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



Printable: London Fallout Letter

London Fallout Letter


K. Shawn Edgar

Whatever happens now, do not interfere.”

Woodheavy Brown, In a letter to Edwin Meek, 1999

You’re a lion about the unicorn.”

Edwin Meek, In a letter to Woodheavy Brown, 2002


The bit, the brick, the broken idea. The bit, the Brit, the broken idea. The Brit, the brick, the bad idea. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pig of the mountain.

The bit, the brick, and the broken idea. The Brit, the bit, and the broken idea. The orange of the sky is the pink of the ocean. The orange the sky is the pink of the sea. I hide me. I hide me.

A handful of rock. A handful of clove. A handful of gold. The skins feel the same. The skins feel the same. Along the water, along the sound. Rocks in the hand tumbling. A handful of rock. The bit, the brick, the broken idea.

The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the sea. The red of the crab is the pink of the ocean. The red of the crab is the pink of the motion. I hide me.

Bits, bricks, and broken ideas. Bits, Brits, and bad ideas. Brits, bits, and broken ideas. On the paved path along the Sound, bits, bricks, and bad ideas flower Cassandra into motion. The red of the crab is the pink of the mountain. The red of the crab is the pink of the sea. The pink of the flow is the red of the her motion.

Along the paved path, bits and bricks and broken ideas. Bits and Brits and bad ideas. Pick of the little kid, and jump into the water. Pick up the little kid, and jump into the Sound. Distracted parents sitting on the bench, bits and bricks and broken ideas. Bits, and the bricks, and the bad ideas. The red of the crab is the pink of the setting sun on the mountain.

I hide me. I hide me. I hide me. I hide me. I hide me.


When I tell myself the things I already know, I’m talking to you. The friends I haven’t met; the strangers on the bus who fain interest. I tell you all, in conversation form, my childhood stories.

The summer evening baseball until it’s too dark to see. The skatepark halfpipe sessions at Avery Park. And then the travel tales from the 1990s. London backstreets and the black soot underground trips. Walking Bond Street and the Bonham-Carter building explorations—a swimming pool illuminated by yellow-green, dank underwater lights three floors below the street.

I tell you about the pedal mashing moments, fast downhill; the car-dodging moments from red-lit intersection through red-lit intersection. The oil spot skidding, or the road-edge gravel slides, and the nose bump bunnyhops up curbs and over concrete dividers.

I unravel the details of long cold night “sleeps” in that Edinburgh train station on Princes Street. Marty the planner of uprisings, clad in dirty argyle and woolen jumpers. Mugs of tea and plates of peas.

I tell you all these things for no other reason than because the bits, the bricks, and the broken ideas.

And in the distance, dogs are barking.


The Queen’s Rusty Spanner

Lodged in her gob

from where it came

no one’s ever known

the rusty spanner

the broken teeth

but she isn’t dead

she’s only been bled

a little to a liter to a lean

white witch

High over head

hoist your Jacks

we’re gathering at the well

to force her hand, to demand

the rusty spanner

the broken teeth

The queen’s to service country

so bring your nuts and your bolts

This •Public Display Art• Book

is a joint effort of Publicrats United:

K. Shawn Edgar, Woodheavy Brown & Edwin Meek

Copyright © Share Alike & Attribution 2015-16

Free the Word




Rogue Element: Life Spasm A

In The Realm Uncertain

Gone are the breezy moments, where driftwood is a dream catchable; and where the carefree steps making up a sprint are the easy sounds of sand and pebbles displacing under bare feet.

“You gather the supplies, I’m making the camp.”

K. Shawn Edgar | Steel | Gravel | Ceramic

Compound Disinterest

These days

all ° events =

layered cakes

crumbling ×

sweet morsels,

digestible √

some agreeable,

some disagreeable

leaving a body

needing more


intake > than food


K. Shawn Edgar | Milky | White | Agitation

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



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?

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