The Valley Floor

In this land, the sky is a ceiling. Its support columns… like slender bones. One cannot tell whether they have grown from the clouds down, or from the ground up. The effect: a lofty, projection-filled chamber, in which, the hallow places, we dwell.

K. Shawn Edgar | 2018


Hitchcock’s Lost Gravel Rider’s Bicycle Film 1953

Bear, Bike, Gunpowder

K. Shawn Edgar | 2017


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

The Writer’s Life

Rubberized Monkey & The Fountain of Peninsula

(You have to leave something behind)

I begin. This process is difficult. The kind of difficult that makes over-eaters and alcohol drinkers, or obsessive housecleaners. Those actions are easier than staying in the chair and writing. The mind can turn away at the slightest entertainment. And will. It will be turned, twisted, and tulip-infused. The lights will seem too bright, the room too cold, and the sunshine outside too invitingly warm. Resist these distractions. Focus your eye-beams on your fingertip grenades. Write hard.

But first, to breakfast.

I begin. Man, there are a lot of birds lately. Huge Crows, Poorwills, and Tyrant Flycatchers. More than I can remember. Yesterday. Or maybe it started last week with a cloud of them pouring over the reservoir walls, high up and then low over its sloping turf sides. A swirly, carnival-curly living cloud—all flapping their wings and yet, in a way, none seemed to be flapping at all.

I begin. Again. But this time it’s personal. (No need to research and debate; yes, it’s a reference to that action movie.) The ball-and-chain pull of pop culture gets even with me, jerking me back, whenever I try to stray. Some of these referential brands are so deep they seem like memories of summer birthday parties or foreign explorations, like the time you spent six days walking from London to Holy Island; sleeping on the street in recessed doorways or in the fetal position under a bird blind near the sand dunes, a plate of peas as your dinner at The Ship & Cove. Yesterday. Or five years ago. Or ten years ago. Or whenever.

I begin. Last night—right after a dream ending with me saying, “Well, gentlemen. Emus….”—I had this thought: The name of my blog is Pull of the Sun. If it were instead, Pole of the Son, it would have to be some kind of porn site involving incest. Or, if it were Poll of the Son, it might be a generational type political blog, like something Ron and Rand Paul would endorse.

I begin. In a particular area in Washington State, the local police are running a new program they call Handguns for Meth. Out of respect for the people who live there, let’s refer to this area as Peninsula. The new program works like this: Any citizen, without fear of legal action, can bring in their meth and receive a shiny handgun in exchange. It doesn’t matter how much meth; could be one ounce or fifty pounds, you still walk away with a shiny handgun. Now this, on its surface, is brilliant on two levels. Firstly, the meth can be resold in Tacoma to bring in a whole lot of cash for the state. Secondly, it gives the police a way to deal with all those confiscated handguns that have been piling up at the station. You know, it’s like reduce, reuse, recycling. Right? Hints of the New World Order goals. Debase, reduce.

To start. After the brief—and quite pleasant—plague of birds the rain’s falling day after day. Dark rain, from clouds the color of old motor oil that produce an endless pounding of heavy lead confetti. The primordial piss of a pack of angry gods. Predawn gods. Blind, cave dwelling gods, on a time-without-measure dunk, who stink of some ancient rum booze. Thoughtless, antisocial gods like the ugly masters of Wall Street, only so far beyond recognizing that there’s something for their heavy-metal piss to fall upon they believe this endless release is helpful and joyous. Pigeon poo. This rain! Bring back the Crows and the Goatsuckers.

Crepuscular, I begin twinkling. Tandy has the dark tropic marmalade of a second son’s second son. So what? Bitter oranges. The sun is setting. And daughters are on the rise! I must break for dinner, and I will slowly serenade the sauce as the pasta boils in salty water.

I percolate the coffee. Sickness always revives me; my teaming masses need a trillion foes to fight. With every cough, my immune system loves to bounce back from a Pearl Harbor style pounding. Rapturous explosions of my old cells dying bring forth the new. Decline, revive. Decline, revive.

