Double Dutch

Lovingly Come to Madrid
o

A spacecraft on rocky ground;
you wake in a room with levitating bed.
Stepping to the floor and shrugging it off
you throw a paranoid glance at the ceiling.

The whirring of an electric fan draws you in,
confronted by a small half-bathroom with sink,
you are wearing cycling gloves. Unclean?
You lovingly wash your gloved hands in lather.

You won’t be with me, or on my side;
you’ll be a beamer, a sweet roll pusher.
A taste of the moment totalitarian, you.
When the bulwarks break, you’ll run.

Through the turnbuckle, will our lengths
maintain the tension of dramatic irony?
Or snap under the crude expectations,
the lurid expectations, of the crowd?


K. Shawn Edgar | Paper Hat | Pedal Pusher | Redolent Festival

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The Writer’s Life

Rubberized Monkey & The Fountain of Peninsula

(You have to leave something behind)

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.

I begin. Man, 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.

I begin. 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.

I begin. 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, recycling. Right? Hints of the New World Order goals. Debase, reduce.

To start. 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

What’s the Glory Morning Story

 


Sleeping Near RADA


 

Forming a city block, the Bonham-Carter House has a narrow, pensive

main entrance that, although inviting, blends with the rest of the street.

 

These buildings on Gower are people: sedate and old, with noisy pipes.

Their walls occasionally bleed, especially under the orifice windows.

 

We enter her; check in at a melancholy brown and black front desk

where two cartoon-eyed girls extend mirthless greetings, stamp our books.

 

Glancing about, decades of décor mingling, interbreeding with scuffles

drawing and redrawing Arabesque boundaries between conflicting styles.

 

You have a nervous excitement rising. It always shows itself as static

electricity in your pale yellow hair, caught in your eyelashes and brows.

 

Our black duffles rest more lightly on our shoulders as we climb the stairs.

Four weeks tramping France and the U.K. to settle now in Bonham-Carter

it’s the delight of weary limbs nearing rest, craving nourishment and warmth.

 

We emerge on the fifth floor huffing air, muscles done for now; dim hallway

a straight line moving away in seemingly endless space toward room number 524.

 

This is a quiet, timeless vortex—slightly buzzing with ghosts from busier times.

You dance-walk ahead, sliding fingers over silent doors trying each handle.

 

Halfway along we find a large open arch; this floor’s bathroom and toilets.

It’s an expansive, high ceilinged room with rows of magnificently sculpted

porcelain shower and toilet stalls, sturdy as if built for Roman gods.

 

At the opposite end there’s a tall window and a rectangle of sunlight mirrored

on the wide, tiled floor; we drop our duffle bags and strip down to bare bones.

 

Cranking large, chromed faucet handles full on, hot water spray steams our

cold skin as we jump from one stall to the next, drenching hair with warmth.

 

I’m tall, like 6’3” on a good day, and the jutting nozzle is above my head,

slick pale tiles extending higher than that; steam magnifies all lines infinitely.

You appear as a white wisp of lithe flesh, with blond hair straight and long.

 

Those hard nights sleeping in parks and doorways vanish, lifted away in vapor

as our bodies meet again in the middle, under a stream of charged, stinging

hot hot hot water; fingers now sliding along naked familiar spaces, rediscovered.

 

This is the perfection of travel to foreign places, known but fantastically new.

London is like a cousin’s kinship one remembers from photos or crisp paper

letters, handwritten as a child in a voice projected to capture a future positive.

 

Facing the door to room 524, we’re still damp under our half fastened clothing.

You slip the large old key awkwardly into the peekaboo style lock and turn.

 

We’re here, toppled onto the unmade bed, like fallen flowers; our eyes at rest,

duffles tossed toward the only window—showing a sunbaked courtyard below.


 

K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Mad Assassin

Fat Eyed Woman (Kissing My Brother)

_________________

÷•÷•÷

Advert Image

-K. Shawn Edgar 2014

Fat Eyed Woman (Kissing My Brother)

 

Espresso, food, cold drinks, and snacks:

Advert signs are the only reading I’ve done in the past 36 hours.

Outside of the flawed “redundancy factor” of shock marketing,

I’ve discovered nothing interesting and crave caramel sweeties.

 

Have you seen the Day’s Inn across from a Pilot Travel Center?

There’s 73 yards of poorly laid asphalt, seeded with snack wrappers,

standing between ugly hotel room door and an ice-blended coffee taste.

I moonwalk the oil and gas splattered first five feet, breaking the fear.

 

Mel Brooks’ face is on an air freshener crumpled with a gas receipt,

as I weave around what could be blood spillage or hotdog drippings.

