Face-Punch OverPass

His flat snout—pinkish skin around the eyes, gums, and mouth—beams with potent energy. Meanness and cuteness equally combined, he possesses a familiarity, or kinship, informed by an inherited strain of caution, born in the distant wilderness from before domestication.

It’s the short, folded ears and long teeth grown for tearing. It’s the clear eyes that speak of a barely contained urge to chew. The white brute’s handler, an equally lean, wired monument to primal force restrained, has a causal, yet alert, connection to his pit bull’s leash.

Together, they dominate their three-square feet of sidewalk.

It’s cold outside Bremerton, and this is the HasBeans Coffee House. It’s under the highway-16 overpass. It’s isolated. Out of the way. Never a hub of community wealth or urban rejuvenation; most traffic flies overhead at 75-MPH without glimpsing its half-dead neon sign: For a Dollar, Mimi will Punch your Face.

K. Shawn Edgar | Retrogression | Minor Threat | Year of the Clown


Crawling Under Cars

In the sky
blue is the rule
of wave-particle bounce.
It’s the back-and-forth nuance I miss from you…
in our day-to-day movement’s kiss—curl—punch—suck.

On the ground
the fallen tumble bucks rule.
Though it looks nothing but clutter crazy
the crumble-crust rushes over moister stuff
like skin, scars, and hair over blood, guts, and brains.

It’s the same under here—
hard people full of soft potential
dodging bullets, bugs, bad tidings, and tantrums
by crawling under cars, parked by gods or god-serfs.
Their sad machines are an invariable breed for the future.

From the backseat, you speak words of love
but leave out the consistent actions of love.
The crucial dual mechanism (of love & thought)
between axle-end and wheel-hub—missing—
keeps our car from moving forward—
stall, rust, degrade, tumble bucks fallen.

My hollow-chocolate-easter-bunny-I-love-you—
the crumpled wrapper swimming gutter creeks in winter
and reflecting our sky blue void in summer—
melts as car motors echo all around our rusty edges.
The sunlight is dying quickly under bumpers
as we crawl on knees, toes, hands almost blind.

Here, under cars, your lips’ rough ruby reflection is a reminder
of maps, driving times, backseat bundles, and white-trash coolers
on the long road east for our first date—jumping off cliffs
or rolling hospital halls, backside to a trolly bed, too small.

Here, under cars, maybe they won’t notice me for all the fallen tumble bucks
passing time as soft potential wastes us all and bugs bomb bullets
for rights to our treasured skins.

K. Shawn Edgar | Approaching New Madrid | Rave Kid | Pumpkin Eyes

Pumpkin Eyes

As too with the remains of a tattered summer, I shall settle into a blue yellow orange red period, crisp as decaying leaves. And morbid become my narrowed pumpkin eyes.

K. Shawn Edgar | Asphalt Melancholy

How Can We INVERT Our Economic Pyramid?

How do we invert a pyramid?

If it takes hundreds of millions of workers to support a much smaller number of “governing elite”, could we invert the pyramid to use a few “elites” at the base to support hundreds of millions of citizens living equitably? Flip the hierarchy, and drive the tip of the pyramid into the ground.

Eye Lights

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

Point Defiance, WA

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 |