Sunlight Filtered through Glass

The rectangle of light shared with me two stories. One of energetic reaching and stabbing; another of subtle conjoining and bending.

The first, illustrated with the bristled arms of aggression and the soaring amplitudes of blood magic, alarmed Rat-Tat-Tat impulses on the insides of my insides.

A deep sleep intervened until the second story, having percolated beyond time, all coffee-brown and alert, bubbled over. Gleam, glean, glimmer. Curves, angled sunlight and lilacs over flannels.

K. Shawn Edgar | York ghost 

93

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When I’m 93 I won’t remember a single Valentine’s Day, Christmas, or vacation.

I’ll rewind and review instead every time I sat in my car on the parking lot at the Fred Meyer writing words, poetic or refined, and eating twenty-five cent doughnuts.

It’s these defining moments I cherish now and will remember forever, even beyond death.

#kshawnedgar #words #goodtimes

The Griminals: Part Four


In case you’ve not read The Griminals: A Separation Story Part One | Part Two | or Part Three 


And here’s the conclusion:

Of course, Chelle knows ravens are a different bird from the crow; or at least she thinks they are. But, really, she’s not even sure these invaders are crows—long obsidian feathers, all shinny and sharp make her feel they’re crows. But either way, the name Ravenbend just sounds better. And there’s a lot of them flapping around. Big and black, noisy and posturing, like nightmarish pigeons, they stare at her. Intently. And she wonders how so many large birds can exist in one place at one time. What do they eat?

Oh right, she decides, it’s the bodies. All the bodies, and there’s all the garbage that’s piled up. She hasn’t seen the building super for days. Although, there seems to be more bodies now than 24hrs ago. And more garbage too. Not less, as she’d expect, that’s for sure. Shouldn’t there be fewer bodies? How many pounds of flesh can an average crow eat?

Someone has to remove some of these bodies. The smell alone is ruining Chelle’s sense of adventure. And her appetite is nearly gone. If she were the building’s super, she thought, where would I be hiding out? If my job description had just recently changed from fixing leaky pipes and re-hanging planter boxes, to disposing of dead bodies and fighting off evil crows, where would I disappear to? Anywhere but here.

Chelle now thinks her boyfriend isn’t coming home. Ever.

He hasn’t even called. And when she pictures his face, all she sees is a plate of raw meat. You know, like one of those cheap steaks served with a baked potato at a dive bar. It’s pink with the threat of blood. But not bleeding. Just lined with false potential.

In her head:

I’m having doubts. No super, no power for lights, and no Internet. But lots of garbage. I can’t wait here forever. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Chelle, what are you waiting for this time? You’re a lonely hatchling in this darkened nest of birds and bodies.

Oh, my parents would say I should wait for help, for the authorities to come, for a savior. But my parents aren’t answering their phones. Two damn cellphones and no answers. No super. It’s just me. I haven’t even had to change a lightbulb for myself in three years. Now I’m faced with this loneliness, and I think the bodies have been moving around. Dead bodies. Moving!

I’ve become too scared to go downstairs for a closer look. But from the fire escape outside my window everything looks like those police drone videos of protesters all bunged up, shoulders hunched, just struggling against each other. A single purpose with multiply avenues of completion, and even more avenues for failure. But they stand up, and they take a risk. No matter the beatdowns taken, they push on. Push on.

I’m going to die here alone if I don’t make a move. I have to put some things in a bag and go out there. This waiting isn’t working out.

Eaters Without Boarders

Milton Fife and I are in the mall’s foodcourt. “Hard people full of soft potential,” I say, as he’s stacking heavy objects against one of two entranceways to Snack’s Snack Emporium.

The lamia came for the children,” Milton Fife replies between grunts and over the sound of his work.

I ignore his comment because I’m now more interested in Snack’s unused bounty of individually wrapped, chocolate-dipped corn chips. Salty and sweet, that’s my kind of meat. In these times of decay, we nomads have refined our understanding of nutritious meals into three commandments. “Stay hydrated; eat proteins when available, and above all else you have to enjoy the pleasure of consuming snacks with long shelf lives. Thank you, Hostess.

