The lightning streaked my eyes again. A murder of crows, flying. The hard, crisp blackness of power lines, and a bolt through my vision. It’s increasing. Sparkle vision.
K. Shawn Edgar | Feb. 17, 2018 | Moments
In this land, the sky is a ceiling. Its support columns… like slender bones. One cannot tell whether they have grown from the clouds down, or from the ground up. The effect: a lofty, projection-filled chamber, in which, the hallow places, we dwell.
K. Shawn Edgar | 2018
I’m here, between asphalt black and sky blue. Point Defiance Park pinecones and needles shine golden, drawn to the exfoliating ground as we are universally propelled by narrative. Towers and towns aren’t built, they’re written in erasable ink, erasable blood, becoming vague but never fully forgotten.
| K. Shawn Edgar | September 2017 |
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
At the heart of the mountain,
color is a whispered myth;
rules are organic, grown truths.
Rain is a sound without physical form.
Below the cliffs, lapping and hungry,
the ocean knows little of mountain’s
internal life. Solid. Hard.
K. Shawn Edgar | IRB | NGO | BAD
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.
(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.
K. Shawn Edgar | Man Flake | Cube Dweller | Bad Actor