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.

Dialogue:

(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 

#kshawnedgar

Cancer

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I’ve lost the use of my heart,
But I’m still alive,

When you cannot find the people you walked through life with,
You are still alive.

I hear voices and want to talk to everyone,

The hustler and the prostitute together in fur coats,
The glowing car salesman,
The mechanic,

Audible to me all,

The rat at the corner,
Selling drugs,

I’m crying everyone’s tears.

Photo♦Pierre Holtz for ReutersBest Pictures of the Decade

-short evocative poetry-

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.

#kshawnedgar

#dream

Countless

From the crumbling, bullet-ridden houses,
Full of countless childhood pictures,
They fled.
From the smoldering cities,
Heavy with the smoke of countless fires,
They fled.
From the dust of countless broken buildings,
They fled.
Into the dust of the desert,
With countless broken people,
They fled.
Their countless dead,
And all their possessions,
Left behind.
In the fire.
In the dust.
Across the world, across the sea,
They fled,
For countless weeks,
They waited and hoped and prayed,
Their struggles, countless.
The horrors they’d witnessed, countless.
And then…
When they finally got there,
They were told,
That no one would help them.
That they were not wanted.
That they, the countless,
Did not count.

Dying is the first race

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Never mind Lawyers,
Children with no mouths,

Never mind Inspiration,
Write Now.

Photo – ♦Personal♦

-short evocative poetry-

Green

•><•

My story is told;

so go now you,

be vivacious in waking,

be courageous in dreaming,

all the monster’s

mimeographed madness

to you is but harmless cottonwood

drifting on the breeze.

#kshawnedgar

Dumpster diving at midnight

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Builders will continue to build, and
White folk dumpster dive

In the winter anyway,

In red,
And blue overalls, scavenge –

Scavenger,
Some for profit, others fun, and I

Cannot be a predator, I
Cannot carry luggage, I

Am dying, and

Perhaps giving things away, a
book or something will relive the pain, lord

Knows I just need some pain relief and, I
Just cannot afford to hoard now, how

I wish I had done this earlier like,
Forgiven my lover, myself –

Wait,
I’ll do it in dungarees, I am dying and I

Do not need to carry baggage, cannot take it with me, I’ll
Give out yellow popsicles instead.
 

photo – Holy Week, Guatemala♦