Slo Mo

Let’s make love suddenly
with all the lights on
and everyone home
Cross-legged, sprigged
thick like a leaf
skirting the horned edges
of that cracked
flower pot in the garden
where everyone else is
brunching on Prosecco
with tongues ready for deep gossip
while they work the runny
eggs off their chins
slo mo sizzle on a Sunday

Let’s, you and I, dip our fingers
in the punch bowl
Two, no, three body lengths away
Let’s grab the cherries
by the pits, my dear,
while the espresso roasts
and the jazz grinds slo

Let’s make it with our teeth
and tangle the stems into kinks
Let’s prick all the peaches
with our thumbs
And suck out the meat
of the oranges
And dance on
the pomegranate seeds
that slip out
from under the backs
of our thighs
As we shine the last
apple to sparkling
Toes to heels
Straight up

While the dank breeze hangs lo
And the music swells
up like a lagoon
Let’s raise our bellies
to meet the slo mo
burn of the rum
And the char of the grill
and the clink of the glass
frothing at the mouth
of the morning that’s rusting
like two dirty ankles beneath
the weight of our overripe
bodies begging
to burst like swollen plums
Caught in the pollen
of our two eyelids

My darling, let’s stare
at one another
until the ice melts

Originally published on The Used Life

Patchwork – The Used Life

abstract world

I don’t contemplate trees
or the latticework of a banana peel
like a tulip lined fence
under the bark of a dogwood
preparing to burst its flowering
buds in the wake of a blue bird’s
wing

I don’t like structure or formalism
or heavy expostulations or connect-the-dots
1-2-3 like academics and paper hangers
do abab and pundits and other well-read
people who are all big
draggy brains (like Ginsberg says)
and no music

I like people who can hear
the sound who move to the beat
who think in rhyme and dance down
sidewalks in scuffed up kicks and
who know that souls have their own shoes
and tap their own chorus and cut up
their own verse and who listen to the rhythm
with their long hair and see the words with
their ears like paper birds
dangling from the yellow pleats of their eyelids […]

Continue reading on The Used Life

Pantomime ~ The Used Life

The world is high enough
The sky is on the second floor
Ten tiers and a castle
Peering through the eye slits
of the morning, a connecting wire,
two dungeons and a beetle,
an elevator where the moon lives,
nipping at the bower like a starfish

There’s a boudoir with no name
Where the mirrors are high and the panties
ride low and the women stain the cups
with red lipstick and the men play
solitaire with one hand, not two
Four fingers and a thimble

A room where all the aces are spades
Where the world is inside out and
everything is a reflection
of everything else
and all they can think to do is
mute their mouths on a mattress
and pull up their pantylines
Pantomime, a shot of gin and a stale cigarette

The chime of a smartphone
Give your girl a kiss and tell her she’s pretty
A sentence like a sphinx
A thumbprint
A swipe of the hands
(There is no ending)
In the castle that opened its doors
to the skin of the world
Unknown
Except through a language
of signs and plastic arrows
That hides the empty sky from our faces

In the room of no heroes
Where all the endings are written
somewhere in California in that
no name city six floors down
where once upon a time the earth
slept in its cradle and
Jack and Jill set fire to the pear trees
and Cinderella flung off her pumpkin
while Snow White shot pool with
the seven dwarfs stripped
down to their hats

And none of the stories they tell
have any beginnings
And their eyes keep reading
And their hands keep catching stars
But the world’s not high enough
Just not
high
enough

Metal Boxes – Chris Nelson

We hide our thoughts

And faces behind

The fantasies we build

In metal boxes,

The melted sand panes

Reflecting back the cold

Outside,

Holding in our voices

As if they belonged to us

And yet still they slip,

Unruly children,

Through our fingers

As they grasp too late

To ideas on the winter breeze

The chill that keeps us

Safe inside,

Open-mouthed we gasp the poison

That bleeds into our sanctum

Wishing that the journey was worth

The destination,

That our voices would join

With those we hold

In silent esteem,

That we could stay

Forever cocooned in glass and steel,

That all we would be

Would lead us home.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

The Leaving – The Stories in Between

My little girl pleaded for me not to go. That was the hardest moment of my life, looking down at those big blue teary eyes, ripping me apart with every sob. I was shook by the memory of the words I had told her when this all began. All the nights I held her close, promising I would never leave her, that I would always be there to keep her safe. She’s too young to understand but this is the only thing left for me to do for her. If I go now, her and her mother will have their names moved to the bottom of the list. So this is my love for her, my final gift. A little more time.

I stand in line with over six hundred others on this morning. The way it has been since the onset of the event. Hundreds, thousands of people, day after day, herded like cattle across the platform and on board the waiting vessels. From the beginning they had made their intentions clear. They would take those willing to go first and then the rest would be taken systematically by force. Everyone who has been part of the leaving, so far, has gone voluntarily. This willingness to sacrifice themselves so others could remain has given me a renewed faith in humanity. Never in the span of human history had all the people of the world come together like this, with a common goal, a common sacrifice. And through this faith I recognize the hope I had thought lost.

As we near the entrance to the vessel, I look to the man at my right, then the woman to my left. We each instinctively reach for the others hand. With fingers locked, hand in hand, as brother and sister, we step aboard and leave this world behind.

My last breath is a breath sweet with the belief that those who remain will come together and find a way. All they need is a little more time.

clock 2


This will be my final post at Morality Park.  I would like to thank everyone who has supported my work at the park, there are a lot of great writers and readers here and you are all appreciated.  The Stories in Between

Different Shores – Chris Nelson

We set sail for different shores

A chance to greet new horizons

And carve a name where once was none

To plant our feet on holy ground,

We threw our maps into the sea

To trust to luck and winking stars

And casting dreams upon the winds

Our faith forever in the brine,

We sought the land birds on the wing

Strained our ears to hear their song

And when the call came from the crow

We took to task with hungry hands,

We welcomed in the virgin green

As if we’d never loved before

And set our rootless feet upon the shore

But never felt the tendrils grow,

We let our restless eyes look back

To all the things we’d left behind

And heard our past love’s whispered words:

“Come back, come back, come home to me.”

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

An Uncivil Discourse – The Stories in Between

I would give everything to you if I thought it would make any difference. You can have it all, I’ve held on to it long enough. But what would you do with it? Would you piss it away, day after day in self pity through self loathing? Would you continue to walk around with that mirror, facing everyone but yourself? Imposing your self righteous judgment, showing them all their imperfections while hiding behind, unexposed, weak, afraid. Afraid of what you have to offer. Afraid of taking responsibility for your part in all this. Your false narrative is one I have heard before, even taken part in. Your judgment and moral superiority are as hollow as the eyes of the mob you follow. Your own hypocrisy will turn on you one day. Your divisiveness, anger, hate will silence you. Your self imposed group identity will destroy you- the individual. But that is all OK because you will always find someone else to blame.

I admit now I was wrong, there is understanding in me, but I hold true to the fact I have little sympathy for your uncivil discourse.

Stay then, with the others, if that’s what it takes to get you through your day. If not, then you are welcome to put it all down and walk with me. I will love you but nothing will be spared.

Kicking and screaming, we strip away the dependence to label and categorize. When everything is no longer anything, it just is, as it will be. Neither for or against you. You will breathe a sigh of relief at the unrecognizable. Differences erode and with enough time, finally, there will be nothing left to set aside.

Then what will you do with all your time?

protest 1

 

 

 

protest 3

 

protest 4

 

protest 2

 

police

 


More can be found at The Stories in Between