At the Dead Lands near Gig Harbor, Washington…
K. Shawn Edgar | Green Warrior | Cog Masher
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
There’s a madness visiting my head, a bright familiarity. It always leads to this:
The decline of one weaves itself into the rough, uncomfortable tonality of all. Our loss of such close or distant companions causes the crags and blotches we can’t hide. Slowly, but faster every day, these abrasions weaken our communal unity.
The broken wire—piercing the lard that sits and swings our heart strings, too tense between—it carries the indivisible motion of sounds, sights, and cinnamon sticks—meaning sensations—because it can, because it does as developed. Not without thought, it’s forever mutable. But without a plan, it’s the thoughtfulness making the wire wired. It’s the sound making the wire dance. And at the same time, the wire is the sound—indivisible waves made of music. It always leads to this:
Folding the blue tarp
Push-broom-ing the dusty asphalt
Hard-wheel skating the rough transitions
Thomas loosens the polkadot necktie
Bonney swirls her bittersweet mocha
Eliot runs a lime-green comb through his hair
Tom Tom sleeps in Salvador’s fulsome arms
Deconstructing the tent poles
Folding the blue tarp
Breathing in the blossoming car perfume
I met a man, and we transacted bicycles. We connected through common communication, words and body language, a familiarity with bike culture. We exchanged ideas, knowledge, steel and aluminum alloy, handshakes and fist bumps, personal details and then—least importantly—money.
I’m a hat without a hatter, or I’m the airplane flight turbulence without the airplane passengers. Lifted. Neutral. Just up here dreaming, dancing, being.
I am only the words. It will fall to someone with bone in legs to walk the actions.
There’s a madness visiting my head.
K. Shawn Edgar | Winged Phantom | Brawny Well-doer | Wheelchair on the Inside
Cycles and Skids
Sometimes falling down
is the most exciting thing
Burning the glaze away
Chrome clothing kissing skins
skins vibrating, bouncing
mating with the road
its debris, a modern life
•Trash Tells Our Story•
The heat, believing gravity,
as Soma Everwear skids true
if only for a moment free
Brake, breath, bounce, break
pedal, skid, repeat
____K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Mad Assassin____