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•

Darker the Barker

pic of cat

“Cat!” Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015


Darker the Barker:

Or Madrid Squeals Mercurials

Dear Meridian:

M, do you remember the line of puckered spider bites along your backbone? I said they were there — four or five — touching each one with my thumb tip. You said, French Dip; and we threw on yesterday’s clothing going out the door.

In the lobby restaurant at Toby’s, we soy-sauced our sour cream apple flapjacks. You had a second breakfast of French Dip on a club roll with pickle spears, and I followed up with a French tricolor banana-split-malted milkshake.

M, do you remember our walk along the greenways after breakfast at Toby’s? Interlocked fingers, a breeze from the East, and a brief string of kisses while sitting on the bench next to the sleeping homeless man. We are and are not alone and together. One from one, out of many. More or less.

The green spaces and parks here act as lungs for an aging city; we’ve smoked too long from the broken pipeline of crude oil and coal. More parks — green, unfettered, biodiverse spaces — would mean more filtering capability. More lung power. The Boz Project for UP Tacoma is our only hope.

M, do you remember the words syncing our footfalls as we walked? More or less:

Frailty, sincerity, progressivism, inclusion, de-entanglement, farsighted sensations….

And then came the opposing cry, or barking, of the street-side cryer. It disjointed our unity with its repetitive banality. Bark, bark, bark!

The words thudding like the hammer of a sick drum: convenience, satisfaction, discounts, definitive delights. Inside, inside, inside — all the things you need, on sale! Satisfaction! Trust our representatives. They’re people just like you.

M, it seems we all need a helpfully healthy dose of helplessness… don’t we? To get us moving forward with purpose.

Our desolate Madrid is in decline. So be it, or be it so? We are at fault. The barker and the listener, alike. The fruit we poop does not simply decay and reenter the living sphere, it stains and remains. So we must be the balance. We must be the keepers of the greenways. The cleaners. For our body, for your light.

M, do you remember? Moe or less?

Yours truly,

K. Shawn Edgar | Nightwatchman | Howard’s End | The One True Cog

Sonoma Grove

Sonoma Grove, a letter to Bruce

Hey, Bruce—

At the park where we grew up, steeply sloping, there are electric eels in the A-frame. No, Bruce, I have not seen them. Like you, I do not go back there anymore.

The stone casters tell me, There are ells in the utility sink by the back doors in the A-frame. We should probably send someone out there. It’s all surrounded by city now. State Farms, Circle K’s and Vapor shops.

Bruce, if the stones say we should send someone go too. You are good with three-dimensional thinking and aquatic life; the scantron forms senior year said so. Remember Mr. Anus told you to become a zoologist or a florist because one gets to work with killer whales and the other is a front for wholesale assassinations. He said that’s who got Martin Luther King and Reagan.

There are electric eels in the A-frame. And the fence around the park has grown taller. And the new owners separated the older poor trailers at the back, from the newer vacation modular homes up front. I guess those people need quicker access to the onramps and drive-thrus?

Bruce, this is not going to get any easier. Maybe we should let the eels have the day.

Truly,
P.K. Ripper •


K. Shawn Edgar | Fish Wife | Salad Slayer | Poet