The Trouble with Trouble•
We start in a parking lot, between two white lines.
Car radio sounds are heard: music to talk to music to talk…
Raw aluminum-alloy lamp posts, tall as prison towers, uniformly point toward the sky.
Women and men with bags and babies. Big mess. Obeisant, humanoid-faced cars wait, some humming mechanical lullabies.
(As if watching someone do voiceover for a Disney animated movie we cannot see.)
I am at home between the loving arms, these white lines. These silent boundaries.
The trouble with Tacoma, there’s a sleepy veil of depression billowing up and drifting back down, daily. Never quite enough to keep the crows and jays from flying, or the people from driving, but stellar association isn’t ever what it might be elsewhere.
Second strange plane flying overhead. So low and quiet, so flat and colorless, most folks don’t even look up. Don’t smile.
K. Shawn Edgar | Man Flake | Cube Dweller | Bad Actor
K. Shawn Edgar 2014
Cycles and Skids
Sometimes falling down
is the most exciting thing
Burning the glaze away
Chrome clothing kissing skins
skins vibrating, bouncing
mating with the road
its debris, a modern life
•Trash Tells Our Story•
The heat, believing gravity,
as Soma Everwear skids true
if only for a moment free
Brake, breath, bounce, break
pedal, skid, repeat
____K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Mad Assassin____
photo, “The Sword and the Vessel” by k. shawn edgar
Any asshole can use a dictionary;
whether it be in his broke-ass hands,
or her dump-ass slim computer.
So don’t preach the alignment of
lithe lavender and torn asunder;
your ending will be the same.
I was electrifying word spellings
before the water burst from the amniotic sac.
My mom had impulsed the signs & symbols into
fluidity down our umbilical cord; saying,
Spell sullen, baby, any way you please, and be happy.
The revolving world of learner groms of any type
should know early on that trends and typeface change,
yet both an airplane and an aeroplane can fly.
Read the first part of Room 117.
Leafless stick-bud tree growing,
branching out with finger bones of living wood and slow sap,
entangling the gray-scale sky,
like veins of iron ore spreading through a rugged cliff face.
By K. Shawn Edgar