The first poster for the upcoming movie, "Madrid: The Elements of Nature"

The Call Center Dreams of O. Hunt

Telephones ringing like fireflies flashing —chaotically at the beginning of each work shift when you mount your cubical chair spinning it around coming up heads over tails Tones on Tail playing from cassette tape an old Walkman left by your time-stagnant predecessor Firefly phones flash in unison now Plug earbud into right ear and then slip headset microphone earpiece over left ear Switch on incoming calls an unfamiliar voice floods your brain Conversations piggy- back each other over each other into a chain of checkboxes checked into breaks out back coffee, talk, snacks and then you're peering back at yourself from restroom mirrors while coworkers come and go You lock in the darkest spot in your colorblind amber eyes myopia dissolves away away away Sand on the beach warms your bare toes Each one loving the warm cushion as dry turns to moist turns to wet and the little waves are lapping happy feet ankles calves Sun is the solution a forward thinker flanked by friends on a dreamy sun- day-to-day the work is gone Call center background crashing tele- phones calling no more away away away dissolving in salt- water @kshawnedgar

Dawn Discoveries

Sea of Never

It's poetry for the people. Because cats don't read much.

Rapture this Verse


http://kshawnedgar.wordpress.com/2011/05/03/sea-of-never/

K. Shawn Edgar
Carbon Noise Poetry
Needs You

Sea of Never

Poetry for the people, because cats don't read much.

Rapture this Verse


http://kshawnedgar.wordpress.com/2011/05/03/sea-of-never/

K. Shawn Edgar
Carbon Noise Poetry
Needs You
To Read
Daily

Weiner gives love a bad name

Weiner gives love a bad name 

In Washington DC -- a place we all pretend is part of the United States -- another guy with an unfortunate name has proven that our elected officials should be treated like middle school students on a field trip.

If we elect them and if we pay them, we should treat them like capable children who need supervision and guidance. 

Sick Poets

Sick Poets

If ever there was a time for the sick poets, it is now.

Too many people inhabit Earth. We need to reduce the population. To tears? To zero? To a 1970's level? Should we offshore the homeless to the moon Europa? Or a giant space station in orbit? Or perhaps relocate the wealthy to Mars...?

The answer to all of these questions is no. Or, well, maybe. The rich to Mars, anyway. No, it's no. The answer is no. We need a comprehensive disease, one to affect all people. One to unite them in the close quarters of overpopulation. We need to inflict everyone with the sickness of poetry. Poetry will render every person with the domain of infinite space and time.

Each man, woman, and child a king of infinite space, you ask? Yes, in close quarters. In the beautiful openness of the poetic word and phrase. Yes, in Hamlet's metaphoric nutshell, humans may survive the future.

Brochure

Brochure
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
My cousin’s in the Navy
She brought me an afghan
If you got a minute
I’ll show you my tattoos
This one’s a hedgehog
And here I got a turtle with rockets
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
I don’t have cancer
But I came from an unwed mother
She said not to fuss
Our pool held no water
She said don’t steal
I told her to stop giving me reason
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
My brother’s a deadbeat
He’s tired from working
If you don’t mind stopping
I’ll show you my dog’s puppies
They were born with no eyes
Just fur covered sockets
I live in a dream
But you’re too awake to notice
 
Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
Because you’ll never slow down
Not enough to really see me
You’ll just look at the snapshot
On the way to get a fancy coffee
And under your breath
You’ll thank God you’re not me
 
So take my big picture
And stick it in your brochure

Pachinko

I am not of pachinko. Though I am here. It's a big room, vast room. Large enough that the people think they're in many rooms with unique decor. They think we play the balls, when we are the balls being played. From most spots you can see how the balls end up. Only, from which direction did they come? There's no knowing when you can't tell which ricochet caused the ricochet that you saw last. Can we trace it? Do the movements add up to the results? In the room, no one person can ever know.

Time to Think about Us

First, the demons were here roaming and romping.

