The Desktop Icons: News by the Week

Brochure

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 07:44:00 +0000

Brochure

Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
My cousin’s in the Navy
She brought me an afghan
If you got a minute
I’ll show you my tattoos
This one’s a hedgehog
And here I got a turtle with rockets

Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
I don’t have cancer
But I came from an unwed mother
She said not to fuss
Our pool held no water
She said don’t steal
I told her to stop giving me reason

Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
My brother’s a deadbeat
He’s tired from working
If you don’t mind stopping
I’ll show you my dog’s puppies
They were born with no eyes
Just fur covered sockets
I live in a dream
But you’re too awake to notice

Take my picture
And put me in the brochure
Because you’ll never slow down
Not enough to really see me
You’ll just look at the snapshot
On the way to get a fancy coffee
And under your breath
You’ll thank God you’re not me

So take my big picture
And stick it in your brochure

Egypt

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 19:19:00 +0000

Null Endeavor

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 01:31:00 +0000

Trees cut black marks in the evening gray,
a web of bloodless veins drooping earthward,
unable to touch the stars from which
they came.

By K. Shawn Edgar

Bull's End

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 05:30:00 +0000

He was a big big man in a small small world; his graveyard complexion condemed life itself.

Not because it reflected death, that too was condemned. It was because the absence of any humanly perceivable color engulfed all concepts of meaning, purpose and being.

This left the little people of Bull's End terrified and full of malice.

Kelly Engineering Center at Oregon State

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 22:10:00 +0000

Is this the music of universal revolutions?
From an isolated piano, shouting defiance, someone is playing Chopin in the main hall. Her music offers contrast to the monotone machine Neers – who cluster like digits in a data set behind their glass display in computer lab 1130.
As thin rain ricochets off the concrete window support, a milk steamer screams a hot hissing reply to the rank and file waiting for their café delights of coffee, cocoa and sugar. Warm banana muffins, wrapped in clingy plastic.
Multi-faced people inhabit the furniture; fadelessly consuming everything Kelly has to offer as the sunlight moves up one side of the terrarium and down the other.
Someone was here before, and others will come after to fill the empty.
Change changes nothing but perception. It is pebbles tossed into a giant sea of cells, where the pebbles are cells, and the cells – mutable ripples in the sea.

Post-Suburban War

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 05:32:00 +0000

Speaking for the dead I up Edward Appleby hand over fisticuffs while stepping on the chest of a brut named Ajax long laid waste by the Greek Trojan war of nearly forgotten sword thrusts and word slings like flung sea pikes from the burning edges of black ships never to retreat home.

Sunspots

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 16:38:00 +0000

I hate the open sky and the long road. I reject the bitter cold of the blazing sun; its wavering mirage blisters my horizon.

Pachinko

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 01:56:00 +0000

I am not of pachinko. Though I am here. It's a big room, vast room. Large enough that the people think they're in many rooms with unique decor. They think we play the balls, when we are the balls being played. From most spots you can see how the balls end up. Only, from which direction did they come? There's no knowing when you can't tell which ricochet caused the ricochet that you saw last. Can we trace it? Do the movements add up to the results? In the room, no one person can ever know.

Hart Butter

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 09:56:00 +0000

Comfort in madness.

Yet never a comfortable madness in friends who smile and extend a hand, same such they extend to him, a pudgy acid-hearted maggot boy.

So perk up, like the strong olfactory sensation of coffee percolating, or the sizzle of meat fat in a fry pan, it's the uncomfortable that keeps all creatures sane.

For what would woodland harts be without the nearby ravine and the mountain lion prowling?

Comfortable.

And insane.

Heart Butter

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 09:50:00 +0000

Compartments of a Human Heart

Horses, deadicated to their work,
Not praise is it for them motivation,
Not reward of the after, nor deeds before.
Rush of muscle make movement.
Action of pump pushing blood.
Spark the synapse, with eyes fixed on now.

From the horse we have divided, from monkey and ape we too have split.
Their being whole, it spites us. We of the compartmentalized heart, are bound to fail.

That Weezer Song

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 19:34:00 +0000

It's time I got back, and don't even know ... how I got off the track

Bombing 'Stub' Stewart State Park

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 01:05:00 +0000

I feel the impact of flying insects when my hands skim the breeze.

Shooting along downdrafts, the birds are on their way from above and will soon flap around my head.

Birds have wings, so aren't as gravity bound. I have long-boned arms with knobby elbows and leaden feet, riding a bamboo and hardwood plank on wheels aptly named Gravity Super-Gs.

As the birds bomb the bugs, snatching them from the air around my head, I bomb the curving asphalt path through the trees of Oregon's "Stub" Stewart state park.

Swooping, drifting, and diving, we dine on winged insects like distant relatives engorging themselves at a Country Buffet. Except: no line, no waiting -- food accessible from every direction.

Only the birds enjoy and thrive on this feast, while I try to maintain balance as I spit wing, leg, and thorax from between my teeth. Grit black, tastes like upcoming yak.

It's the beauty, it's the speed. Me and the birds in our kaleidoscope of constantly changing colors, shadows, and shapes.

