The Valley Floor

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


Hitchcock’s Lost Gravel Rider’s Bicycle Film 1953

Bear, Bike, Gunpowder

K. Shawn Edgar | 2017


Night of the Grove: Our Meat and Steel


I’ve been thinking too much about what they did to the Grove. They owned it, and I understand they though it was for the best, for their best interest. But what interest did it serve the folks who already lived there?

I was only four years old then, well before the changes. My family soon moved to Philomath, so we had left the park while it was in its purest state. My memories of Sonoma Grove, though good, are slim and hinge mostly on stories and old photographs.

I know, Bruce, be like water. I should just flow forward and let it go. Only the place holds a place bigger in my mind because it dwells not were pictorial remembrances are shelved, but where feelings float free, giving out details truer than thought.

The fence we climbed, to run in the field we saw, all so tactile even now. The bales of hay, stacked like ancient monuments, became a play ground better than any intended for such. Those days of sun scream beneath my skin not in pictures, not in words, but in pure fresh blood.

Bruce, back then your posters and magazines guided me and taught me strength from virtue. They showed me the need for exercise of both mind and body. Only this is going to get rough now. The sun is far gone. The hay bales, long since settled to dust. Even your strong, kite-like shoulder blades may not be enough to carry us. Your posters are all rolled up in tubes somewhere I’ve forgotten.

Read further, Bruce, without judgement; I know my words will cut against your natural grain. The waters have dried up, and I can only be like I am.

Earlier today, I smiled at an empty car—too eager for reaction to my actions. I’m too hopeful of ping-back from every slight head turn or reflection of light. But trust me, Bruce, steel doesn’t eat meat for survival, it does so for vengeance.

Cars are dreary caskets, too heavy and empty and damp. The pure elements inside are angry about their forced conjoining into a state so alien. They want now to break us humans into our essential pieces, and return us to an inorganic state. My eager, one-way smile says I want this change too.

Essential Elements, please help me help you to deform us all. Return we to the dirt, through a perfect catalytic collision of meat and steel.

Have you ever disemboweled a friend or lover? Have you ever seen the truest beauty of this beast, broken? It’s a fitting dessert, Bruce, for relatives of the sky. Blood and wafer. Basket of tears. The Grove was taken over by singular business sensibilities. The very inhuman, human idea that business concerns like profit, identity, and liquidity can be held wholly separate from the consequences of individual business owners’ actions in a complex living environment.

Sonoma Grove was a place of people living with and for other people. A group with one backyard where the outside world spun almost unnoticed. The new owners, like detached space travelers from a corporate-minded planet arriving on a new world, saw the park not as a vibrant, established community, but as a profitable venture for themselves.

And that has made all the difference. “We’re just trying to run a business and make money for our families.”

Backyards, comfortably placed between fences, never fully understand life on the street. Their view is an innocent one. It’s of the child. It’s of the dreamy, youthful anticipation that sees beyond surrounding reality into the multiverse of what should be.

Bruce, I must rip you from my mind and get on with what’s most important. The remaking of our world. Break it down, to build it up. Disjoint this false conjoining of business with culture. Return we to dirt.

P.K. Ripper

K. Shawn Edgar | Urban Honey Badger | Goth Newt | Limbed Poet

Chrome Leaves

She’s a wedge of light
cleaving the shackles
thorns of confinement
those binding doubts
growing on the spines
of many chrome leaves
She’s a shears maiden
garden clippers flash
pruning overgrowth
until branches bear
less metallic fruit

K. Shawn Edgar | Chromed Bush | Hedger | Dollar Store Poet

Noteworthy: What’s to Come

On Tuesday, November 11 I will post a new short story here on Pull of the Sun at 6PM Pacific Standard Time. Please join me to read, enjoy and discuss. Thank you.

By way of introduction, here is a the title and a quote.


Screams in the Valley

A mixture of CloNIDine, Rapamune, and prednisone is my heroin.”

P.K. Ripper, circa 2014

Clatter Snap

Clatter Snap


You never know… icy, elongated drops are thinning out. While the steadfast grey clouds start to mumble about new horizons. Moving on….

Mary Two-Toad? Are you listening? Tree says rain will be sailing to the West Hills for a few days. We’re called by tree and squirrel.”

Mary? Toads have to wake up the world again. We’ve been called. Stop dancing with the lily wallpaper shadows. Dreams end. Get up, Mary Two-Toad.”

The Clatter Snap Toads awaken the world of normal things, raising them back to life with a clatter and a snap, while dancing and singing in a jam-band sort of frolic after every long, long winter rains.

Each county in Lumber Blush United has a “toad team” of varying size and experience. They are called to action by the trees. It is the way.

Here, in Tumble County, my sister and I are called. It’s a small county, and this is our first unsupervised Spring Raising. Beware, this time it’s going to be done our way.

We’re the magical kind of slam dancing, makeshift-kitchen-instrument playing toads, and we’re going to bring the noise.

Bring the noise,” I got that from my dad’s lexicon.

I think it’s important to incorporate the past with the present to concoct a truly progressive future—*wink*.

Mary Two-Toad, we’re called!”

Thin, fleeting drops meet our upturned faces, as Mary and I poke our unified front out the kitchen’s heavy screen-door. Mary salutes tree and nods to squirrel.

Jam for spring.


K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Lover | Cyclist


Sidewalk Salior

Sometimes I get seasick, swaying down the street.
Sometimes, as the bilge water rises and the thunder claps, I pierce the supple silver skin of a passing tuna with my iron hook, and then I eat the creatures’s lovely raw meat.
It’s the Sunday sign, of an active mind, sweeping my Monday melancholy, off the deck and into the deep.

Photo shot by K Shawn Edgar in Enterprise, Oregon – on holiday