At the heart of the mountain,
color is a whispered myth;
rules are organic, grown truths.
Rain is a sound without physical form.
Below the cliffs, lapping and hungry,
the ocean knows little of mountain’s
internal life. Solid. Hard.
K. Shawn Edgar | IRB | NGO | BAD
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.
(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 | Man Flake | Cube Dweller | Bad Actor
My story is told;
so go now you,
be vivacious in waking,
be courageous in dreaming,
all the monster’s
to you is but harmless cottonwood
drifting on the breeze.
|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.
Until ever-increasing rot trickles downward, spreading slow death, toppling all.
K. Shawn Edgar | Less Stettled | Grim Colliser
London Fallout Letter
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
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.
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.
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
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