Falcon Hunter

Cabbage roll and one-dollar flat noodles, a place to lock the bicycles out front, our booth is by the window. We are reciting kill is kiss as frames of film, jointly remembered, inform our budding courtship. Trapped in a radio station, voices and language will save us, while these chopsticks unite us.

K. Shawn Edgar 2017

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Our Trouble with Trouble

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.

Dialogue:

(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.

#kshawnedgar

K. Shawn Edgar | Man Flake | Cube Dweller | Bad Actor

Disruptor, I 

Like Flags & Cars, They Wave & Fade​

I spent two hours today wandering around inside Fred Meyer, disordering items on the shelves, messing and rearranging. This is not for monetary gain. It’s for pleasure. I’m doing the same now, at a different store. You might think this rude or unhelpful. You’d be wrong. It’s enabling progress. It’s poking the static jelly of conformity to encourage innovation. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.
Stagnation is the fertilizer of monopoly, the seed of entitlement, and the corrupter of their legitimate great, great, great grandchild, US capitalism. So, today, I disrupt their frontline fortifications, their “public face”. It’s like a country’s flag, limp against the pole, needing the stiff influence of fresh wind. I blow the entrenched; I disrupt their milkshake.

K. Shawn Edgar | Poker | Disruptor | Weird Dancer 

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Photo by Woodheavy Brown 

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

Waiting in the Bike Lane at an Intersection in Tacoma

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

Waterfront Searchers

pic of waterfront search land

“JPG Waterfront Search” Photo by K. Shawn Edgar


Waterfront Searchers

“Take me out … to the black; tell ’em I ain’t coming back.”

—You know who sang it – 2002

“Once, in flight school, I was laconic.”

I’m no longer in flight school.

I speak with strangers in whispery chirps,

breaking words into nonexistent syllables:

H e low st rain ger s d ream ing bot tel roc ket s

Weird, soft wisps of bird-like thoughts

coming out my mouth in all lower case:

light is a softly scream sliver once tasted.

High and above the head, like circling halos

letters as sounds, not quite recognizable.

The tonally laconic double-tap of a pensive priest

afoul the empty building windows, speaking in O’s.

Orchestrated glass cracks and whitewashed tag coverages

matte painted on a facade of ginger candy wrappers.

I sully my truest thoughts with these florid words.

K. Shawn Edgar | Half-Tone | Goth Newt | Layabout

Tacoma Shitty

Everything’s ugly again

Strange mute-gray airplanes float over

girl-women with off-the-mark style collision

run(a)way model streetwalker Target shopper

 

Baggy pants boy

frozen in time

one hand full-junk grabbing

one hand finger-muscle cramp signing

182nd! Frozen in brine

 

Even caustic bunny slipper comment bum

usually enjoyable as he chirps insults at passersby

droops with the mildew melancholy of plastic tarp houses

as his tip bucket overflows with nothing