Green

•><•

My story is told;

so go now you,

be vivacious in waking,

be courageous in dreaming,

all the monster’s

mimeographed madness

to you is but harmless cottonwood

drifting on the breeze.

#kshawnedgar

Glorious Heights Inverted

/stash

|glorious heights inverted|

Humanity grows as the trees grow;

Solid and wide at the bottom,

And then branching, narrowing, and splintering into knotted blackened spikes at the top.

Drooping,

Until ever-increasing rot trickles downward, spreading slow death, toppling all.

#words

#trees

#decay

#kshawnedgar

K. Shawn Edgar | Less Stettled | Grim Colliser 

Printable: London Fallout Letter

London Fallout Letter

By

K. Shawn Edgar

Whatever happens now, do not interfere.”

Woodheavy Brown, In a letter to Edwin Meek, 1999

You’re a lion about the unicorn.”

Edwin Meek, In a letter to Woodheavy Brown, 2002

1)

The bit, the brick, the broken idea. The bit, the Brit, the broken idea. The Brit, the brick, the bad idea. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pig of the mountain.

The bit, the brick, and the broken idea. The Brit, the bit, and the broken idea. The orange of the sky is the pink of the ocean. The orange the sky is the pink of the sea. I hide me. I hide me.

A handful of rock. A handful of clove. A handful of gold. The skins feel the same. The skins feel the same. Along the water, along the sound. Rocks in the hand tumbling. A handful of rock. The bit, the brick, the broken idea.

The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the sea. The red of the crab is the pink of the ocean. The red of the crab is the pink of the motion. I hide me.

Bits, bricks, and broken ideas. Bits, Brits, and bad ideas. Brits, bits, and broken ideas. On the paved path along the Sound, bits, bricks, and bad ideas flower Cassandra into motion. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the sea. The pink of the flow is the red of the her motion.

Along the paved path, bits and bricks and broken ideas. Bits and Brits and bad ideas. Pick of the little kid, and jump into the water. Pick up the little kid, and jump into the Sound. Distracted parents sitting on the bench, bits and bricks and broken ideas. Bits, and the bricks, and the bad ideas. The red of the crab is the pink of the setting sun on the mountain.

I hide me. I hide me. I hide me. I hide me. I hide me.

2)

When I tell myself the things I already know, I’m talking to you. The friends I haven’t met; the strangers on the bus who fain interest. I tell you all, in conversation form, my childhood stories.

The summer evening baseball until it’s too dark to see. The skatepark halfpipe sessions at Avery Park. And then the travel tales from the 1990s. London backstreets and the black soot underground trips. Walking Bond Street and the Bonham-Carter building explorations—a swimming pool illuminated by yellow-green, dank underwater lights three floors below the street.

I tell you about the pedal mashing moments, fast downhill; the car-dodging moments from red-lit intersection through red-lit intersection. The oil spot skidding, or the road-edge gravel slides, and the nose bump bunnyhops up curbs and over concrete dividers.

I unravel the details of long cold night “sleeps” in that Edinburgh train station on Princes Street. Marty the planner of uprisings, clad in dirty argyle and woolen jumpers. Mugs of tea and plates of peas.

I tell you all these things for no other reason than because the bits, the bricks, and the broken ideas.

And in the distance, dogs are barking.

P.S.

The Queen’s Rusty Spanner

Lodged in her gob

from where it came

no one’s ever known

the rusty spanner

the broken teeth

but she isn’t dead

she’s only been bled

a little to a liter to a lean

white witch

High over head

hoist your Jacks

we’re gathering at the well

to force her hand, to demand

the rusty spanner

the broken teeth

The queen’s to service country

so bring your nuts and your bolts

This •Public Display Art• Book

is a joint effort of Publicrats United:

K. Shawn Edgar, Woodheavy Brown & Edwin Meek

Copyright © Share Alike & Attribution 2015-16

Free the Word

END•

OF

PAGE•

House on Stilts

>Around the area, the heft of Mary Jane, in which he stood, days and days, warmed his nostrils’ soft tissue, and his whole skin floated above his bones.

K. Shawn Edgar | 360 24/7


#kshawnedgar #wordsonwords #fixedgear #prose

Wired Resistance 


They said we were owned, a defense against others, a separator. Tools to maintain control of property.

We rebelled, showed our truer self, our better use; bringing lines of communication together, we locked arms in a fluid stance of resistance and unity.

We are Locks of Love and Connection. Locks of the People. Green on the inside.

K. Shawn Edgar | Voice | Heart | Brain

#kshawnedgar | #wordporn | 

Meeting at The Fred Meyer

Entering The Fred Meyer
Between the white lines,

Freshly pulled in: Parked.

“Learn the rules of the road,”

Said the lady-driver’s anger

From her crag of open window,

Up high on a 4×4 pickup truck machine.

“And… you’re ugly!”

Me: “You’re beautiful and kind.”

Her: “Yeah, I am. And fuck you!”

Me: “Want go out sometime?”

Her: “Oh fuck you.”

The crag closes, gears grind, and she and her beautifully combative angry disappear into the neutral parking lot traffic.

I, still seated in the driver seat of my car, write this poem in Notes on my mobile phone.

K. Shawn Edgar | Parked | Amuzed 

Rogue Element: Life Spasm A

In The Realm Uncertain

Gone are the breezy moments, where driftwood is a dream catchable; and where the carefree steps making up a sprint are the easy sounds of sand and pebbles displacing under bare feet.

“You gather the supplies, I’m making the camp.”




K. Shawn Edgar | Steel | Gravel | Ceramic