The Boom

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.

Three-Quarters Pose

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?

At Least

I fall away drop by drop

As a statue of wax

In a gaze too explicit.

Love is not given without proof

Proof of worth, of loyalty

Of arbitrary condition.

A lifetime of proving

And so very little sustained.

What does it matter

That I am ordinary

That my poems are indelicate

And fall half-undressed

Across contrasting sheets?

What does it matter

That I forget your name

And your face, which isn’t

Half as extraordinary

As the smile it effects?

I remember your heart

As psychedelic as it is,

With such terrible affection.

Or is it affliction?

There is but so much,

Why is it I always find more?

A step taken with contused knees,

A step taken with bloodied palms

And I think at least love exists.


On the Car Ride Down


Remind us;

eyeshadow, lick-me green shallows

beneath eyebrows of midnight black

Remind us on some Tomorrow’s tomorrow

of the car ride down,

it took us down,

we can’t say why

I’ll say why in a future memoir called,

wipe the Eyeshadow Kiss from my lips

Down from Edinburgh to London dawn,

kiss the windscreen, the rain-covered bonnet,

the wet, throbbing street—surface to surface

It’s not the wasted years, it’s the forgotten

potential of missed apple-mint kisses;

surface stains and a barrage of blood, aside

it’s the kisses we misses

From the shaken shoulder, shaken

it’s a still-life body now; on asphalt lay me

crisp apples, grapes, peel’s coming off

Remind us;

of kisses on the windscreen, the rain-covered bonnet,

the wet, throbbing street—surface to surface, but

wait until the kids are grown and Oregon’s home

The dead limbs no talk, no lip pucker forever;

no speaking at all, vowels only echoing,

her bumblebee yellow shallows shouting

on the car ride down:

London dawn won’t see me coming!

because DOAs don’t get a PM reception;

They get a backdoor drop off after midnight.”

Eyeshadow lick-me green shallows

between the jawline and the sockets.

K. Shawn Edgar | Nightcrawler | Turf Born | One True Cog

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 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 | Limited Edition | Tiger Lily | Mars Rover

God is a touch-screen


He kills,

While we are touching everything else,
Touch-screens everywhere,

Apparently God kills,

In Catholic Garb,

In Coptic yellow, in
Jewish robes,

God kills surreptitiously,

At sunset,
On bridges, through

Garrulous Muslims,

It is a mistake to believe that the only touch-screen around,
Is email.

God is a touch-screen.

We do not remember friends, we
Remember enemies,

We do not remember being appreciated, we
Remember being insulted.

Our thoughts on the environment create the environment and our thought,
Is momentarily polluted.

We want intelligent whales and emotional elephants yet we kill in God’s name, we

Poison each other and blame it on God, where
God is not the problem, we

Instead believe the sycophant.


♦picture♦ Brian Snyder, Reuters

-evocative short poetry-





Bicycle dreams

I wish I had learned to be

One of those lonely

Lovely poets

Who found love in their mothers 

And the children they adopted

When their wombs 

Had past their date

Not yet another woman

Living in a man’s house

Hoping her hands

Her breasts

The sway of her hips

Are enough

To bring him back from oblivion

(When really she knows

Oblivion is a place 

You visit and leave 

Without some girl’s prompting)

I wish I had learned

Before I stopped being a bicycle

And became a cable car instead

But here I am

Wed to these wires

Following the paths I’m allowed

Yearning for the mountains