Open Face


1) Folk Dance

Hear the nearly traceless earthly hum
through cabbage eyes and beetles’ legs
Silly soldier, silly crumb
Silly haunts and silly drums

Hear them say,
heel, flat, long, toe,
short, long, heel, row,
disarm, flee, now grow

Straight and stiff, the obedience strains
Tweak the cadence, disrupt the control,
bark these dogs of war into nomads, and
thinkers beyond the commands

Glad then be our future, whole

K. Shawn Edgar | Staying at Crome Yellow | Druid Orphan | Ceric

Yes, we have the Video:



Yes, we have the Picture:


Picture Credit: Woodheavy Brown, 2015


Glad Body


Gallop sea
a waterway
from human cell
to human heart
to soulful fusion

Shame is naught
if hearts need cells
because cells are hearts
if people need people
floating Gallop sea together
because cells are people
people needing people who
need proper compatible proteins
Cells to people to people to cells

With various avenues
existing simultaneously
why focus on the commonplace
when better are shunned
for no reason but the main
to separate heart from humanity’s
natural need to continue and thrive

If one body passes
people need people too
Why waste cells to body to grave
when cells could pass body to body
Shame is naught if hearts need cells
Waste of body is the shameful act
Eat what you kill, they say
It applies to the entire animal realm

The charge of secondhand blood
same as your exchangeable blood
circulating from one heart to body
into the next conjoining of cells
This is our true nature only hidden
below the Minder’s false taboos

K. Shawn Edgar | Night Shifter | Rogue Human | 45×17

Broken Blade

I used to be a teacher,

As sharp as a well-made knife,

That was meant to be used roughly,

Every day to take a little punishment.

Tempered and sharpened over the years,

Hardened and indestructible,

But at the same time, flexible.

Slicing through problems,

So gently and delicately.

Like they were almost nothing.

I used to be a teacher,

Able withstand the abuse from students.

That’s part of a teacher’s job description.

You take it and if it wears you down,

You sharpen yourself,

And go back to work again.

But long have they been,

Desiring my absence.

All their efforts,

Focused on this task.

They missed no opportunity,

To sabotage.



To wear down my former sharpness.

They’ve done it.

They win.

I’m nothing but a useless dull blade,

That finally broke in half,

But I used to be a teacher.


God and Folly

It is raining outside.

I am reminded that,
Rain has rhythm.

Rhythm has heart-beat,
A beat, a


Every city has its gangsters, its’
Street corners, its

Unbelievers, every

Heart has its beat, and
Every beating heart, its’


Where folly is a pink bear,
An African American,

A bionic car round the bend,
Sunlight at last,

Caught in the hands,
In the hair,

Of the joggers,

In the difference it makes to,

Walk with a friend,
For a mile or a minute,


♦photo♦ Laurieanichols Scenes from New York in January

-short evocative poetry-



Key to Itself

A Chromed Leaf, Remixed

I am a human [gene], capable of doing [amazingly] terrible things.”
Woodheavy Brown, paraphrasing Homeboy AWOL, 2015

 key girl:
teeth blades
come out.
Need to nibble.

What’s behind
her fragile smile,
as she surveys culture
for new American psychos?

Blood as catalyst,
soaking popular art,
while axing questions
no one wants to answer:
Are we the new livestock?
Is there a too-much?
How do we close the gaps?

Instead, we’re watching the messengers
make sweet, harmful love to the messages
that contain glossy, gestalt-like perceptions
so as to elevate our organized destructions.

No place for a bland face,
until the branded, veiled eyes fail;
real eyes will peep from behind,
rejecting the eyeballs we half see.
When carpus becomes metacarpus,
all genetic humans get itchy little digits.
The real fingers that are Fingers
pointing to the canvas forms that grow
from out of the visibly painted flesh.

It’s the beautifully worn nether skins,
underneath the fragile-lipped girl’s
outermost posturing,
that my moistened teeth blades crave.
As my societal human shell moves to reject
everything my brain’s primeval desires
need the most.

K. Shawn Edgar | CocoBug | Mockingbird | Keyed


Cancer, palliative
2004_150 002

We spend our days,
Getting ready for tomorrow,

Hoping the past will not catch us,
The bad eating, the saccharin juices, when

Now is the only moment, to

Love, to

Re-pack your life, forgive –

On an adventure or,
Simply state your piece,

It will be alright.

We may yet,
Save the climate.

♦photo♦ – High Museum Art of Atlanta


-short evocative poetry-

For my friends battling Cancer.

Winter Belly

She only thinks of herself,
filling the cold cracks in her mirthless faith
with mute summer-stock and square aesthetics.

Dramatic gestures, perpetrated behind elegant frames,
separate her external seasons from internal weathers;
hunger becomes an earthquake in her hollow, dank spaces.

Intestinal combustions will heat Siberian salt to reflection.
It’s a meme for the right of passage—youth to adulthood.
This is distraction or a cilia reunion of rest in her winter belly’s fast.

K. Shawn Edgar | Tinkerer of Assumptions | Ebb Tide Detective | Mote Chaser