Mini Muffins for days! And days. And days.

It’s this thought—Ho Hos: A Bad Thing Turned Good—which keeps me from noticing the sudden sound of music booming from unseen speakers, until it’s cranked to 11 and quickly reaching out to all ears.

All at once, the commanding voice of Barbra Streisand breaks over me as Milton Fife slaps my backside and swings his sledgehammer onto his shoulder in one fluid motion. “New question,” he says, “can Eaters tell the difference between live and recorded audio?”

And all around us, Barbra Streisand electrifies our foodcourt stadium with a rousing rendition of Second Hand Rose.

Better question,” I reply, “will the Eaters be repelled or attracted by Barbra’s voice?”

By way of an answer, Milton Fife hones in on the scent of something, a smelly vibe I guess, telling him the answer to a more important and unasked question: Where’s the music coming from?

Chelle Preaches Vengeance

As we run in search of the voice, a new threat comes to us in the form of an amplified, disembodied question: “Are you dead or alive?” … secondhand pearls … I’m sick of secondhand curls…

Now. How does one answer a oneway transmission in space? Maybe, one lands one’s spacecraft on the doorstep of the inquisitor and says, “Yes, I’m alive. How kind. Thanks for asking.”

If you’re Milton Fife, on the other hand, you sledgehammer the office door of Poppy’s Pumpkin Palace and scream, “We’re the living, and you’re going to be the dead!” And yes, he screamed “going to be” and not “gonna be”. Milton Fife is formal even in a fight.

Now, the question becomes: How does one respond to an In-Your-Face challenge from a stranger on her doorstep? With a true action movie hero one-liner, of course: “Buddy, I’m gonna press your suit with a cold, dirty iron.”

Chelle slides a big pistol of unknown make and manufacture from under her jacket, letting fly an awkward shot that slams into the wall just to the right of Milton Fife’s head.

Milton Fife, with a slight shakiness in his voice, “Bed your make, sleep in it!” Accompanied by thunderous sledgehammer gaveling on the floor in front of Chelle.

It’s no wonder I feel abused … I never get a thing that ain’t been used …

That’s when our false front of bravery breaks down into the gushing of laughter and tears. Absurdity and fears. We—the only truly living human beings left—drop all our defenses, falling bodily to the floor in a release of loose, casual humanity. For a moment.

Our chuckle orgy lasts an eternity of about four carefree minutes. Time doesn’t like to stand still, however, and its momentum makes Chelle pull us back to the moment. Rising, with a flash of heat and anger. Without disclaimer, she unleashes an oral barrage. One, I can only conclude, that had built up in her over days of lonely struggle until our presence called it forth.

I have lasted in this sick crow and garbage infested horror town as long as you! And without aid from others, I’ve been completely alone.” And from Barbra… Life is juicy, juicy and you’ll see I’ve gotta have my bite, sir….

She continues; her voice building with Barbra’s: “I’ve killed those dead things. I’ve put them down for good. And in the short time since I left my apartment at Ravenbend, I’ve grown more than in my entire previous, shitty life. I was a baby. A baby waiting for death.”

Chelle reloads her pistol. She eyes us with a brutality beyond her years.

Together, we will destroy them all. Reclaim humanity. Or at the very least, we will take back our city. Stand now. No progress without vengeance. No future without a fight!”

Everything is Coming Up Eaters

Have you ever misplaced a chunk of your day? An hour gone, no imprint. A day in the week, just blank. Or an event, years prior, that someone swears you attended. You know you didn’t. Maybe?

Oh fluid memory! It’s a juicy gossip. It’s a tale of conjecture. So my retelling of the next few hours may not be true. Sit back, and look for the warnings.

Chelle is not an imposing figure. She is small, like 5’3”. But with a pistol in one hand and a machete in the other, she’s a reverse biblical crusade of miniature fury. Fuck Knights Templar! And that is our fighting word. Every cry begins with it.

Fuck! Fuck lard! Fuck the dead! Fuck the Eaters of human flesh! Fuck viral incongruities! Fuck greed!”

