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

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Falcon Hunter

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

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A Little Bit About Me For Your Files

•Lovely Kiss•

In the bitterest night of sleepless tumblings, cold feet and crack mouth
I flip rough-edged pillows, half teetering on the brink … denied dreams.
Camden Town subpharms, where broken dollies and Curzon Cubs
trade dirty cash for ramped up lollipops or pharmacy castoffs.

You must know, my head is bigger on the inside. And doesn’t socialize
so well. And a heart that fuels a body, fuels not the dark energy in space.
Heart’s energy is dependent on blood, mucus, and solent sea proteins
(originating between Hampshire and Isle of Wight).

Ill street noise surrounds, the Pale Stone Circus, a mobile safe harbor.
I feverishly pedal the petals around our flowering culture’s reproductive parts.
So brightly colored, this corolla sustains me; the lone cyclist, the pollinator.
Of empty fields, and buzz worthy thoughts, not fit for the everyday people.

So radio waves are helping me help myself. And the videos. And the mashing.


K. Shawn Edgar | High Lighter | Lapsed of Time | Lost Pilot

 

Waiting in the Bike Lane at an Intersection in Tacoma

If Wells Fargo were Safeway, would the money in its vaults taste like Death by Chocolate and cheap beer? Would midnight to 4 AM see an endless queue of drunk, snack-craving depositors and closing-shift employees ready to night-drop bulging till bags of Teriyaki vomit and tattered twenties?

As the ejaculating cars thrust forward, piercing the diaphragmatic intersection, the red glow of the stoplight grows old, blurred and meaningless with the wait. Peak pressure. Full aperture: green light. I remain balanced, track standing for an extra moment next to the street’s vacuous storm drain. Will it rain on Tuesday?

How long could a vulture capitalist scam like Target exist in a society that prized quality and authenticity over quantity and expedience? And, if so realized, would its people’s feet rest easier in socks from manufacturers that supported rather than preyed on the majority of its citizens?

Green to yellow, it’s such a brief intercourse, and then yellow to red. I remain balanced on two wheels with two narrow tires made in some other country with softer, less healthy, manufacturing and export regulations for a company that craves a “slight” increase in profits for a slightly increased chance of success … of raises to engorge its top two percent’s cushy wealth.

If Bank of America were Defiance Bicycles on Fawcett Avenue, would its half-dead denizen debtors slowly but assuredly progress into healthier, balanced and self-empowered people on a true path to prosperity?

The red light bursts into an emerald green, blinding all eyes trapped behind windshield glass, and I push forward with a dynamite enthusiasm born on pedals and steel.


K. Shawn Edgar | Cumulative | Alt. 62,000 Ft. | Pumpkin Spiced

Sonoma Falls: A Letter from Snake Lake

Pic of Mr. Pants in a Tree

Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Sonoma Falls: A Letter from Snake Lake

Dear Homie Bruce:

It’s a thicker sock day. My head gets very cold when it’s shaved, and the thicker socks help me feel warmer. They have a reenforced heel and toe, which is a paired plus worth mentioning. I’m hatless on this April Saturday, and I’m almost sure the socks will help.

Pulling those on now. Yes, that’s better. Toasty.

FedEx is outside the window; their truck needs a tuneup. And a visit to the carwash. It’s Spring, after all… so vehicles should be washed in the Springtime. But I’m a hypocrite—I haven’t washed my car in about two years. And that number two could actually a be four or five… time is more blurry in Washington. I think it’s the bugs and dampness. That couple does a tango that can nullify the senses. And isn’t it strange, right? Because there are also a lot of birds here near the Puget Sound… so shouldn’t the birds reduce the bug population?

Tyrant Flycatchers!, why aren’t you doing your job?! Dive, Black Phoebe. Dive!

I’ve made the coffee now. Watch out. I just chased Mr. Pants around our apartment like a ten-year-old ADHD kid on the Crack. But he started our Olympic Games by sprinting from the bedroom window to the fresh-air balcony and then high-jumping the leather chair. Gold! Ancient Greeks and athletics. I should get naked. Of course, except for my thicker socks; they’ll help my chances of metaling in the long jump event. And everybody knows, the hurdles are all about a strong reenforced heel and toe.

As the Great 1990’s poet, Woodheavy Brown, once said: “Out there, somewhere, there’s a face that wants to punch your face in the face. So embrace! Yo self.”

Sincerely,

K. Shawn Edgar | Public Display Artist | Franciscan Junk | Loosely Spaced

The Orange Blanket

Wear a Mask or Die

Still Capture Credit: Ian “Irish” Collins 2014

The Orange Blanket

There’s woodwork in my wall stones

feeling the pulsate of my pineapple dome

I think my way back to the post shooting

ambulance comfort call

;Pulsate

ting

They pop the blanket from its safety-sealed cover

vacuum fresh, no bleeding, orange heat

;Pulsate

ting

Elsewhere now, her hair is caught in the dead smell

of her closet ghosts

;Pulsate

ting

So could it be

that my birthday note

didn’t arrive?

“I want to be your Ninja, honey”

;Pulsate

ting

With the warmth of your orange blanket

reading, hunting down the four letter spaces

in meta-culture’s six syllable tones

It’s all talk, their compelling narrative

;Pulsate

ting

Fingers of Azna, tap tap tapping heartbeats

till truth drips out, unrecognizable; two fingers tapping

;Pulsate

ting

Back then, again, her lips moving but the language

is null and devoid:

Her empty swimming pool holds a deeper treasure

skating her shallows to our grape soda backwash

;Pulsate

ting

Cameras are to follow; following you zoom

throughout the running over tunes in backrooms

exhume the swinging scenes, stillborn

Drop the blanket,

and step from our wreckage tap tap tapping

as the safety seal of yesterday is torn away

;Pulsate

ting

•K. Shawn Edgar | Invisible Delight | Bye Now | ESP Resistant

Broken Earbud

Broken Earbud Photo: Up There

Photo Credit: K. Shawn Edgar 2015

Broken Earbud

There’s a madness visiting my head, a bright familiarity. It always leads to this:

The decline of one weaves itself into the rough, uncomfortable tonality of all. Our loss of such close or distant companions causes the crags and blotches we can’t hide. Slowly, but faster every day, these abrasions weaken our communal unity.

The broken wire—piercing the lard that sits and swings our heart strings, too tense between—it carries the indivisible motion of sounds, sights, and cinnamon sticks—meaning sensations—because it can, because it does as developed. Not without thought, it’s forever mutable. But without a plan, it’s the thoughtfulness making the wire wired. It’s the sound making the wire dance. And at the same time, the wire is the sound—indivisible waves made of music. It always leads to this:

Folding the blue tarp
Push-broom-ing the dusty asphalt
Hard-wheel skating the rough transitions
Thomas loosens the polkadot necktie
Bonney swirls her bittersweet mocha
Eliot runs a lime-green comb through his hair
Tom Tom sleeps in Salvador’s fulsome arms
Deconstructing the tent poles
Folding the blue tarp
Breathing in the blossoming car perfume

I met a man, and we transacted bicycles. We connected through common communication, words and body language, a familiarity with bike culture. We exchanged ideas, knowledge, steel and aluminum alloy, handshakes and fist bumps, personal details and then—least importantly—money.

I’m a hat without a hatter, or I’m the airplane flight turbulence without the airplane passengers. Lifted. Neutral. Just up here dreaming, dancing, being.

I am only the words. It will fall to someone with bone in legs to walk the actions.

There’s a madness visiting my head.

K. Shawn Edgar | Winged Phantom | Brawny Well-doer | Wheelchair on the Inside