From a very young age,
We’re encouraged to achieve it.
Don’t go outside the lines, they tell us,
When we’re coloring our picture pages.
We are judged on how well we manage,
To stay within the little spaces,
Where the colors are unblended,
And pure right up to the lines.
But never crossing them.
Is this meant to teach us a lesson about life?
That perfection can only be attained,
If we never venture into other spaces?
Never cross the lines?
Never blend with other colors?
Maybe not consciously.
Later on we learn to accept that,
There’s no such thing as perfection.
And that all those times,
When the colors blended across the lines,
They were not mistakes, but proof of life.
That it was made by beautifully flawed,
That cannot help,
But go outside the lines.
Il pleut maintinent.
Il pleut dans mon coeur,
Pour les gens de la ville,
Dans la ville de la lumière,
Vivre dans la lumière de l’amour,
Avec l’amour de l’art,
L’art de la musique,
La musique du gens,
Les gens de la ville,
La ville de la culture,
La culture de l’égalité,
Fraternité et liberté.
Mais aussi la culture,
De la haine,
La violence qui pleut,
Dans les gens de la ville.
(With apologies for my bad French. Je suis désolée.)
Yes, it’s an old joke,
You’ve heard it before,
So there’s no harm,
In hearing it,
Just once more.
Denial ain’t just a river,
In Egypt, my friend.
It’s what you swim in,
When relationships end.
She pulled out his heart,
From his ass,
For a start.
Set it on fire,
After ripping apart,
Not his literal heart,
But you know what I mean.
Then she put it back in,
And then did it,
Over and over again.
Their marriage laid waste,
And it’s done, run its course.
And nothing left,
But the taste of divorce,
So bitter, so rotten.
How can everything,
Be forgiven, forgotten?
After selling the house,
And deciding to end it,
He’s taken her back.
How can he defend it?
Oh, he was never abused,
He says, only confused.
Well, jump right in,
Take a swim,
And soon he’ll find,
That he’s drowning,
And out of his mind.
First you get buried
And then you get birthed
Then you run free
Then you fall down
Then they roll out the canvas
And it’s the floor, and it’s the ceiling
It’s the way you wake up
Feeling monetarily dead
Until you see day is become
K. Shawn Edgar | Hampire | Leftover Brie | Glide Dancer
My convalescing mother
The child inside me
Curled up together
To let us all heal
Maybe this growth
Is the purer form of healing
The three of us
Strange nesting dolls
Watching horror movies and listening to the rain
Telling the smallest about the sky
Trying to find a dress to cover me
As I’m doing more nesting
Than the rest of us
Letting neglectful men
And well-meaning narcissists
Wait in the wings
Because I was her first fullness
And the little one is mine
And we don’t need any more completion
Than the one nesting dolls feel
Each a home for the next
The smaller filling the heart of the larger
We are enough.
See that boom? It hit my head.
The end of it.
Of the boom, I said.
Not the end of my actual head.
But it could have been,
The end of my head,
The end of me, if I were maybe,
A lady with a baby.
Or a frail old lady.
But I was just concussed,
And the boom arm must,
Have fallen accidentally.
Unless someone’s out to get me.
Just crossing the tracks,
And the boom arm attacks.
It went boom as it hit my head.
And I’m very glad,
That I’m not dead.
Punch it out,
the eyeblack pucker
is a platonic knuckle kiss
from five friends of fingers curled.
Five friends, eating away the earth
from opposite ends
that we stood upon
together; it’s the circle-curly snake
hissing blame for blame’s sake.
Later, scrub those red-flecked nails
clean; we upcoming tribes divided
from too much large group introspection.
Not enough personal introspection, reflection.
So were those labels real and accurate?
Did they hide spies behind friendly faces?
Or friends hiding behind calculated moves
based on old grudges and emotional wounds
loosely covered by classroom logic 1, 2, 3s?
Rebound and thrust; we split along the cracks
between nits and picks, new forging our indirect,
underlying rational arguments out of parietal rules.
As each breaking point produced another truest
segment of the overall group, the call arose:
We are the real face of the front!
Stop bringing up nuanced points!
Your preciseness! And your dedication
to criticizing ourselves and everyone
is falling behind our oval correctness.
Our oblique correctness! For us, or
against us?! Forward with Us! Or,
fall back against Us.
K. Shawn Edgar | Eyes on the Inside | Progressively Ongoing & Progressing to Go On | What?