Scenes from Spaceballs play out in my head’s retro humor vault, until

an itchy door chime cues a jazz cover of Blink-182’s First Date.

Singing |“Forever, and ever, let’s make this last forever”|

 

Inside Pilot, this woman has a dentatus-toothed, chapped-lipped smile;

though, it might be a gateway to dental hell or cavernous conversations

spiked by rusty bear-trap punctuation and echoey subtextual grey mists.

She’s manically bleach-water spraying the sandwich bar countertops;

dirty-rag slopping heavy water droplet rainbows off the synth metal,

as her lovely fat-hampered eyeballs strain to project pure happiness.

Singing |“Is it wrong, if I think it’s lame to dance?”|

 

I’m pulling the lever, and filling a plastic cup with frosty coffee ooze.

Grizzly bears can’t run downhill,” says Hikers Delight magazine.

Only its new, glossy cover is splattered by blood or hotdog drippings,

as a starling-chested man leafs through Astronauts and Artichokes

the very issue my mailman said was “lost” in transit last month—

and chomping a foot-long with its ketchup river like the Nile flowing.

Singing |“Let’s go, don’t wait. This night’s almost over”|

 

The redundancy factor leads me through the ALL CAPS cardboard towers,

to checkout change pile of wadded cash bills and plastic bags exchange.

I flirt-smile with the fat-eyed woman who’s rag-ringing popcorn chunks off

heat lamps and shinny doughnut trays.

 

Blink’s music video for First Date starts with a story about kissing one’s brother. 

Singing |“Forever, and ever, let’s make this last forever”|

____________________

÷•÷•÷

______K______S_______E______

Drowning in Air

•÷•÷•

__________________________

Drowning in Air

But still inside … a whisper to a riot” – Walk, the Foo Fighters

Would I had a machine of time manipulation,

primed with a human foot-shaped accelerator;

the type sold at Pilot on the Interstate Highway.

 

Yes, one can be had for about $8.95 USD.

Mine would do zero to 186001 m/s like a whisper to a riot.

I’d customize it with laser stabilization and phase inducers,

so all goes, so all goes, so all goes pretty well.

 

Winona, I’d be your affectionate competition

chasing life-sized stars from Santa Rosa to LA;

pulled in the wake of over-eager super parents,

who were responsive to budding fame potential.

 

Because that’s how fame always starts, right?

A useless particle of dust, a lone amino acid,

an awkward child reading Shakespeare on the playground

the whispers.

 

A shuttlecock cresting the crooked net,

needs a counter blow for its return trip.

It stays in the air and utilizes its potential

only with the participation of active fellows

waving practical rackets

the agitators.

 

What comes after the buttons depress and the levers slide

is hard to tell – a tunnel of lights, a twisting spiral?

A suddenly changed background is more likely.

Thirteen years gone forever in a blink, and then

it’s all fleeting maybes and blunted blame.

Hindsight is Time’s biggest fuck you to all its travelers

the riot.

 

So twirl the stratigraphical colors, pulse the geometric shapes,

all up, in and around this machine with airy rippler manipulators.

It’s VHS on rewind in a basement editing suite, timecode laid black.

 

And POP – Battledore is engaged.

 

Name a century; name a civilization.

The scene’s different, characters blinking at new old trees.

Fresh grass tickling their bare feet; with breeze, their bare skin

as a shuttlecock appears over the horizontal net. Again.

 

A finger depresses the universal play button,

all rackets waving frantically enthusiastic,

and the shuttlecock responds in time.

 

6.4349598e+15

÷•÷•÷

_____________________

A Roadbed in London

•÷•÷•

London Shadows by Eva Von Pelt

Photo by Eva Von Pelt

•÷•÷•

G. smokes these brightly colored cigarettes

from a stiff paper case remindful of small cigar boxes

Except hers have tissue paper between cigarette layers

and a gold colored, pressed aluminum seal on top

It’s evening, midsummer, and about 8:30, judging shadow angles

All day we’ve walked the shops, aimlessly; our hunger growing

For G. it’s smokes. For me it’s G. All day all night, it’s G.

