Green

•><•

My story is told;

so go now you,

be vivacious in waking,

be courageous in dreaming,

all the monster’s

mimeographed madness

to you is but harmless cottonwood

drifting on the breeze.

#kshawnedgar

Tape Backup & Code Red

Lay black, and then align the playheads

You’ve pulled the tabs: one, plastic and rectangular; the other, aluminum alloy and loop shaped. It’s time to begin. Again.

Suck the juice, or is it oil pressed and canned? There’s an arrow on the delivery truck, outside your window. Oil comes from mash, like coconut or olives, right? Must be juice in this tall red can. Tipple without the alcohol. Buzz buzz.

Pressing the black plastic rectangle, loops of tape inside, into its mated slot on the rack of players, you get pumped with memories of late night to early mornings in basement spaces, all quiet and cave-like; other friendly dwellers, faces inches from screens, cutting out the stories from awkwardly shot Super-VHS video, blocks of marble. They’ll cut it freaky, and we’ll dance around the thick square TV’s replaying of us.

Later. Above ground. We’ll be watching these constructed images of ourselves. We’ll be laughing and rethinking our scenes, until well after midnight. It’s the process, and we’ll go back to the basement, to engineering, away from the light and the hordes of dormchow who we only know as ghosts in classrooms.

To improve our performances and angles and lighting and words, we’ll descend the stairs to our safe zone, again and again, surrounded by decades of equipment, like museum pieces, and we’ll click the buttons to frame the moments. It’s our only chance get it and keep it so. The dark, soothing spaces below.

K. Shawn Edgar | Play | Pause | Cut | Rewind

 

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

Gibbous


Ladies, are you here
only to bestow laurels?
Are you here only
because some god(awful)
plucked a rib from a jackass?
Are you simple fodder for texts?
Or are you the corpora keepers of Earth?

One vang of Ship and Stars,
essential oil to the rough hand,
you’ve phased like the moon
from slim to bold—
illuminating more than semicircles.
Don’t let the other vang control
our entire voyage, emphasizing their weight.

Ladies, haven’t you of late outrun
the phony blame? The transferred shame?

Now,
not every page should be rewritten.
But tear away this old book’s false cover.
Change the font, don’t hurt for the past;
this newest alphabet is yours to form.
The oldest prints came from the leaf,
the petal, the hand. And stamped by Man.

Ladies, bestow our perennial history, instead
onto the interior-lighted electron images.
Make them as tangible as the paper page
was to the Suffragettes. Show us all
what’s full and ongoing, a portmanteau
for our journey forward.


K. Shawn Edgar | Lightning Enabled | Naturally Infused | Chain Propelled

Wednesday’s Aether is a Facsimile

Tuesday Afternoon turned Wednesday ongoing into Summer’s Evening

The tents are red tinged green, inside seashells at sunset. When ladies at picnics merge with chaos and cream, every possible perspective looks the same. It’s overlapping snapshots of fingers, truffles, mouths and the smiles in between. All daffodil parasols twirl, as cranberry winds blow in from the fields, a dainty voice heard whispering: “Eat the truffles, sip the Earl Gray; the sun has stopped moving, all day, all day, all day.” The ladies are spun and spin in harmonious concentricity; the grass is green, the sky is blue, the cream is sweet. All curves, ergonomic; the effortless bending of elbows and rotating of wrists compels cocktail glasses to tip, and to connect, with rounded lips and eager mouths, until pomp turns to graveled lullabies inside soft eardrums. Oh, what the laureled gods will do when blind, ignorant faith runs amuck at a party of the privileged.


K. Shawn Edgar | Frosted on the Inside | Single Cogged | Non-Worshipping

 

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

My Own Way

Out of stroke with the mainstream, I’m in the sweet spot of me. Mixed and yes, swimming under water. 

K. Shawn Edgar | Cutter | Otherly Informed