fence as a bridge, encircling the park. Trailers and A-frames patch-worked around the community center in an elegantly disordered fashion. Bruce, you’ve only seen the inside of our trailer. Sorry for the limited perspective. I should’ve posted you outside. On a tree. Or the trailer door. Or on the community center’s uppermost reaches. I guess that explains the need for these letters, an ongoing update for your society. Better letter than never.

From up on the fence you can see glimpses of everything. The naked and half-naked hippies at play. Smoking the herb. Dancing for the Multi-Gods and the Meta-God. Hell, even dancing for the One True God. Yep, dancing for Her too. Stoned for Her. Naked for Her. Masturbating for Her. Procreating for Her. Day and Night. Also, from on the fence, you can see the birthing of puppies, of human spawn, of Earth’s best travelers — the Cats.

Bruce, it’s a thicker sock night. And with that I leave you to your thoughts.

Sincerely,

K. Shawn Edgar | Empath | Dollar Store Demon | Rough Skin Newt

Letter to the Community

Madrid

Complying with dictates of Sapphire Heights I must reveal to you that I have a fetish for toilets. The solid, white porcelain, the high ceilings, and the sterile looking walls with frosted glass windows set in sturdy white oak casements. It’s all so ovarian. The aroma of urinal cakes draws me in every time. It’s the same scent as birth. Restrooms are the nonhuman functionaries of every building in the city. And yet, through architecture and upkeep, they never fail to capture the true culture and politics of the time. Contrarily, human functionaries are the keepers of the lie, not the symbols of truth.

It’s just such birth—raw, aroma-filled, productive birth—that I aim to bring to Sapphire Heights. The birthing of ideas and cloud castle conversations that build over time to defend, to encompass, to ingratiate, and to beautify. All loose and mobile as the clouds, and that’s why I believe the fawning founders of Sapphire Heights wished me to put forth the effort of this letter … so you, my future neighbors, will know something about me before I come.

And I am coming. Just as I did earlier today in the men’s restroom at Central Plaza Banks. Hard, at the urinal, I came as sort of a preemptive strike to level our playing field. Really it was just a way of preparing myself to write this letter, to expose myself to you—a Shakespearean dumb show, if you will.

You might think of it like this: my version of the Sam Harris “Camel’s Back” nuclear attack on anyone who follows Islam. Right? In his opinion, because some of us are convinced that the Islamic doctrine gives them the potential for unrestrained violence against us, then we should use unrestrained violence first. Only substitute, “anyone who follows Islam” for “anyone who lives in a high-priced, gated community” and you’ll understand where I’m coming from.

Urinal cakes. They buzz with the wavelengths reserved for cautionary signs and unnatural things one should not eat. I eat those things. I ignore those signs. So you, community of Sapphire Heights, need me at the forefront to guide you out of containment and forward toward eye-peeling awareness of a fearless life. A life of act, before acted upon.

I am coming. And you know it within the truest heart of your hearts.