Face-Punch OverPass

His flat snout—pinkish skin around the eyes, gums, and mouth—beams with potent energy. Meanness and cuteness equally combined, he possesses a familiarity, or kinship, informed by an inherited strain of caution, born in the distant wilderness from before domestication.

It’s the short, folded ears and long teeth grown for tearing. It’s the clear eyes that speak of a barely contained urge to chew. The white brute’s handler, an equally lean, wired monument to primal force restrained, has a causal, yet alert, connection to his pit bull’s leash.

Together, they dominate their three-square feet of sidewalk.

It’s cold outside Bremerton, and this is the HasBeans Coffee House. It’s under the highway-16 overpass. It’s isolated. Out of the way. Never a hub of community wealth or urban rejuvenation; most traffic flies overhead at 75-MPH without glimpsing its half-dead neon sign: For a Dollar, Mimi will Punch your Face.

K. Shawn Edgar | Retrogression | Minor Threat | Year of the Clown


Bad Ocean

•Bad Ocean
At the heart of the mountain,

color is a whispered myth;

rules are organic, grown truths.

Rain is a sound without physical form.

Below the cliffs, lapping and hungry,

the ocean knows little of mountain’s

internal life. Solid. Hard.

K. Shawn Edgar | IRB | NGO | BAD



The Sword in the Scabbard


everything passes.

Humans, onion skins,

and apple cores are born

cast off

cast out

cast aside,

and in passing through

the turnpikes and elbow joints

of our handmade sewage ways,

or the cervix and labia

of our handmade bodies,

arrive like pachinko balls

slotted in suburbs, city centers,

or prairie towns, naked.

It’s not our reward,

and it’s not our punishment,

this curly-grained lay of the land.

It’s the chance encounter;

it’s the turn of the screw,

a game we’ve made it.

From a donkey born,

a unicorn can grow.

And unicorns can harbor

shriveled beat-less hearts,

just as donkeys can pump

fierce, oxygen-rich dragon blood.

So, whether gutter born or mansion raised,

we all started life inside a pear-shaped organ

between the bladder and the rectum—

our handmade sewage ways—

in a town called Corpus.

K. Shawn Edgar | Life-Like | Intestines Model | Heavier on the Inside

Extend to Wall

blood pic with water

“Blood Water” – K. Shawn Edgar 2032

Extent to Wall


On Saturday, March 7, 1856 Magdalen Morales saw the face of Landin Qualm through the window glass and screamed:

Someone else laid this skin. Years ago. It was but a single mix, a fledge of flint. Simple bake. Take from it the little nourishment contained.

Face bait
she has an unpleasant
dead taste
Boiled egg waste

she won’t set right

indissoluble in the pit

upsetting crumble cries

from fiery demon thighs

Neighboring long-boned sailors

sadly cruising the shallows

K. Shawn Edgar | Word Whore | Soft on the Inside | Blurry

These Glasses are Glassless


•Blue lights in a yellow-green sky

appear through the window around a kitten.

A kitten who’s a cat, full grown. Light blue.

There, on a green collision of kemp.

There, far beneath layers of iron-oxide dust.

See cat, with a raccoon tail, sleeping in a snore.

See light blue, lights blue, bouncing sun hues.

Falling, see these pieces break into possibilities.

Out of order dissimilarities, full blown.

Is it its own, or mine? Yellow-green sky blue

the cat knows it from the warmth of the glass.

Blue lights in a yellow-green sky

appear through the frames around mine eye.

An eye that’s a mind, full grown. Hazel green.

K. Shawn Edgar | Right One | Bug Lord | Voided