I begin. Again. My mother arranged thick, flat stones in rows across the lowest part of the trail where rainwater pooled after winter storms. She wanted to encourage foot traffic to the fishing ponds. They were stocked ponds, brimming with rainbow trout. She charged $25 per hour. Some with nimble fingers and quick reactions haled in a worthwhile number of fish, while others overpaid to stand around and swat bugs. To maintain this duality, mother also collected (read trapped) various types: flies, gnats, mosquitoes, and the occasional bunch Buffalo Treehoppers from around the state and introduced them to the ponds. This way, winners and losers of the fishing wars would have something to do and even gain a sense of satisfying accomplishment. That was my mother. And, as I’ve often told friends, one could safely say she was a true businesswoman, entertainer, and self-taught Entomologist as well as a determined smuggler.

K. Shawn Edgar | Midnight Writer | Hedge Goon | Goth Goatsucker

What’s the Glory Morning Story


Sleeping Near RADA


Forming a city block, the Bonham-Carter House has a narrow, pensive

main entrance that, although inviting, blends with the rest of the street.


These buildings on Gower are people: sedate and old, with noisy pipes.

Their walls occasionally bleed, especially under the orifice windows.


We enter her; check in at a melancholy brown and black front desk

where two cartoon-eyed girls extend mirthless greetings, stamp our books.


Glancing about, decades of décor mingling, interbreeding with scuffles

drawing and redrawing Arabesque boundaries between conflicting styles.


You have a nervous excitement rising. It always shows itself as static

electricity in your pale yellow hair, caught in your eyelashes and brows.


Our black duffles rest more lightly on our shoulders as we climb the stairs.

Four weeks tramping France and the U.K. to settle now in Bonham-Carter

it’s the delight of weary limbs nearing rest, craving nourishment and warmth.


We emerge on the fifth floor huffing air, muscles done for now; dim hallway

a straight line moving away in seemingly endless space toward room number 524.


This is a quiet, timeless vortex—slightly buzzing with ghosts from busier times.

You dance-walk ahead, sliding fingers over silent doors trying each handle.


Halfway along we find a large open arch; this floor’s bathroom and toilets.

It’s an expansive, high ceilinged room with rows of magnificently sculpted

porcelain shower and toilet stalls, sturdy as if built for Roman gods.


At the opposite end there’s a tall window and a rectangle of sunlight mirrored

on the wide, tiled floor; we drop our duffle bags and strip down to bare bones.


Cranking large, chromed faucet handles full on, hot water spray steams our

cold skin as we jump from one stall to the next, drenching hair with warmth.


I’m tall, like 6’3” on a good day, and the jutting nozzle is above my head,

slick pale tiles extending higher than that; steam magnifies all lines infinitely.

You appear as a white wisp of lithe flesh, with blond hair straight and long.


Those hard nights sleeping in parks and doorways vanish, lifted away in vapor

as our bodies meet again in the middle, under a stream of charged, stinging

hot hot hot water; fingers now sliding along naked familiar spaces, rediscovered.


This is the perfection of travel to foreign places, known but fantastically new.

London is like a cousin’s kinship one remembers from photos or crisp paper

letters, handwritten as a child in a voice projected to capture a future positive.


Facing the door to room 524, we’re still damp under our half fastened clothing.

You slip the large old key awkwardly into the peekaboo style lock and turn.


We’re here, toppled onto the unmade bed, like fallen flowers; our eyes at rest,

duffles tossed toward the only window—showing a sunbaked courtyard below.


K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Mad Assassin

Fat Eyed Woman (Kissing My Brother)



Advert Image

-K. Shawn Edgar 2014

Fat Eyed Woman (Kissing My Brother)


Espresso, food, cold drinks, and snacks:

Advert signs are the only reading I’ve done in the past 36 hours.

