Sock Puppets

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Black wig and grimebrown,
reach your hand to my hand.

Mimic a person (sooner and
sooner no one remembers) in

pretend interaction (if I could
color wry smiles I would

cover the world). Your old
dweller hobbles to mine,

withered from the silence.
We guess at the true age

of this era (graininess
invisible and anxious).

This is no old film.
Stuffed in sneakers, we act

through dilapidated cotton
(too far away, too tight a fit).

Let us breathe.

(originally published in The Globe Review, Summer 2023)

Actor-Dreamers

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Michael says actors are delusional–
the ones who star in poorly-scripted
films, over and over. How can they

live as soft-boiled eggs? I want to believe
in excellence, too. That love of craft–
steering ships– can navigate

to where one needs to go,
even when relentlessly punched
in the ring.

I, too, am weak, having
said the words of Winkler
for free

just to get on screen.
And the cost was
stock-video explosions

that were copyright
violations.

But to live a dream
(and dream
I do)

one must wake up
and say the words
to anyone who listens.

(originally published in Rind: An Online Literary Magazine, Summer 2024)

Friday Evening Preceding the Election, 2020

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

This could be the last weekend
before certain uncertainty.

Yes, I am a secret pessimist.
This year has been good

for that. I lost my line
of work due to pandemic,

but started a new one
born from it. When you

were crying from your
campaign job, worried

your boss might not
let you go to your

needed appointment
on Thursday, I told

you what you’re
crying about isn’t

your Thursday
appointment.

We’re afraid
of what we

may be living
in on Wednesday.

(originally published in Setu, Fall 2024)

A Sustained Sound of Longing

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My heart– a poem, a bass line audible
in Cleveland. You’re in the Heights now,
further away than ever, but it’s fine. I left

you first & felt a sapphire tinge in every
step. How always we wrapped
our bodies in caution tape

tangled in each other anyway.
I couldn’t drive a straight line,
couldn’t speak without stumbling

into potholes leapfrogging the walk
to your apartment on North High.
Inside, your dog was on a leash,

wagging his tail at a ghost
he could not know.

(originally published in Poetry Salzburg Review, Summer 2023)

Outdoor Towels

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When I can’t sleep– after
lifetimes pass me by
(embers of 16-bit reflections.
Silken stars, the spider
lights that moved between)
you refuse the lake
when the lake refused
you, but I find a stack
of outdoor towels,
and I can’t stop
using the phrase.
Can’t start a fire
without seeds blowing
over tall weeds into
mouths of rubber
band bullfrogs (among
ones with sounds a larynx
can’t replicate).
Tomorrow calls for
rain. No one said
you couldn’t leave
the pond until the
bugs did what they
do best: bug you
enough to drag you
out of the water,
your feet enough
in the grass
to walk tonight.

(originally published in Piker Press, Fall 2024)

The Inflatable Exhibition

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Maybe the installation was overrated–
the advertisements got us, inflated
the necessity of PVC in the center
of the city. It is August and I wanted
to see you for who you were and you
let me. Our shoes were off and
in the green shining light we were
vibrant. In the red we could not tell
each other apart from the screaming
strangers’ children, as indistinct
as silhouettes, palettes upon which
we draw the lines we see ahead; the vents
streaming air; the eighteen rooms we lost
ourselves in but not the sense of time,
which was kind of the point:
already we are labyrinths
so why pay to see
ourselves out? Not that we could
even. Had to find a blue GUIDE to point
us slightly in the direction of exodus,
another tube to lead us into the open
patio with the mobile bar selling
orange crush and cucumber vodka
with twenty other people seeking
air, or at least a chair
to sit, in which I am
wondering how close to sit
beside you? The answer
in the atoms wobbling between
us, the slight tilting of light.

(originally published in The Seraphic Review, Fall 2023)