On and on we go. Killing and crying. Milton Fife sledging anything that moves, quivers, shakes, or drags a lame foot. Fuck the lame!

Oh … right, and fuck the hundreds of Eaters from the rotunda that have heeded the ongoing call of Barbra Streisand because in our excitement we forgot to turn off her saucy voice. Fuck amplified music!

He touched me

He put his hand near mine

and then he touched me

I felt a sudden tingle

when he touched me

a sparkle, a glow

He knew it

It wasn’t accidental

No, he knew it

And suddenly nothing is the same. Oh, Barbra, your words are prophetic. Touched, and it’s over. But that hasn’t happened yet. The fight is on.

As Barbra’s recorded voice sings, “Life’s candy and the sun’s a ball of butter,” we chop and curse; we fade and regain our energies. We feel the unrestrained freedom again.

And then there’s some other lyrics, not so important until this: “Eye on the target and wham. One shot, one gun shot, and bam!” Chelle is Barbra incarnate. Milton Fife and I are simply her backup singers. We repeat her lines and double tap our way forward on her wings. Bloody wings of vengeance. We kill and kill.

And then, she’s there. Wife. Ex-wife. My once living love. Yes, the one who left me. Her outsides matching the twisted insides I hadn’t understood soon enough. Only glimpsed in missing time and contradictions.

Her true self, it seems, has been let out to play. Well, good. Seeing her lame-footed dance now makes me wonder: Is there a feminine for Conquistador? Maybe it’s Eater? Oh man, can she eat. When I spot her, she’s noshing on some mall cop’s tender bits. Another survivor? Not now.

My ex-wife has been touched, torn, stripped clean of social structure. But it is her. Something in the eyes, or the big white teeth, this is definitely her, all her. An Eater, as I had thought she would be. An Eater I used to know.

I miss her still. Even like this. Inside I’m reaching out. Outside I’m riding on the bloody wings of Chelle’s vengeance. And mine, too. For the lies and the blame. For the unwanted separation. This is why I survived. Bad timing turned good.

I take a moment. I slot an arrow. I draw it back. Goodbye, old world.

Thomas Cleans Out His Closet

But, truly, back in the office, as Milton Fife charged with his sledgehammer, Chelle shot him twice. Once in his shoulder, and once in his stomach.

free again … back in circulation now … time for celebration now … a party

She hadn’t missed. We hadn’t charged off to fight for vengeance. No wings. No ex-wife.

Milton Fife stumbled forward, hitting Chelle’s arm with an awkward sledge swing. Her pistol fell. I slotted an arrow. I shot it through her neck—right in the center. No thought, no consideration. Just the sound of Chelle and Milton Fife hitting the floor mixed with the voice of Barbra hitting the high notes.

At that point, I crawled to him, and I lifted him up, head and shoulders, onto my lap. A most loving gesture it felt in the moment. He was still breathing. And there was a happiness in its sound.

As Milton Fife bled, he talked: “I guess, Thomas, we’re grim criminals in the end. Not heroes. Not poets. Only commentators and thieves. We stole a little extra life. The turd pool would eat this up. I can hear them tapping away, and clicking away. Be alright, my friend. Stay strong. Use blood if you have to, but write this thing out. Write it out of our existence. Thomas? I should’ve stayed under my rock.”

The Barbra Streisand Fortress

I think this is where I will stay, in the pumpkin palace. The food is preserved beyond recognition, although the water tastes a bit like cancer. Familiar and final. Also, there are Sharpies, ball points, and pencils in every drawer. I have my blood, too. Plus blank pieces of paper in the office printer. And at the end of the day, even the music conforms to the situation:

People

People who eat people

Are the luckiest people in the world

Where children eating other children

And yet letting our grown-up pride

Hide all the need inside

I feel a true peace coming on. I greet it. I become it. Thanks, Hostess.


K. Shawn Edgar | Thanks for reading | Hope you enjoyed it | Ho Ho’s

 

 

 

Dry Grasses

Open up my, I’m hiding authoritarian urges. Born of sincerity and a lightening rod of raw kindness. Dig in my, I’m filled with wrinkled fairness. Olive branches, these limbs do climb and wear and hide within. Under the tree I see only dry grasses.

