We live on the surface,
Of the shallow crust,
Of a gigantic magnet.
It has positive and negative poles,
Constantly interacting with one another.
Simultaneously repelling themselves,
And yearning to complete themselves.
Everything depends upon this polarization.
The rotation of the earth,
And its orbit around the sun.
The fusion reaction of the sun,
Generating the light,
Filling up the darkness,
Creating life itself.
Filling up the negative spaces,
With light and life.
They say we’re not made,
Of magnetic stuff.
But nature knew what she was doing,
When nature made our nature,
Just as as magnetic,
As the earth itself.
Levee: the second can resemble the first.
Along the river Futurity,
its lips licked by tongues of fresh snow melt,
sediment builds a ridge like the assembly of men
around a monarch’s morning wakefulness.
Sentinels pile up behind the gnarred current
bleating grains of what’s to come.
Farther down the river
the ridges are already forming.
Janus, the guardian we get when two rivals are one in the same, back-to-back, and we linger under the falsehood of choice.
K. Shawn Edgar | 8787453 | 97823#4 | Jar109Tar3
It’s a curious thing.
What makes a man begin to hate everyone,
Is it an insurmountable sadness,
That drives him to madness,
That makes him not a man,
But a monster filled with rage?
Or rather a machine,
With no empathy or anything,
That makes one a human being.
Was he really a monster?
Was he really a machine?
Did he really hate those people?
How could he go through it?
Was it God that made him do it?
We can really only speculate.
What filled him with so much hate.
So much hatred.
So much death.
So many people willing,
To be the monsters and machines,
To do the hurting and the killing.
The Killing Pain
when stuffed into a plastic bag,
are unable to decompose.
Air is necessary for building up,
and for breaking down.
Between the hiatal glitches in my time stream,
I pause before stepping out of year 1873
and into an undiscovered 1997.
Undiscovered because—from my current perspective—
it will be different than my pervious passthroughs.
when layered beneath acid-free timelines,
are more likely to bred rebellious offspring.
When those creative juices,
Do not flow very well,
And inspiration, it reduces,
And you have nothing to tell.
There are no new rhymes for you to make.
And no new metaphors to bake,
Into a nice poetic cake,
Served at a picnic by a lake.
There is no picnic.
There’s no cake.
No trees, no water.
There’s no lake.
And the inside of your head,
Is more dry than a dry lake bed.
You’re stuck inside a barren hell,
When you’re going through a long dry spell.
There goes Sarah Palin,
Railin’ against country and king.
Rocking that beat poetry thing.
Has she ever endeavored poetry?
Because never so clever was she.
Takin’ the time to toe to line and find a rhyme.
She’s got the drive to stay alive and to thrive you know.
At least she said so.
Just like a feral Lewis Carroll,
She’s using words you’ve never heard.
Words like, “skwirmish” and “refudiate.”
To elucidate or make it clear,
She said she’s a no-fear Shakespeare.
She was a bad politician, that failin’ Palin.
Should have made poetry her mission.
Ladies, are you here
only to bestow laurels?
Are you here only
because some god(awful)
plucked a rib from a jackass?
Are you simple fodder for texts?
Or are you the corpora keepers of Earth?
One vang of Ship and Stars,
essential oil to the rough hand,
you’ve phased like the moon
from slim to bold—
illuminating more than semicircles.
Don’t let the other vang control
our entire voyage, emphasizing their weight.
Ladies, haven’t you of late outrun
the phony blame? The transferred shame?
not every page should be rewritten.
But tear away this old book’s false cover.
Change the font, don’t hurt for the past;
this newest alphabet is yours to form.
The oldest prints came from the leaf,
the petal, the hand. And stamped by Man.
Ladies, bestow our perennial history, instead
onto the interior-lighted electron images.
Make them as tangible as the paper page
was to the Suffragettes. Show us all
what’s full and ongoing, a portmanteau
for our journey forward.
K. Shawn Edgar | Electric Candle | Post-Punk BMX | Night Shifter