Pick it up; handle it.
Hands have driven us,
finger manipulation of
My fingers ache tremendously
when you’re around.
Fingers help spread the news.
Lost; growing black inside,
all twelve have padded tips.
Ugly is beautiful again;
we shave off the hair,
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 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
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.
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.
My story is told;
so go now you,
be vivacious in waking,
be courageous in dreaming,
all the monster’s
to you is but harmless cottonwood
drifting on the breeze.
_Your mouth is so black inside.
We’re looking hand-to-hand;
So much closer now.
Like the darkness before this decompression,
Your mouth curving a smile,
Puckering and parting,
Conceiving color from particle momentum,
Your teeth, showing full-color spectrum white, against the blackness inside our outward direction.
Expansion is not one sided,
It’s an opening of the Never Closed.
Like a Simile Chain Gang
These similarities, between fetus and familiar, between hatch and peck, as if polypeptidic, like coils of invisible thread, are likely the truest road map between me and you. Follow your bonds, and I’ll follow mine. We’re going forward together, prisoners of momentum, as spun as wool.
K. Shawn Edgar