Rail Rabbits

See the rail rabbits running,
Running down the tracks.
You better run,
Little rail bun,
Before the train attacks.
See the rail rabbits running,
Among the ties and stacks.
Do you live down there,
Little rail hare,
Within the platform cracks?
We weren’t always rail rabbits,
Trains always on our backs.
We lived and ran here,
Before appeared,
The station and the tracks.
We lived and ate,
And bred and died,
Right where the station is.
And we’re still here
And will be, still,
After the station disappears.

on the road to vegas

Brothel

rented jeep cherokee
adds up the miles
from reno to vegas
nevada scenery
that never changes
desert and mountains
little dusty towns
gas stations and
greasy spoon diners
souvenir shops
with their gemstones
and beef jerky
and 100% authentic
native american jewelry
and there it is
a sign that screams
the word BROTHEL
tall white caps
with a red background
impossible to miss
framed by silent
blank billboards
little more than
desert landscape now
off the highway
one can just about
spot a building
painted a pink
color not often
seen in the desert
perhaps that’s it
somewhere between
reno and vegas
hours from civilization
lies a getting laid place
a place to come
to pay to come
on the road to vegas

Dead Lot Revisited


Stale, dark rainwater
pooling.
Gray cars punctuate
smooth black asphalt.
Nighttime atmospheric.
Unknown, empty spaces.
Engine, off. Deep breath.
Eyes blinking up
starbursts from greenish
hazy lamplight.
All movement wavers
finally stalling, as lids close.

Silence.

K. Shawn Edgar | Florid Star | Cat Panda | Monkey Wrench

Insurrection

image

I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
Niggers with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his balls,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
Nigger, whore, bitch.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Can he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I masturbate from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me nigger, whore, bitch.

 

♦photo – personal

evocative short poetry – words move

The sound of an African funeral

20150627_120913

They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,

Growing earth between the ground and,
his casket,

Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids,

Humming,

They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,

Move the air to and fro,
To and fro,

Intending that mother be comforted,

Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives, that

though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,

Brings life.

-short evocative poetry-

Problem Areas

It’s summertime, ladies.
When the living is uneasy,
For those of us with,
Problem Areas.
Those imperfect parts of us,
Endlessly discussed,
How they offend and they disgust,
And should be always hidden.
Away from view, forbidden.
Cover up your Problem Areas,
For they only want to see,
Bodies flawless and magnificent,
Smoothly plastic, prepubescent.
Wear a minimizer, for the girls.
(That’s a bra that shrinks your assets)
For nobody wants to see them,
Particularly, the men.
Who, as we know, cannot stand,
To look at women’s breasts.
So before someone arrests you,
Cover up those Problem Areas.
Contain yourself in lots of shape wear.
Suck everything in everywhere.
And never ever remind anyone,
That you’re an actual woman.

Talking to Myself

In the woods
Around China lake

When I tell myself
The things I already know
I’m talking to you.
The friends I haven’t met,
The stranger on the bus
Who’s willing to listen
I tell you in conversation form
My childhood stories, and
The travel tales from the 90s.
I tell you of the pedal mashing
Moments
Fast downhill
Car dodging
Oil spot skidding
The long ones
For no other reason
Than because.

K. Shawn Edgar | Gyoza | Bone Machine | NIGHT KICKER