How Can We INVERT Our Economic Pyramid?

How do we invert a pyramid?

If it takes hundreds of millions of workers to support a much smaller number of “governing elite”, could we invert the pyramid to use a few “elites” at the base to support hundreds of millions of citizens living equitably? Flip the hierarchy, and drive the tip of the pyramid into the ground.

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome

pic of purple pugs

Cell Lights

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome

In memories brought back to you by the smell of burning chrome,
ghostly wisps only there in your knowing of what’s to come,
you feel the non-weight of your future children’s hallowed hands
upon you forehead.

They live in a place called Neomantis, and you know it to be
without hierarchies, without the haters of now.

Through them you know light touches lithe bodies, you feel innumerable
unconscious thoughts mingling like notes from autonomous player pianos.
Unlike the syllables pouring from out the wetted mouths of soapbox men,
who are sounding out unfamiliar words:

jua kali, temazepam, sinker-mesh, aegis, and macro porous.

And you jotting down information — someone’s phone number,
a child’s shoe size, broken quotes from Dante and Huxley, or
that wild cyberpunk writer named Pfeil.

Until a slippery step, a frosty curb, a car out of control, and you flying
within the lighted siren sounds of emergency. Crash as exclamation,

A reconstructed jaw, a pinned eye socket, a joint with screws and
you taking copious notes on the as yet developing cerebral matter
of your future children’s anterior left hemispheres and distal axons,
about your night with that unforgettable smell of burning,
of peeling away at, of tasting the sweet, dirty chrome.

Of a crash that brought you closer to home.

K. Shawn Edgar | Rain Pilot | Long of Arm | Sovereign

Microchipped for Love of Country

:A Little something for Funny Bunny Fridays : Week 13:

It’s like a world without care, where candy is dandy.

Microchipped for Love of Country

Daisy Romney, it’s crazy
falling, lying, thieving
all missteps corrected
Your pull is majestic
forgiveness universal
It’s a blood-oath cell bomb
no longer doing wrong

Daisy Romney, you’ve made
a believer out of me
Sub-root process divine
your laser eye scalpel
incision successful
I’m an angel reordered
to your campaign so plain

The silicon penetration
for devotional obedience
subcutaneously slotted
by your godly cool hands
warmly working, and low

Daisy Romney, you’ve transformed
this Hater into a microchipped
love slave for the greater good
Your own greater good

Purple Glitter Party for President

P.S. Say hi to Mitt

Note: Dead Lot

stale dark rainwater
blue cars line
smooth black asphalt
roar, wants more
nighttime atmospheric
stillness rising
engine off

Glimpse the Empire to Come

photo of Tallinn-Tornimae by Priit Koppel from Wikipedia

Tallinn-Tornimae by Priit Koppel

On the train, slick with speed,
Tallinn slips by in flashes of black, gold, and green
This tall city of towers twists old and new together
Its chromium spires of time cascading arc light
Reflectors of the past; ignitors of the future
Bow down old New World, your time is done
Cue Tallinn, emerging from the wings

I’ll Do You if You Do Me


Touch hard, and rule my smile
Laugh electric, and impulse my heart
Knife blades pierce low, too inhuman
Guns are the incompetent’s false bravado
Bombs — only the worst jackals use
Teeth, in contrast, they incise deep my anima
Bite true, with tools grown of need,
and you’ll bleed me healthy
Free from earthly animus degrading,
we’ll live beyond the concrete wreck
I’ll chew you, if you chew me

Going to the Motor Base, Continued

Our Meat Boys

A story of the near present


When you’re hungry and soil is rubbish, cows mad, chickens burning with flu, and fish dead gone, eating your fellow humans is less taboo and more a matter of time. Time to hack, saw and slice.

For after one or two generations of desperate need and deeds done it terror … the young and hungry won’t see what all the fuss was about. They’ll see a leg, a thigh, a breast; a lean cut, a rump roast, or a delicacy of eyeballs and blood-stewed kidneys.


“An army survives on its belly.”
– U.S. Civil War, Anonymous

in the rain stain,
reminiscent of the last great storm,
north of ancestors’ decayed paradise,
the only class to live
above the earthly dirt,
outside the physical pain,
is the Tidal Barons.

They’re the Meat Merchants
of the Motor Base. They control
the selecting, the herding, and
the processing of body slaves.
If a guy’s got a craving, a guy’s
got to pay at the base.

“Your mind is yours, but your flesh belongs to Us.”
– the Tidal Barons


Rillian, of the earthly dirt
but not the common cloth,
heads balls out
hindbrain out
cocked guns out
with Middle, Tip, and the rest
riding his wake
to the Motor Base main gate.

It was the bloody cruel loss
of Rillian’s blood-tied family
to lackeys of the Tidal Barons;

It was the senseless and bloodless
apathy of his fellow man,
too numbed to stir
in their own defense;

It was these external motivators
mixed with his regret-fueled need

that primed his pump and
charged his cells.

As for the rest,
Middle, ‘member him? A one-
handed man-killer, our destroyer
of the ever-present enemy,
a demigod of bullets and boots,
but a man all the selfsame;

he and his brother Tip need
to eat meat. All our killers
need meat. It drives their cells


captain of the multi-guard,
her radiation-brown skin shouting:

“Fuck your weak understanding of humanity! Ugly is skin deep; beauty is my blood and marrow and viscera.”

She squints from the capstan,
overlooking the main gate,
chewing on her spiced jerky
like bed springs compressing
then reluctantly releasing
under a prostitute’s routine
action atop another John.

Swallow, a burning in her gut,
tells MH something is coming;
all her remaining nerve endings
Make fast the gate!
Ready thy forces!

Maidenhead signals the trolls
to dump the vats. All along the
heavy main gate, below her,
MH’s lounging Ant Boys scurry
to their needled feet.

The vats tip and release
red darkness flowing over
the wood and stone barrier:

A rush of heads to the blood,
the Ant Boys greedily lap
the sticky red motivational
treat, Blood of Man,
from every timber.

Maidenhead squints from the
capstan, ready and willing.


And Rillian yells,

“Beyond this gate, death awaits! Will it be ours or theirs? One thing. One thing above all else. Find and kill Lady Tidal. She falls, they all fall!”

And Middle shouts,

“I’ll fuck that bone lady. She’s got Picasso face. She’s the high king of meat.”

Tip and sundry are overcome by
laughter as they stomp boots.

And then Rillian’s boys sing:

No more safe happy places,
not in our deepest deep,
not in our shining heaps;
the Motor Base is ahead,
the pain will be brought
double, triple, quadruple;
we’re gonna kill some folks

No more safe happy places,
not in our deepest deep,
not in their bloody heaps,
but it will be done,
the Motor Base taken.


There’s a sense of full circle birth life death in every bite; each breaking down of the flesh with our very own teeth is the birth of another soul but not separate and lost, a part of us and everything — a fleshy encapsulated universe tying us … one to another.

Our meat energy joins with others when each body dies, is consumed, and this is good.

The End