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 |

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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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Unoccupied Creatures


A Recreational Character Exercise


it's a picture stupid

MegaChain by Woodheavy Brown

Salience is untethered. Pointing, pointing, pointing out from the lashes, all the avenues of regress and narrow slipways of escape. Follow these five unoccupied creatures through their paces, in which games are played for the purpose of fitness. Occupy them as you will, they are but vacant cameras. Vessels to slip into and motivate:

  • Desdemona Tippling
  • Brilliant English
  • Landed Gentry
  • Casandra Awkward

K. Shawn Edgar | Devoid | Lonesome | Foes Bane

Double Dutch

Lovingly Come to Madrid
o

A spacecraft on rocky ground;
you wake in a room with levitating bed.
Stepping to the floor and shrugging it off
you throw a paranoid glance at the ceiling.

The whirring of an electric fan draws you in,
confronted by a small half-bathroom with sink,
you are wearing cycling gloves. Unclean?
You lovingly wash your gloved hands in lather.

You won’t be with me, or on my side;
you’ll be a beamer, a sweet roll pusher.
A taste of the moment totalitarian, you.
When the bulwarks break, you’ll run.

Through the turnbuckle, will our lengths
maintain the tension of dramatic irony?
Or snap under the crude expectations,
the lurid expectations, of the crowd?


K. Shawn Edgar | Paper Hat | Pedal Pusher | Redolent Festival

The Metal Crushes Above

Overpass Ceilings

Pull you out

out of mouths

a mix of sounds

gradually forming

one word to rule

to override motors

to negate their noise

passing outside windows

My new collection

gathered from voices

passing outside windows

She—Bright—Legs—Heat

Accounts—Forever—Sun—Debit

Focus the secret message

coming from daily clatter

instructions for creation

passing outside windows

I pull you out

out of color and sound vibrations

out of commonplace mouths

to make a dreamy silhouette

dancing on crisp coverlets

touchable, tangible: a solidified whisper

from ears to fingertips and lips, two lips

passing from under overpasses

these vaulted ceilings

fleshy sounds incubating

tornados into toenails

building up from skin cells

passing outside windows

You accumulate inside

synapse snaps—impulsive glitter

passing outside windows

And there you are

tangled in colors and coverlets

vibrating every follicle into singular hysteria

outside my window


K. Shawn Edgar | Vang | Tonal | Unincorporated

Yes, We’ve Got the Video

Better than the night, its shadows from artificial light
do capture more than mood and tone; more than our
little homage to the bountiful French New Wave movies
we soaked our innocence in.

I, the rogue–the antagonist in long, dark trench coat
followed you through jump-cuts and past stone walls.
You, the knife-edged lady in bangs and black bowtie
falling down tunnels and climbing back up ladders.
This is the short of a long, long intermission.


K. Shawn Edgar | Goth Trench | Mash Cadet | Crypt Keeper

 

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome

pic of purple pugs

Cell Lights

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome


In memories brought back to you by the smell of burning chrome,
ghostly wisps only there in your knowing of what’s to come,
you feel the non-weight of your future children’s hallowed hands
upon you forehead.

They live in a place called Neomantis, and you know it to be
without hierarchies, without the haters of now.

Through them you know light touches lithe bodies, you feel innumerable
unconscious thoughts mingling like notes from autonomous player pianos.
Unlike the syllables pouring from out the wetted mouths of soapbox men,
who are sounding out unfamiliar words:

jua kali, temazepam, sinker-mesh, aegis, and macro porous.

And you jotting down information — someone’s phone number,
a child’s shoe size, broken quotes from Dante and Huxley, or
that wild cyberpunk writer named Pfeil.

Until a slippery step, a frosty curb, a car out of control, and you flying
within the lighted siren sounds of emergency. Crash as exclamation,
excitation.

A reconstructed jaw, a pinned eye socket, a joint with screws and
you taking copious notes on the as yet developing cerebral matter
of your future children’s anterior left hemispheres and distal axons,
about your night with that unforgettable smell of burning,
of peeling away at, of tasting the sweet, dirty chrome.

Of a crash that brought you closer to home.


K. Shawn Edgar | Rain Pilot | Long of Arm | Sovereign