Jason Nelson Poetry

The Weapon as.

The caged and patriotic light or hiding
the window haphazardly. Only through
  a polyester filter, symbolic and generic,

pride, pride, vague pride,  could he sleep. 
    Holding the looped edge,  half insane
 from raising and falling  and raising

and faltering is a rifle. Perhaps it is aiming
towards the monsters living in the closet,
hiding beneath ill-fitting winter shirts
and jackets with collars,
              red from shaving blood.

The Headpost Picture

Sumner County Legends include stories
    of whale-bodied giants, small heads
wisely advising to those beneath their sea

and land mammal masses. It’s said a picture
of these giants headrest hung, makes dreams
into useful instructions, methods

for manufacturing object filled lives.
And the star north and west, a weapon
for defending against those giants

whose hunger overcomes
          their ability to swim on land.

The Not Homemade

Last Tuesday, always the previous Tuesday,
she bought this quilt. Created to appear
             homemade and meaningfully crafted,

instead its origin comes from machines,
automated to stitch and roll remainder patterns,
intentional errors for the illusion of human. 

The woman who sells them chooses a different
   childhood friend or enemy, falsely claiming them
 as the seamstress.
  And every few hundred, a quilt

is replicated with a pattern so perfect, dogs grow
depressed and feral, attacking their owners,
             a slow and persistent bite.

The Surface

No writing happens on this writing
      desk. A jar of drug company pens,
an oil-less oil lamp, papers, a pad askew
  
   and a book so close to gravity
 its spine rigid with helpless stress.

The chair’s legs are carpet fixed, unable
 to withstand the weight of bodies

 thick with lazy storage,
   fat for a winter that never comes.