She’s at that teenage ninja cat phase.
No longer a kitten, but not yet fully grown.
All legs and feet and tail and stomach.
Her body needing constant refueling,
To fill in her slender frame,
And as energy for fantastic feline feats.
Across the room, she bounds and leaps.
A blurry jingle-belled bookshelf bandit.
Midnight with two greenish yellow moons.
On top of you before you can blink.
She’s at that teenage ninja cat phase.
Their monochromatic faces hovered at the store again,
flying like black dragons at a seaside kite festival,
making me wonder why no one ever laughs at them.
Stoic humor is dead, I guess; lost in the bright-siding.
Oolong tea, better served hot, first withers in the sun.
It’s left to oxidize, tortured for taste, and later it’s twisted.
That’s how it is in our stockroom, but we laugh at our ills.
On the floor, we glad-hand our customers without guilt.
Even Mr. Thomson and the Peck family are welcomed.
Then, by lunch time, we’re back laughing straight faced.
We employ the art of Wade clowns and Chekhov plays
to get us through long, dark, boorish days. Fishermen!
We’re trolling the backwashes, waist deep: Set the hooks.
K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Telepath | Fixed Gear 45×17
I like to picture you in a torn-up kimono
Dehydrated flowers in your new blue hair
The toothpick belt we made on Gluten-Free day
is cinched high around your 19th-century waist
You linger now near the rifle rack, spinning tops
on our GE Wildcat, solid state stereo
Stub your toe on a Paris curb, blood kisses fly
Punch your face while sleeping, blood kisses fly
Water the garden no underpants, blood kisses fly
Tulips have grown together with your tomatoes
since the deviant craft fair of September 2008
They came from the fertilizer shotgun syringe
my entry into the Projectile Weapons category
after Slay Gorgon’s impregnation attempt of Sally
went south, covering your tomatoes with seed shot
I often picture the petals curling under their weight
The fairies danced bare-knuckled, high on torchlight
You brought them forth as a chuckle for the kids
You spun tops, made from Mryia Jackalope’s heart
The fairies, born to follow, stamped and collided
Enthralled by your heady music and promises of a feast
their jolly leaps, grand l’aire to a jete´, turned violent
toes were stubbed, faces punched, blood kisses flew
We hoed their lithe bodies into the newly turned soil
standing adjacent to the long rows of tomato tulips
You threw pigeon wings to Walter the White rabbit
Slay and Sally bowed and excused themselves, dedans
K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Fixed Gear 45×17
The other night,
I saw a saffron moon,
Horizon low in the sky.
Nestled between two,
Parallel shelves of cloud.
There it hung,
Like a great celestial,
I had to ignore,
The almost physical need,
Like a lump of urgency,
In my chest,
To photograph it.
But the sublime,
Cannot be captured,
So I chose instead,
To savor that moment,
Like a slice,
Of yellow moon cake.
And yet so fleeting.
One tiny piece,
Is all I got.
But I’ll remember,
The taste of it forever.
One Sunday morning two friends take to one darkened house as a means of distraction from their digit-worker lives. Their normal world left behind and almost forgotten, they ease into bottles, talk, and laughter around the brawny, robust light of too many candles.
A warm voice, coming from the low kitchen archway, begins the scene; it continues across the living room’s burnt-umber shag carpet, carried along on a superbly structured body that glides atop the long legs of Maggie. She carries a bucket of chicken and talks insistently. A question forms itself from her chaotic words, galloping over outstretched arms and steaming fried bird flesh.
“What’s the last thing you’d want to lose?” Flopping herself down on the carpet next to a lean, dark figure she continues. “Go on, Thomas, tell the eager audience at home how you’d answer that one.”
“Well, Maggie, that’s easy. It’s my internal monologue. Yes, it’s that,” he says. “I would dearly hate to lose my internal monologue.”
The flies are on the walls; all flies are within my skull. I rip the membrane and place the carrots inside with salt. This tender nutrition is fresh familiar fare, a child’s repast. We ate it in the caves; it was raw before the spark came. Now, dinning places are dedicated to its love; making fine the tables and their arrangement, lighting many candles and cueing many romantic songs, all in the name of filling our bellies.
“And you, Maggie?” asks Thomas. “Turn the question on yourself for fun, good times and dance party pleasure; what wouldn’t you like to lose?”
“Thomas, of the thane, my memory is my prize supreme. I couldn’t do without my memory. For sure.”
I try not to think,
About her much.
How her fur was soft,
And warm to touch.
How she she slept,
Beside me in my bed,
And rubbed me,
With her little head.
I try not think,
Of my little one,
It hurts my heart.
Tears always come.
My darling cat,
No longer mine.
Sweet little one,
I left behind.
Have I vanished
From your memory?
Or do you try,
Not to think of me?