VYW-8 To Substation 4

Train off track, empty caves and closets. Screen glare to audiovisual disharmony , so as too… sense dissonance.

Chairs, flat back ~> floor. On feet. Feet in sturdy boots. A caustic stew of unstable words. Not King’s Fool, but… the fool of Wands. The family entitlement fool, knows little else ~> shaped of despot lineage and resources hoarding.

Train off track…. We good citizens of lost country, redirect this off kilter momentum. Substation four is waiting. That teem of Tower and Oval Office, stale blood money water, polluted. Empty it through gapping knife holes — it’s our best way.



K. Shawn Edgar | 201& | Year of Brutus

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Pumpkin Eyes



As too with the remains of a tattered summer, I shall settle into a blue yellow orange red period, crisp as decaying leaves. And morbid become my narrowed pumpkin eyes.


K. Shawn Edgar | Asphalt Melancholy



Sifting through the Remains


What is this Careful Madness?

All these birds of rapine, flapping behind my eyelids. Their concussions please a drooping blimp, the blackest opening of my eyes, leveling the list of years. So too, shall my gaze rise higher on this newly brewed hot-air stream.


K. Shawn Edgar | 2018

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

Before Now

I am her, she is me. Toss the jackets into the backseat. Windows rolling down. Two lanes; geese in the park, a long yellow bus drops off the approved miniatures. It’s afternoon on an autumn weekday. We stop behind the flashing red lights and octagonal sign while all school children decamp. She salutes me secretly with a two-eyed wink. Flowing on, traffic moves. There’s a beautiful wild-woman riding a bicycle, keeping pace with our car.

K. Shawn Edgar

Point Defiance, WA

I’m here, between asphalt black and sky blue. Point Defiance Park pinecones and needles shine golden, drawn to the exfoliating ground as we are universally propelled by narrative. Towers and towns aren’t built, they’re written in erasable ink, erasable blood, becoming vague but never fully forgotten.

| K. Shawn Edgar | September 2017 |

Falcon Hunter

Cabbage roll and one-dollar flat noodles, a place to lock the bicycles out front, our booth is by the window. We are reciting kill is kiss as frames of film, jointly remembered, inform our budding courtship. Trapped in a radio station, voices and language will save us, while these chopsticks unite us.

K. Shawn Edgar 2017

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