We head into a tobacconist near the edge of Leicester Square

Soot smeared lions-o-stone guard its shadowy entranceway

and there’s a Union Jack painted on the slope leading us inside

We’re heavily engulfed by the shop’s warm, spicy aromas

G. buys two red cases and a sleek, expensive titanium lighter

Outside, she rips open the golden seal and lights one up

But the spicy smoke never touches her; repulsed by the

smooth, translucent skin that turns it away harmlessly

while everything else—everything outside G.’s atmosphere

burns to balance the dark nature of her skin’s magic trick

Together we walk upstream; American fish out of water

All around us, rippled faces peeking and quickly disengaging

telling of themselves in segmented whispers soon silenced

by G.’s forward momentum and my need to stay close

Charing Cross Road is a fluid collection of human muscle movements

tearing and mending in cycles along the imperceptible concrete curvature

Skin to skin or cloth to cloth, it’s a migration of Us in every direction

Every passing touch for me is a jolt of heat, discomfort, and confusion

If this story could be told from within G.’s head, how different the line

breaks and beats might be; how different the tone and content

I’m all disassembled into numerals non-compliant, negative, or imaginary

thinking she’s not thinking of me; that I’d be only a distant shadow to her

My heartbeat – allotment nearly up – looks beyond its shelf life prediction

fully unaware its neighbor, the brain, is too fixated on external conflict

and on the polarizing gravities of bodily urges to regulate its healthy beat

Up the road there’s a shout from G. and a metal clicking exclaims that

her new titanium lighter is on the fritz: click, click, click, and shout

Now, only a pale swoosh on the canvas of our night, lively Charing Cross

is merely a tertiary character in this Cigarette Won’t Burn melodrama

Starring G. as herself, and queueing our fast approaching antagonists

Their leader is shorter than me, but looks stony tuff and mean from habit

You know, like he’d eat a puppy’s face if need and survival were behind it

Me, I’m the kind who’d not eat a little puppy’s face, not even for survival

Really, only G. could ever get me to eat the face of said, sad puppy

Only by her command, or for her protection, not that she’d ever ask me

When I look up from my curbside rant, G. is in the square opposite

with a raised pink cigarette, inquisitive eyes, and a smile setting her

pouty amber lips aglow; the stony-tuff puppy face eater flips and flicks

his metal lighter into a burst of responsive flame as G. leans in acceptingly

My eyes rip themselves out as he kisses her with a rough compulsion

He has a pile driver’s aim and a prisoner’s need—without moving

I’m in the square, just inches away from the puppy killer’s warm body

Smokey; muscular; unyielding; but what shocks me is the look I catch

along my periphery in G.’s huge eyes

Clearly, I’ve slapped her face and insulted her honor by stepping up

Her eyes scream that she doesn’t think it necessary for me to defend her

Well, too late, the Man-Lock is in place and its combination scrambled

I couldn’t step away now, even if I wanted that sort of quick resolution

Leave your home country, travel in the new; eat bread, peas and coffee

and then you’re breath to breath with a stranger who feels more familiar

than the woman who brought you to this point of puffed-out-feather tangle

I can sense myself in his eyes, starring back at me, except there’s no respect visible

just lustful cravings and the red river of bored aggression pounding every shore

If one second equals one year, and two men see a sinking boat from different places

their answers for righting the situation will only buffet the wreck with confusion

My eyes refocus momentarily on the three mean-faced guys backing up puppy killer

Are they active or inactive variables? I recognize the “pile-on” gene in their eye sparkles

Four little Londoners leering up at me like coyotes, and my biggest concern is G.

There’s anger in her giant cartoon eyes, and her full lips are now a single thin line

The line I had just crossed within her, which I didn’t even know existed; separating us now

Why? How to right this? I sense an opening: just slowly step back, casual and confident

while effortlessly changing my expression from natural born killer to whimsical whatever

And then we’re hand in hand walking away but G. is still angry, and The Pack is at our heels

The smallest of the four is clearly the weasel character that taunts and provokes the fleeing prey

He’s at my ear; he’s saying I’m smart to run away; his friends are mad dogs; puppy killers, I think

Man, they’ll tear your limbs and curb-stomp you; walk faster and get gone before hammer drops

But G. and I are walking intently; not fast, not scared—I, mainly confused; G., mainly resentful

Up the road to Romilly Street, we leave the crowds as the puppy killers disengage their pursuit

Now the conflict is between G. and I alone; yelling fistful-tears of resentment and confusion that

roll back and forth over our choppy seas, buffeting the stone buildings and recessed storefronts

as we auto-pilot toward our room in the Bonham-Carter House of forgotten peace and privacy

•÷•÷•

Room 117

Room 117 (Pt. 1)

Flat white oblong key
penetrates metal slit
triggering blinking green POP
as handle turns, angling hard
against a door designed to close

Swift smell of trapped angry air
alienates me from my nostrils
Space dominated by oblong bed
obligatory round table, two chairs
Swishy swoosh landscape framed
between two “golden” wall lamps

photo by k shawn edgar