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


Wised Up


Wised Up 



It’s not

going to



this conflict

with everyone’s



Must change now

to reverse this



into the

porridge pot

of the poor



I want








to teach me

money grubbing


a mentor

of the monetary



Flares up

party boat



If you’re

down with OPM

you’re down with me



Room 117 (Pt. 5)

photo “Final Dining” by k. shawn edgar

Window aligned with parking lot level cars
provides a parade of pointy headlight beams
flashing and poking laser-like through dingy shrubs

Stand in the light, sucking down the photons, and breathing out
the darkness through raw ruby nostrils, rodeo-clown school trained
to perform in the claustrophobic inner-space of the barrel and bull
This meager action of inhale exhale, essential to life

A quarter! Shiny and out of reach, it lies beneath those dingy shrubs
taunting me with its spending potential wasted and alone in wood chips
It lingers only a foot a meter an inch a mile a world from the outer edge of hotel
My window contains me imprisoned with its plate-glass bars intersecting my arm’s reach
Damn you, President Head Quarter-Dollar, why do you resist my squinty focus mind pull?

I will slide you along the aether with the power of shear will and cosmic brain control!

Me Hardy Fools

I ain’t nobody
And I mean that as written
You ain’t nobody neither
No, not even a blip
We be like the non-viewable code
Or spacer image files in the background of any site
Needed, but without acknowledgement
Without due compensation
We are the gear teeth of ye ol’ industrial revolution
Easily worn down and replaced
Seldom remembered outside our own circles
Thus, me hardy fools,
The robber barons, those ugly climbers, have won
And again
And again
I ain’t nobody