ALOTO

The End

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                                         After Matt Hart

seems like a good time to say
I spent months feeling helpless
looking forward

to this indeterminate light
we’ve been dreaming about
this industry

affects people
like a natural disaster
rolling through our days

until The End
rejuvenates us
makes us hungry

for The Beginning
a road trip a flight
a movie night haven’t

had one of those
in a while     a cold
drink to jolt me

alive        alive
until the dead
extend a hand

to bring me back
and I reach
for it too

(originally published in Delta Poetry Review, Summer 2023)

Zone 28

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Tara, the arcade was not the answer
(air hockey shots & bowling)   such
fantastical surrendering     with hollow
hunger     & the terrapin match /
between dinosaurs Maureen was
drunk & screaming. typical
punch bowl.    red & strung
with lights I lied about my blue
ice I said     I did not have enough
but I drove to Taco Bell next door
& ate five soft ones     texted
you I made it (though I live somewhere
different now)    home    if I move
how will the wind know
the difference?

(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)

Cookie Cake

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I cut cookie cake with plastic butterknife
a birthday my age is showing not my celebration
in the office a long way to the center I repeatedly

say I slice some New York pizza I shape
a biscotti I am the awkward focal point
struggling through the cake rock my boss

offers me a Swiss army knife I refuse
she swears it’s clean the PEOPLE want
a show they want to see struggle I

bellow hands shaking through thick paper
plate after plate she says I’m impressed
you didn’t break and my piece is

so sweet I can barely eat I
do it anyway the work
I put in deserves dessert

(originally published in Squawk Back, Fall 2022)

Endless Imagination

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The bowtie light switch has a mustache.
What does that say about me? I’ve spent
too much time seeing whatever I want
in office objects. Tape gun forklift.
Soap giraffe. All I want is to love
what I have however diminutive
the love, however diminutive
the day stretches out in consuming
all other days. My endless
imagination boards me
on its paper airplane,
the rock slungshot the first
time I read a book and never
arrived at my destination.

(originally published in OpenDoor Magazine, Winter 2022)