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


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


Double Dutch

Lovingly Come to Madrid

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

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


Caledfwich is Sovereignty for All

Suspended locomotion;
all blades bright exposed and raised,
fly not but freeze upon the vexed air.
Steady this chaos of aggression, Sovereign.
The very molecules of life resist you.
Earth’s freshest breath cannot be yours,
Caledfwich, known in manuscript as Excalibur,
is symbol of accomplishment, not a birth right.
You raise it now against the humanist heart,
against all of a kind—familiar and equal;
stay thy thrust, remand thy steel to its honest home.
Custody is not a lone venture, when peace is Queen.
Your greatest achievements are now as stone,
smoothed grey and near forgotten—Lady is calling.
Return her sharpest metal, Caledfwich, to the lake of rock;
it is time for slumber and thought.

A companion moving image can be found here: Caledfwich Video

K. Shawn Edgar | Bane of Time | Night Shifter | Darkest Light

Tambourin Junkie


Quill Nine—a man in one act—
bang, bang, bangs away on his instrument,
reeking of freedom.
A slave to the sound.
Horseshoe craftsmen
produce less sweat at the anvil, hammering.
And their work engenders less chaos.
Produces fewer devotees.
Even their horses love Quill Nine better.
Stampede for him.
There’s no corral big enough for his roundup.
Night to day to night,
Quill taps and bangs and swats.
In the heat of it, he cuffs his shirt sleeves
tightly around his biceps
with lengths of rubber medical tubing.
He rocks,
back and forth on grimy, gritty concrete floors.
Back and forth on blood and devotion stained floors.
He churns—a member of the Endless Choir.
One of many whom can’t stop the rhythm.

K. Shawn Edgar | Night Swan | Double Dutch | Stackable