Outside of the flawed “redundancy factor” of shock marketing,

I’ve discovered nothing interesting and crave caramel sweeties.


Have you seen the Day’s Inn across from a Pilot Travel Center?

There’s 73 yards of poorly laid asphalt, seeded with snack wrappers,

standing between ugly hotel room door and an ice-blended coffee taste.

I moonwalk the oil and gas splattered first five feet, breaking the fear.


Mel Brooks’ face is on an air freshener crumpled with a gas receipt,

as I weave around what could be blood spillage or hotdog drippings.

Scenes from Spaceballs play out in my head’s retro humor vault, until

an itchy door chime cues a jazz cover of Blink-182’s First Date.

Singing |“Forever, and ever, let’s make this last forever”|


Inside Pilot, this woman has a dentatus-toothed, chapped-lipped smile;

though, it might be a gateway to dental hell or cavernous conversations

spiked by rusty bear-trap punctuation and echoey subtextual grey mists.

She’s manically bleach-water spraying the sandwich bar countertops;

dirty-rag slopping heavy water droplet rainbows off the synth metal,

as her lovely fat-hampered eyeballs strain to project pure happiness.

Singing |“Is it wrong, if I think it’s lame to dance?”|


I’m pulling the lever, and filling a plastic cup with frosty coffee ooze.

Grizzly bears can’t run downhill,” says Hikers Delight magazine.

Only its new, glossy cover is splattered by blood or hotdog drippings,

as a starling-chested man leafs through Astronauts and Artichokes

the very issue my mailman said was “lost” in transit last month—

and chomping a foot-long with its ketchup river like the Nile flowing.

Singing |“Let’s go, don’t wait. This night’s almost over”|


The redundancy factor leads me through the ALL CAPS cardboard towers,

to checkout change pile of wadded cash bills and plastic bags exchange.

I flirt-smile with the fat-eyed woman who’s rag-ringing popcorn chunks off

heat lamps and shinny doughnut trays.


Blink’s music video for First Date starts with a story about kissing one’s brother. 

Singing |“Forever, and ever, let’s make this last forever”|




Drowning in Air



Drowning in Air

But still inside … a whisper to a riot” – Walk, the Foo Fighters

Would I had a machine of time manipulation,

primed with a human foot-shaped accelerator;

the type sold at Pilot on the Interstate Highway.


Yes, one can be had for about $8.95 USD.

Mine would do zero to 186001 m/s like a whisper to a riot.

I’d customize it with laser stabilization and phase inducers,

so all goes, so all goes, so all goes pretty well.


Winona, I’d be your affectionate competition

chasing life-sized stars from Santa Rosa to LA;

pulled in the wake of over-eager super parents,

who were responsive to budding fame potential.


Because that’s how fame always starts, right?

A useless particle of dust, a lone amino acid,

an awkward child reading Shakespeare on the playground

the whispers.


A shuttlecock cresting the crooked net,

needs a counter blow for its return trip.

It stays in the air and utilizes its potential

only with the participation of active fellows

waving practical rackets

the agitators.


What comes after the buttons depress and the levers slide

is hard to tell – a tunnel of lights, a twisting spiral?

A suddenly changed background is more likely.

Thirteen years gone forever in a blink, and then

it’s all fleeting maybes and blunted blame.

Hindsight is Time’s biggest fuck you to all its travelers

the riot.


So twirl the stratigraphical colors, pulse the geometric shapes,

all up, in and around this machine with airy rippler manipulators.

It’s VHS on rewind in a basement editing suite, timecode laid black.


And POP – Battledore is engaged.


Name a century; name a civilization.

The scene’s different, characters blinking at new old trees.

Fresh grass tickling their bare feet; with breeze, their bare skin

as a shuttlecock appears over the horizontal net. Again.


A finger depresses the universal play button,

all rackets waving frantically enthusiastic,

and the shuttlecock responds in time.