Then, the small things came flipping and flopping. Gathering and growing they chased the demons deep into the night.

Next, the dishonest Zurvan, ever present; he who had first agitated all still life said forcefully, "See how it moves forward like a river? You cannot stop it or even understand it."

And the smallest bits, those least bound by his illusions, ever present, giggled from many places at once. Their ricocheted mirth leaving clues for the humans who would follow long after the newly growing first flipity flopeties had overtaken the Earth.

Weeping and Dodging

Mythical boar-cat, you heady beast. Why have you turned away?

Your profile, once seen roaming field and meadow, has of late only cast its flickering shadow on the empty halls of mountain goat gods.

You won't find solace lurking in the semi-darkness of untraceable moments no matter how far you retreat. 

Your eyes have turned too much on themselves. Whether you toil above or below the unsanctified, craggy ground Zurvan will be your master.

That spiral is not your way out. Only lonelieness lives in the crannies of rotting thoughts. 

Uncertainties are repeated at every scale, until the demenishing fruitless design drives you to Spike's basement madness. The spark cannot be put back in! 

The nature of Cytherea has grown up abused, molested, so it proves itself with each generation. Zeus, and Cronus before him, were bad men.  

So, you cannot simply flee your fellow domesticated swine. You must harden and rise up to lead the slaughter of those unwilling to change.  

Over the Hedgerow Fly

Rabbit, hedgehog & dewy-eyed beetle, it is time to communicate again
Broken horses, stop churning your hearts into butter
We are pasture fed on things grown in rows and ground in metal vats
Debate this now!
Yearn beyond the shelf and icebox; 
Close them up
Turn them off
For what do you toil?
Not cardboard, never plastic
Look back
Look forward
Flesh on the unpruned branch, the tangled and unruly vine dangling inconveniently;
Flesh galloping on untamed earth under darkened woods,
These will release us.
Strive for them now!
Throw off,
Rear back,
Dig out from under.
Stall is cage
Walls prison
Doors never lead out, only deeper in
Look to our pampered and misused hands
What weapons these?
Not endless tools for the trade of those in power; not digits for profit production
Look to our fingers! 
Wiggle them in air not tempered
Flex and open them to the sun, wind & rain
Curl them into a fist to further our due purchase in their blunt arguement.
The communication of flesh, bone & blood is not office bound, nor industrial garden fed
It is weather torn!

Stand now, animals like me,
Tear the two-dimensional face from that book
It is not thee.

Transplantation Plus Nine & Counting

Today is my 9th kidney birthday. On August 3, 2001 I received a living donor transplant from my father. He split with one of his and the docs stuffed it in my gut, been better ever since. Almost a decade with one kidney, and we're fighting on.

Rise up little lamb!

Short Story

Excellent short story about life and birth and movies:

http://www.helium.com/tm/536380/jacob-ushermy-mother-shared

Speech Saturation

Facts awash in a sea of free speech

Establishing fact over opinion is key. And this is very difficult it seems. So then it becomes like playing “Army” as kids – you use toy guns and shout pop pop or bang bang. The game always goes sour when a kid refuses to fall over and die – yelling that you missed him. You have no way to prove him wrong except to yell back, Did not. To which he yells, Did so. This leads to you refusing to die when getting shot, and then the game falls apart.

Keith Olbermann or Bill O'Reilly being able to have a news program in which either can say whatever he wants is equivalent to the above game of “Army” and does not a free society make. We can have the ability to say what we want and still be losing our true freedoms. Because at the point when everyone yells, all at the same time, and everything that anyone disagrees with is labeled as conspiracy theory, freedom of speech has lost it's power and importance.

If you have a container half full of pure, clean drinking water and this water allows people to be free and to live without tyranny, the best way for a government to gain more control without obviously cracking down is to open the flood gates, dumping a never ending supply of polluted water into the container – any purity is diluted.

It is this kind – Hannity, Olbermann, O'Reilly, and the news media in general – of speech saturation that makes for the broken game we now play.