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•

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On Fiction Writing, Observation, and Local Color

pic of book craft

Hand-Built Books – K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Rubberized Jackdaw & The Fountain of Peninsula:

A Writer’s Life

I begin.
This process is difficult. The kind of difficult that makes over-eaters and alcohol drinkers, or obsessive housecleaners. Those actions are easier than staying in the chair and writing. The mind can turn away at the slightest entertainment. And will. It will be turned, twisted, and tulip-infused. The lights will seem too bright, the room too cold, and the sunshine outside too invitingly warm. Resist these distractions. Focus your eye-beams on your fingertip grenades. Write hard.

But first, to breakfast.

There are a lot of birds lately. Huge Crows, Poorwills, and Tyrant Flycatchers. More than I can remember. Yesterday. Or maybe it started last week with a cloud of them pouring over the reservoir walls, high up and then low over its sloping turf sides. A swirly, carnival-curly living cloud—all flapping their wings and yet, in a way, none seemed to be flapping at all.

I begin. Again. But this time it’s personal. (No need to research and debate; yes, it’s a reference to that action movie.) The ball-and-chain pull of pop culture gets even with me, jerking me back, whenever I try to stray. Some of these referential brands are so deep they seem like memories of summer birthday parties or foreign explorations, like the time you spent six days walking from London to Holy Island; sleeping on the street in recessed doorways or in the fetal position under a bird blind near the sand dunes, a plate of peas as your dinner at The Ship & Cove. Yesterday. Or five years ago. Or ten years ago. Or whenever.

Last night—right after a dream ending with me saying, “Well, gentlemen. Emus….”—I had this thought: The name of my blog is Pull of the Sun. If it were instead, Pole of the Son, it would have to be some kind of porn site involving incest. Or, if it were Poll of the Son, it might be a generational type political blog, like something Ron and Rand Paul would endorse.

In a particular area in Washington State, the local police are running a new program they call Handguns for Meth. Out of respect for the people who live there, let’s refer to this area as Peninsula. The new program works like this: Any citizen, without fear of legal action, can bring in their meth and receive a shiny handgun in exchange. It doesn’t matter how much meth; could be one ounce or fifty pounds, you still walk away with a shiny handgun. Now this, on its surface, is brilliant on two levels. Firstly, the meth can be resold in Tacoma to bring in a whole lot of cash for the state. Secondly, it gives the police a way to deal with all those confiscated handguns that have been piling up at the station. You know, it’s like reduce, reuse, recycle. Right? Hints of the New World Order goals. Debase, reduce.

After the brief—and quite pleasant—plague of birds the rain’s falling day after day. Dark rain, from clouds the color of old motor oil that produce an endless pounding of heavy lead confetti. The primordial piss of a pack of angry gods. Predawn gods. Blind, cave dwelling gods, on a time-without-measure dunk, who stink of some ancient rum booze. Thoughtless, antisocial gods like the ugly masters of Wall Street, only so far beyond recognizing that there’s something for their heavy-metal piss to fall upon they believe this endless release is helpful and joyous. Pigeon poo. This rain! Bring back the Crows and the Goatsuckers.

Crepuscular, I begin twinkling. Tandy has the dark tropic marmalade of a second son’s second son. So what? Bitter oranges. The sun is setting. And daughters are on the rise! I must break for dinner, and I will slowly serenade the sauce as the pasta boils in salty water.

I percolate the coffee. Sickness always revives me; my teaming masses need a trillion foes to fight. With every cough, my immune system loves to bounce back from a Pearl Harbor style pounding. Rapturous explosions of my old cells dying bring forth the new. Decline, revive. Decline, revive.

