Space Soil Punchers



Long Life Image

“Selfsame” by K. Shawn Edgar


We headed out to the deep sand deserts, driving Cadillacs.

Brought along the fixed-gear bicycles to help us pass the time;

hours breaking boundaries in Fear and Hope on this blue planet.

At night, we viewed grainy 8mm slides showing an RV near the house.

It wasn’t our house, yet; it was the People’s projection of safe harbor.


Onward now; sending bio-transporters flying to the Saturnian moons.

That’s what they predicted, in black Courier bold typeset: November 30, 2016.

Superstar, adventure-drunk scientists wrangling the Chroococcidiopsis.

Lil’ soil samples from earthly deserts, fully able to grow Red Planet oxygen.

The sound of sickles was the sound of space sisters working alien fields,

breathing familiar, Earth-rich, red-blooded air as if it were the Northwest.


Because we bundled teeth with heart, our ships sailed dark matter oceans

to lovely new shores, bright with our future-positive lifelines.




You Punch Face Too


Dig on

this elliptical ovation

sounding the walls

of your boney fortress


Degrading with each

revolution, and

your processionals

diminish with each passing


Those morphemic divisions in cell structure

crumbling under


a personified lamplight

memorial or lone firefly


lost in your face fusion

can divide no further


Belly dance


punch it punch it


back up to full triumph



attracted to faces


cheering crowds

attracted to a showy


blood bathing loner nymph


Dig on


your fighter stance and power lashes

may not fly with the mayflies


but for the starving crowds, elliptical processions

stirring victory will only please them more

÷π•÷ no less

Punch Face

10, 9, 8

capture wrist

sweep feet

gonna feel like

a hambone

meeting meat

Tiger claw

pivot hips

scissor kick

to the lips

Red suit down

blue on top

gonna feel like

a mallet married

to steak

Chest plate

canned goods

tumble off

crooked shelf

Raise forearm

block right jab

gonna feel like

a marked down

chicken leg

with shelf life

out of date

Store manager


this never ending


gonna come on like

a carnival clown

small town date


Carts stowed

signs go dark

all door bolts

drop lock

deep freeze

ray gun Mace

gonna feel like

a budget trip

through hyperspace

10, 9, 8

punch face