The Photographer

She, fire on the lake, flare on the lens, bubbles in her bath. She.


Noodle Moon

Cabbage roll and one-dollar flat noodles, a place to lock the bicycles out front, our booth is by the window. We are reciting kill is kiss as frames of film, jointly remembered, inform our budding courtship. Trapped in a radio station, voices and language will save us, while these chopsticks unite us.

Walk awhile; the beach fell and broke into sand. Each skinny planet, feels 360 its neighbor grain rolling grinding dying … within reach of the ocean stars.

Receiver: A City To Love

Pick it up; handle it.
Hands have driven us,
finger manipulation of
matters ongoing.
My fingers ache tremendously
when you’re around.
Fingers help spread the news.
Lost; growing black inside,
all twelve have padded tips.

Goat Bolt Tower Life

Ugly is beautiful again;
we shave off the hair,
rabbits stare,
run from the tower,
it’s a slow orange burn,
a time to bolt,
a time to pull open clouds.

All blues inside, beautiful blood;
the old skins are dying or dead,
peal and peal and peal,
underneath is the art of life.

Underneath we strive harder,
we see clearer, animus is visceral.
Orange kinetic fluff in the Oval,
we see Towers falling clearly above,
so Goats stand taller, don’t bolt;
our new path leads deep.

Until a snow fire improves us,
burning our lives bright in snow,
crystalizing patterns in code carriers,
goats will bolt. Tower. Life.

The Trouble

The Trouble with Trouble is•

We start in a parking lot, between two white lines.

Car radio sounds are heard: music to talk to music to talk…

Raw aluminum-alloy lamp posts, tall as prison towers, uniformly point toward the sky.

Women and men with bags and babies. Big mess. Obeisant, humanoid-faced cars wait, some humming mechanical lullabies.


(As if watching someone do voiceover for a Disney animated movie we cannot see.)

I am at home between the loving arms, these white lines. These silent boundaries.

The trouble with Tacoma, there’s a sleepy veil of depression billowing up and drifting back down, daily. Never quite enough to keep the crows and jays from flying, or the people from driving, but stellar association isn’t ever what it might be elsewhere.

Second strange plane flying overhead. So low and quiet, so flat and colorless, most folks don’t even look up. Don’t smile.

K. Shawn Edgar | Bad Actor | Man Flake 


Deathbed Dream


From A Deathbed Dream

Don’t use a tool to carve out correctness;

Our method should be more hands to clay,

than chisel to stone.

And then:

several asthenic in-sucks of dried out air,

the taste of heavy iron blood, and

seconds of hollow confusion,

until room appeared:

Dry cracked lips, stuffed up nostrils.