I begin. Again. My mother arranged thick, flat stones in rows across the lowest part of the trail where rainwater pooled after winter storms. She wanted to encourage foot traffic to the fishing ponds. They were stocked ponds, brimming with rainbow trout. She charged $25 per hour. Some with nimble fingers and quick reactions haled in a worthwhile number of fish, while others overpaid to stand around and swat bugs. To maintain this duality, mother also collected (read trapped) various types: flies, gnats, mosquitoes, and the occasional bunch Buffalo Treehoppers from around the state and introduced them to the ponds. This way, winners and losers of the fishing wars would have something to do and even gain a sense of satisfying accomplishment. That was my mother. And, as I’ve often told friends, one could safely say she was a true businesswoman, entertainer, and self-taught Entomologist as well as a determined smuggler.

K. Shawn Edgar | Midnight Writer | Hedge Goon | Goth Goatsucker

Bachelor Books

This is a reposting of my poem, “Bachelor Books”, to go with the recently posted poem, “Lady Books“. Together, they are strangely writhing bedfellows.

*
Bachelor Books

Off the swelled main roads,
those with county highway numbers,
dirty fountains supported by stone stags,
bookend a shop for bachelors.

Through the mirrored entrance
lonely brown-papered faces,
eyes angled high or low-

ly darting, become fixedly occupied
with whistling wall crack inspection,
tattooed by overripe desire, in these
narrow, yellow-lighted porn halls.

Embossed genre signs hang
on rows of pressboard shelving
like lowbrow library call numbers
(licking Dewey’s decimals):

Automotive Encounters
Accident Victims
Black On Brown
Brown On Tan
Tan On White
White on Sheep
Load-bearing Bar Matrons
Man To Man
Mutant Fetish
College Confessions
Straight Talking Cowboys

Throughout darkened viewing booths
or Plexiglas-divided Live Girl stalls
apologetic and unapologetic pistols
dangle or salute the fall-

ing away of lonely skin thirst, and the
ramping up of bare flesh excitement.

Among the rows of glass displays,
bursting with vibe, flex and glow,
unwed men, collegians, and rampant
fugue-staters with Viagra bloodstreams
wander about staring, grasping, squeezing,
pressing their post-industrial disaffected lust.

It’s sketchy and served up cold, but at least
it’s immediate, tactile and pungent deep in a
bookshop for bachelors.

(Books not found in the Library of Congress)

(However, Congressmen and Senators love them!)

Lady Books

Across from milky fountains there’s a saturday market
flush with organic vegetables and handwoven blankets
Here, the free downtown trolleys end their runs
transitioning into their suburban commuter routes

High heels click brickwork, mingling with steel rail noise
as water tumbles crows outcry buskers playing their drums
It’s an amalgamation of voices whirling up like dust devils
if dust held music, spit, and long eerie cries of visible woes

This curious arcade, burning with life pulsars, is a mall
for those who fancy characters in an 18th Century novel
Pastoral romance of car alarms and homeless camp smells

Trolleys ring out; sounds bouncing around concrete and stone
Female statues gracing the fountains have mascara smeared eyes
from years of air pollution, marble erosion, and lonely caresses
given before daybreak; she’s hard and cold but the form is true

Between vacant towers, a blue sunrise-orange storefront waits
for ladies whose corsets are confining during the daily work grind
Push through mirrored doors, a jingle of bells, and a rush of lights
to a long plush hallway decorated by wartime pinups and pinwheels

International pleasures, mapped on graticule wallpaper, adorn
a vaulted main lounge crisscrossed by ornate library style shelves
Creativity, elegance, variety, exoticism, all spices in these racks
where section headings on off-white 3×5 cards are listed on each row

Hot Sauce: Men in the Kitchen
Leather Boots made for Riding
Time Traveling Firemen
Blades, Babes & Glory
The Peppermint Baristas Union
The French Undergraduates
The Witches of Muff Town
Non-Verbal Androids
New Guy & his Two Brothers
Ladies, Lollipops & Tetris
Zombie Love: Two and a Half Men
Russian Dolls Duke it Out
The Walking Drop-Dead Gorgeous
Makeup Make out
Beaver State
Men Who Look like David Bowie

Welcome to a bookshop for the ladies who read-write their own code
May your screen shine from within as your voice sings without disguise

Image by Rhoda

Image by Rhoda