K. Shawn Edgar | Public Display Artist | Mono Cog | Enjoyable

All These Spiders Spin Webs

pic of Monsanto death

“Seedy Air” by K. Shawn Edgar (Pic Credit: IAN)


All These Spiders Spin Webs

Oh, the compelling narratives we weave and wonder about … how slick, how silken … all are mobile truths made of soap bubbles and steam, slyly written on cobwebs in the dew-drenched darkness.

A hint of thyme, local honey and turpentine, with a pinch of violets and posies, over just enough truth not to be 100% false. Lies will tantalize. If they toss a treat-shaped puzzle piece, a treat disposal-shaped mouth will fit pegs to indents. Scooby. Snack. Heavy.

I’m awake, and if you’re dreaming you should stay that way. Dreaming is doing. Out here, with eyes opened, it’s a different slice of skin sheen, at all times half-life unworthy. “We are waiting, taking up space.”

Meanwhile, in the Up Space, droning like nano-maximized, hyper-personalized, convenience-infused, and overtly friend-friendly distractions (Read: Obstacle Golf) are watching us like Monsanto watches its GMO seed patents. Closely. With glistening greed fingers rubbing in a counterclockwise motion. They are agro | chemical | contaminated | fang smile

You are not a person, only a collective reflection of habits — points of interest on an ever-changing line.


K. Shawn Edgar | Toothless Wolf | Weightless Hammer | Dead Soon

Soma Sonoma: A Letter to Bruce Lee

a pic of great things

“The Concrete Now” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Soma Sonoma

Bruce:

There are moments I can’t remember, and I wonder what they would mean in the larger resolution. Like several movies from when I was a kid, which I know I loved but can only recall shuttering glimpses of their stories. I’ve attempted to convey their plots to friends and family, only I can’t even put more than a few concrete words to the details and feelings I retain. But I know for sure these movies were not dreams because there’s a hardened texture to them that dream memories don’t usually contain. Those are more shimmering, reflective, and soft along the edges. It is the difference between touching chromoly steel and honeycomb cereal.

In the meantime, the beasts do talk. I can hear it in their eyes. Beaming the oldest nonverbal languages, energetically mingled with tonal chirps and grunts, their facial expressions are as palpable — as meaningful — as our English words. I write these words without irony. The beasts tell me to remember the basics: move, drink water, eat greens, engage light, jump, run, clean, sleep, and stretch it out.

In one movie — the older of the two — a band of fantasy characters reminiscent of classic RPGs like The Bard’s Tale III: Thief of Fate, come together on an adventure through wasted, dangerous lands in defense of an usurped king and a wronged prince. (And no, it’s not Hamlet or The Lord of The Rings.) This movie has a goofiness those works don’t — in a good way. It’s low budget, and maybe a bit campy. However, as I remember it, this movie has one of the best character-plot marriages of All Time. The characters and their actions are equally synthesized with the story’s overall world building.

It makes use of many fantasy tropes so smoothly and humorously, the story they imbue bursts out in an original way even though the themes and character types are so familiar. The archer is a thoughtful, elegant elf who can shoot like six arrows a second, and the main male character is a young, super well-trained, strong leader-to-be. There’s a beautiful, athletic woman who acts as the groups heart and compass. And, of course, a giant warrior/dwarf/half-human character who wields a massive axe. Strangely, in this moment, I am not even sure if I’m remembering this or making it up…? Bruce, what movie is this? Does it still exist somewhere?

Agonizingly, I may never remember for sure. This hell doth torment the soulless! However, on this Earth, the sudden blooming of scene clips, dialogue fragments, or plot points crystallizing in momentary sparkles is Soma to my depressed intellect. Their random occurrence calls me back to the first and only viewing of this masterpiece without a concrete name. And I feel again like the me I’ve lost since.

Is this a good thing? Or is it a bad thing? Is it momentary connection or momentary torture? I may never know for sure.

Sincerely,

K. Shawn Edgar | Fragmented Time Traveler | Elegant Elf | Wronged Prince Out of Time

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.