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.


(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

Never A Checkered Flag Trailer (Video)

Here’s the teaser trailer for my short movie on Film Fights. Hope you’ll stop by their site for a quick watch and vote. Thanks. www.filmfights.com

K. Shawn Edgar | Cheeseball | Hat Rack | Total Loser | Thankful

Bridge at St. Remains

Notes and Rants from YouTube Comment Section


True, but I think many people do maintain a high level of integrity, and we should encourage everyone in that regard. However, it only takes one dishonest voice to start an avalanche of disinformation. As for it being even worse “the opposite way around,” governments and cultures that have strictly controlled speech and assembly by overtly censoring and brutalizing citizens don’t tend to last because that kind of control forces the people to act, to rise up, rather than just talk.

Hamlet: That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words….

There are a couple of exceptions to the failure of that method, of course, like North Korea. But the best control is the babbling brook of excessive freedoms without due responsibility and regulation.

K. Shawn Edgar | Florid Fellow

Three-Quarters Pose

eugene debs pic
Three-Quarters Pose

A Change of State


Punch it out,
the eyeblack pucker
is a platonic knuckle kiss
from five friends of fingers curled.
Five friends, eating away the earth
from opposite ends
that we stood upon
together; it’s the circle-curly snake
hissing blame for blame’s sake.

Later, scrub those red-flecked nails
clean; we upcoming tribes divided
from too much large group introspection.
Not enough personal introspection, reflection.

So were those labels real and accurate?
Did they hide spies behind friendly faces?
Or friends hiding behind calculated moves
based on old grudges and emotional wounds
loosely covered by classroom logic 1, 2, 3s?

Rebound and thrust; we split along the cracks
between nits and picks, new forging our indirect,
underlying rational arguments out of parietal rules.
As each breaking point produced another truest
segment of the overall group, the call arose:

We are the real face of the front!
Stop bringing up nuanced points!
Your preciseness! And your dedication
to criticizing ourselves and everyone
is falling behind our oval correctness.
Our oblique correctness! For us, or
against us?! Forward with Us! Or,
fall back against Us.

K. Shawn Edgar | Eyes on the Inside | Progressively Ongoing & Progressing to Go On | What?

Paint Fork

what you looking at?

Paint Fork

Holy moly shit, can’t explain it
I love when torn down, smashed up
I can’t go too long before I need to



I’m a terrible person who just doesn’t
know it yet
Falling down, hitting the ground, and
I remember
The best things are broken things.

It’s an ugly eyeball belch that wants


in all this grateful
bloody mess.

I put my paint fork
into your spider web
you gotta bleed
you gotta get the lazy
spirits out

You have to wash away

what’s become cobwebs

in an empty, pale green room.

Swelling with Tomorrow’s birth
I exhale dust and you go forth

We scrape and bruise true,

appearing grander with the coloring.

K. Shawn Edgar | Public Display Artist | Enemy of the Slate

Shot From My iGun Into Your Bulletproof Devices

All These Spiders Spin Webs

pic of Monsanto death

“Seedy Air” by K. Shawn Edgar (Pic Credit: IAN)

All These Spiders Spin Webs

Oh, the compelling narratives we weave and wonder about … how slick, how silken … all are mobile truths made of soap bubbles and steam, slyly written on cobwebs in the dew-drenched darkness.

A hint of thyme, local honey and turpentine, with a pinch of violets and posies, over just enough truth not to be 100% false. Lies will tantalize. If they toss a treat-shaped puzzle piece, a treat disposal-shaped mouth will fit pegs to indents. Scooby. Snack. Heavy.

I’m awake, and if you’re dreaming you should stay that way. Dreaming is doing. Out here, with eyes opened, it’s a different slice of skin sheen, at all times half-life unworthy. “We are waiting, taking up space.”

Meanwhile, in the Up Space, droning like nano-maximized, hyper-personalized, convenience-infused, and overtly friend-friendly distractions (Read: Obstacle Golf) are watching us like Monsanto watches its GMO seed patents. Closely. With glistening greed fingers rubbing in a counterclockwise motion. They are agro | chemical | contaminated | fang smile

You are not a person, only a collective reflection of habits — points of interest on an ever-changing line.

K. Shawn Edgar | Toothless Wolf | Weightless Hammer | Dead Soon

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