Not All I Am I Am

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 07:13:00 +0000

Look away
At the street
Line of eye following line of curb
You won't see my colors
Just concrete blur
You think I'm thus
Flat as a photo pressed under plastic
It's not right to tear me and toss me
Away for an action
A few unthinking actions
They didn't affect you directly
You too eager bystanders
Chickenhawks, that dive at the wounded, expose more of themselves than my faults yet unscarred
Don't peck too quickly into business not your own
Stand off!
You do not define me with your words of white sprayed lines and narrow streets
Those go both ways
So look away
Look away again
It's what you're best at in the end.

False Things & Paste Up Poetry

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 05:51:00 +0000

False friends, like false teeth, can be removed and tossed away, but you can never again feast on the same life. All is purée and liquid, moving indivisible down the gullet and out of time until you are no longer sure if they were false or the real thing.

Categories: Life & Times, Poetry

I Support No Meaning

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 00:51:00 +0000

Nothing after and nothing before will always be more interesting than your religons and your metaphysical tom-foolery. Look, everything crumbles into nothing like the burn stain of the setting sun or light flickering off a red leaf or the dazzle of her passing eyes. No meaning excites me. Wink out damn spot; show me the non of true Universal sight.

Holiday Never Again

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 09:27:00 +0000

Bars, lies, and pot pies
It's the holidays again
Mine, yours, and backdoor goodbyes
Here come the ghost, the turkey, and the saint not thin
'Cept their Yule logs are rotting
From last year's exhusting
False fest of nothings
Imploding pumpkins and overgrown stuffings
Your presence will be sorely missed
A $25 invisible tree will mark the spot
No neddles to mark the spot
Our presents won't mark the spot
Only bad memories, confusion, and debt.

Hear This

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 04:04:00 +0000

"I sincerely believe ... that banking establishments are more dangerous than standing armies."
-Thomas Jefferson, 1816

Time to Think about Us

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 05:08:00 +0000

First, the demons were here roaming and romping.

Then, the small things came flipping and flopping. Gathering and growing they chased the demons deep into the night.

Next, the dishonest Zurvan, ever present; he who had first agitated all still life said forcefully, "See how it moves forward like a river? You cannot stop it or even understand it."

And the smallest bits, those least bound by his illusions, ever present, giggled from many places at once. Their ricocheted mirth leaving clues for the humans who would follow long after the newly growing first flipity flopeties had overtaken the Earth.

Bombing the Hill at Stub Stewart

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 08:17:00 +0000

I feel the flying insects in the air when my hand skims the breeze.

This tells me the birds are coming from above, shooting along downdrafts, and will soon flutter and flap around my head.

Chains of Weather

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 23:34:00 +0000

Tabular Manguy is suffering from climate chains. He needs an indoor skatepark. Help him by donating money or commenting on posts.

Weeping and Dodging

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 03:46:00 +0000

Mythical boar-cat, you heady beast. Why have you turned away?

Your profile, once seen roaming field and meadow, has of late only cast its flickering shadow on the empty halls of mountain goat gods.

You won't find solace lurking in the semi-darkness of untraceable moments no matter how far you retreat.

Your eyes have turned too much on themselves. Whether you toil above or below the unsanctified, craggy ground Zurvan will be your master.

That spiral is not your way out. Only lonelieness lives in the crannies of rotting thoughts.

Uncertainties are repeated at every scale, until the demenishing fruitless design drives you to Spike's basement madness. The spark cannot be put back in!

The nature of Cytherea has grown up abused, molested, so it proves itself with each generation. Zeus, and Cronus before him, were bad men.

So, you cannot simply flee your fellow domesticated swine. You must harden and rise up to lead the slaughter of those unwilling to change.

Rainbow Vision

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 04:12:00 +0000

Rainbow legging-clad stems, long as an early August afternoon, carry her lithely dancing through the heat of Tanasbourne.

Unencumbered by short skirt, no more than a thin veil fluttering around narrow hips and briefly clinging to smoothly pale thighs, my rainbow vision is the only sign of life in this greyed out crowd.

So I click my heels, not to return home, but to fly over the essential colors of light streaming as a beacon to the pot of gold at their end.

Army of Mine

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 01:11:00 +0000

Wish I had command of an army of mid-sized squirrels.

They would rabbit-kick the bad out of people to whom I wish an ill-fated and untimely demise.

This way, me hardy fools, I wouldn't have to dirty my smooth, white hands with their unclean blood.

And once those people were rabbit-kicked clean, I could put them to work caring for my Squirrel Army.

Or task them in service as ushers at the squirrel ballet -- a 21st century revisioning of The Nutcracker.

Me Hardy Fools

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 04:53:00 +0000

I ain't nobody
And I mean that as written
You ain't nobody neither
No, not even a blip
We be like the non-viewable code
Or spacer image files in the background of any site
Needed, but without acknowledgement
Without due compensation
We are the gear teeth of ye ol' industrial revolution
Easily worn down and replaced
Seldom remembered outside our own circles
Thus, me hardy fools,
The robber barons, those ugly climbers, have won
Again
And again
And again
I ain't nobody

Rainbow Vision

noreply@blogger.com (kshawnedgar) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 06:52:00 +0000

Rainbow legging-clad stems, long as an early August afternoon, carry her lithely dancing through the heat of Tanasbourne.

Unencumbered by her short skirt, no more than a thin veil fluttering around narrow hips and briefly clinging to smoothly pale thighs, my rainbow vision is the only sign of life in the greyed out crowd.

So I click my heels, not to return home, but to fly over the essential colors of light streaming as a beacon to the pot of gold at their end.