Film Fights: The Box

Watch and vote for my last-minute entry into “Wait, What Was That Noise?” on the Film Fights website. On their homepage, click the “Middleweights” tab and watch “The Box” by Decapitated Pitchers. Thanks, and stay gold.

K. Shawn Edgar | Woodheavy Brown | Decapitated Pitchers | Simple Pictures


Dead Lands Rising ? Short Vid

At the Dead Lands near Gig Harbor, Washington…

K. Shawn Edgar | Green Warrior | Cog Masher

Waiting in the Bike Lane at an Intersection in Tacoma

If Wells Fargo were Safeway, would the money in its vaults taste like Death by Chocolate and cheap beer? Would midnight to 4 AM see an endless queue of drunk, snack-craving depositors and closing-shift employees ready to night-drop bulging till bags of Teriyaki vomit and tattered twenties?

As the ejaculating cars thrust forward, piercing the diaphragmatic intersection, the red glow of the stoplight grows old, blurred and meaningless with the wait. Peak pressure. Full aperture: green light. I remain balanced, track standing for an extra moment next to the street’s vacuous storm drain. Will it rain on Tuesday?

How long could a vulture capitalist scam like Target exist in a society that prized quality and authenticity over quantity and expedience? And, if so realized, would its people’s feet rest easier in socks from manufacturers that supported rather than preyed on the majority of its citizens?

Green to yellow, it’s such a brief intercourse, and then yellow to red. I remain balanced on two wheels with two narrow tires made in some other country with softer, less healthy, manufacturing and export regulations for a company that craves a “slight” increase in profits for a slightly increased chance of success … of raises to engorge its top two percent’s cushy wealth.

If Bank of America were Defiance Bicycles on Fawcett Avenue, would its half-dead denizen debtors slowly but assuredly progress into healthier, balanced and self-empowered people on a true path to prosperity?

The red light bursts into an emerald green, blinding all eyes trapped behind windshield glass, and I push forward with a dynamite enthusiasm born on pedals and steel.

K. Shawn Edgar | Cumulative | Alt. 62,000 Ft. | Pumpkin Spiced

Waterfront Searchers

pic of waterfront search land

“JPG Waterfront Search” Photo by K. Shawn Edgar

Waterfront Searchers

“Take me out … to the black; tell ’em I ain’t coming back.”

—You know who sang it – 2002

“Once, in flight school, I was laconic.”

I’m no longer in flight school.

I speak with strangers in whispery chirps,

breaking words into nonexistent syllables:

H e low st rain ger s d ream ing bot tel roc ket s

Weird, soft wisps of bird-like thoughts

coming out my mouth in all lower case:

light is a softly scream sliver once tasted.

High and above the head, like circling halos

letters as sounds, not quite recognizable.

The tonally laconic double-tap of a pensive priest

afoul the empty building windows, speaking in O’s.

Orchestrated glass cracks and whitewashed tag coverages

matte painted on a facade of ginger candy wrappers.

I sully my truest thoughts with these florid words.

K. Shawn Edgar | Half-Tone | Goth Newt | Layabout

Aggravated Man Stubble @ Angled Overpass 16



She’s gotta move; she’s gotta get out;

she’s gotta find a new place.


A cat can’t scream, “I can’t shove my head any further up my ass.” Not in English, and it’s better off for it. These words we humans curl color the Dutch shovel gray glow of the full moon burnt umber; pendulously bleeding meaning from thought, and sending harsh echos flying overhead.

The pearl-eyed woman at the micro-grocery under the overpass tells me she’s learning to think outside her box of fleshy, interstitial curves. But she’s always dampened by the memory of toothpick words from the hard mouths of fancy car drivers. This woman, dressed in full metal-plate apron, collects small-talk shrapnel and compresses it slowly into diamonds. 

Outside her box, I’m thinking lively luck too: it’s the swirl of a Slushie. You never fully drink its spinning twisting cosmos breaking depths dry. And the cats scream, “We can’t shove our heads any further up, up, up. All the men have angry, scruffy shadowed faces.

In winter, I always lie with my knees drawn up; words curling up the sky. Women of false fathers, ignorers all, draw their knees around older men. It’s their inwardly curved form, outwardly projected into every dimension until they break the specter of unfulfilled praise.


Captured Notions



She talks to me through her brown-&-orange-striped scarf

Nanny-knuckles of bunny fluff spring to life with each breath

because she raises rabbits on her mother’s farm east of Olympia

for food, for pets, for cat companions; plus she’s studying at college

an older than average student, she says, though younger than some


Her hair is a revenge movie of traps, sharp angles, & splatter effects

It hooks me; slitting me open from throat to navel, a tasty fresh fish

I feel myself filling with synthetic taxidermic stuffing, to a lifelike effect

with all senses alive and working, yet immobile; a hare in her headlights

another piece in a statue’s parade; she’s capturing human sounding boards

and we become bunnies—for food, for pets, for cat companions


Bodies Collide



Bodies Collide


While crossing Dike Access Road

deep in southern Washington State

I’m destroyed by her gleaming apoca lips

Bloody passionfruit filth fills my IV

dripping my veins with her toxic stain

In an automotive machine code

spelling out her truly private words

she overloads my cockpit accessories

We bundle our dermal sanctums

with blood cell to blood cell ingratiation

underneath an explosion of epidermis