bloomfield

Rectangular Rainbow

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The clouds induce trance on the drive
home from work today. White sheep pile
atop each other on a ranch in Montana
until the weight of an oncoming storm
that never comes except for a stub of
rainbow that peeks from behind far hills.
In the open stretch of highway it reveals itself
as a rectangle floating in the middle of cerulean,
squiggly lines across it, a glitch of physics
my phone cannot capture. I text you from
the middle lane– soaring eighty– because
you love rainbows. You say you walked
around our block but could not find it.

When I arrive home I am filled with unknown,
spiritual vigor. We split a red, frozen pizza
then leave for a journey following our favorite
clouds above, on high alert for the rainbow.
Guided by pink translucent clouds in blue
outlines, you ask me holistically, what are your
career goals? I can’t stop searching upward,
awestruck by the air and rare beauty
in the world, in the center of our elevated
city of bridges and transitions and roads
that fall into each other in chaos you
must understand to survive. The sunset
is somewhere and I know our clouds
obscure it. I know my career involves
sacrifice but I am chasing film’s thrill.
The whims of our uppermost winds!
I have taken you along.

(originally published in I-70 Review, Summer 2024)

Cedarville

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Cycling in you stayed to ignite
electricity dark neighborhood wind zapped
on in your humid house the memory
is orange on the porch by the grandpa
scarecrow who greets all genial hearts
that bump and bleat without intention
tiredly you say we never should
have seen their home we could not
convince the world to move us

(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Autumn 2023)

Milgate Bathroom

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When you can’t leave for the forest–
bloomed flower petals on white tile
by the toilet rug. Black comb bleach
cleaner. A tendril reaches from water
glass, vine lights looming. What for
but pale wall? Crystal window. Self-
haircut grass. Small room. Small
ambition. I track my movements.
My hunter is somewhere, hiding.

(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)

On Sassafras the KEPT ONES

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                         In the alley toward the strip yellow
                       plant caution tape walking through trash

                                 valley to Iron City Beer no one
                             needs to pack bags stepping on

                    white rocks on Sassafras the KEPT ONES
                           under clouds. Wonder who makes

                    it out alive. Plastic bag with Lysol
                           wipe flapped in the wind when tossed

                        in the trash. Another event stupidly
                               beautiful to admire. When I look away

                     I could crash into sunflower NO PARKING
                                        signs. What masochist places

                                  these in the middle of a long busy stretch
                                      of sidewalk? Now bees won’t leave

                          me alone in this heat

(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)

Trust

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I did not listen to my inner
monologue when it told me
to stay home and watch

The Novice. I went to Trace
Brewing when it was bright
but you sat in the dark

when I needed light. I
said one drink, one drink
only, then on the two-block

walk back the clouds
were down, they felt
attached to you and

I kept stepping on
plastic bags and
scrunched-up napkins.

To arrive home I had
to bisect my conscience
and wait: how much

of myself to give
after giving?
The water tower

in the distance
a perpetual blue
balloon.

(originally published in DoubleSpeak Magazine, Spring 2023)

Your Offer

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

on back porch with pounding
rain puddles amass you ask

advice an offer a hornet
nest in the gutter we invite

friends over my memory
short my throat closed to

organ tunes in harmony
answers inside aluminum

you hand me your phone
say look another malady

the dirt clogged drain
for pests to fester in

(originally published in Taj Mahal Review, Winter 2022)

At Azorean Café

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The party behind me laughs
in my sadness. The blue walls hang
hook in me. Even the painted violets–
islands. How can a restaurant make
my table larger? I am spreading out–
a tendonless goo– and still, the
server checks on me. I swear she says
have the Portuguese custard carcass.

(originally published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2020)

The Tendril

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Friends seem to love it
but the flowering plant
in the bathroom creeps
me out. There is a half-
empty/full glass of water
on the shelf beside
the dinosaur-cat mug.
I wonder about that,
too. I guess it depends
on how you look at
the world: the stone-
green leaf reaches for
your hand or punches
at your jugular. I want
to say I don’t have
trust issues but
you say you’re taking
a shower and shut
the door, but I know
the steam is watering
the tendrils. These
leaps of light
I can’t provide.

(originally published in Ink Sac, Winter 2022)

Lost

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

It is depressing to walk outside.
No one of no ones, my formlessness
would be dazzling, if you knew to
look, a vapor in the shape of memory.
I know the sensation of a crowd.
Faraway fear of missing out
in my own backyard– back
to that old mindset. Life of
lives– tenth iteration? I have
planted some sense of evolution.
Everyone’s growing gardens,
hunched over greens
of potted soils, warning
the world of rabbits. I
chase the idea I’ll never
be settled anywhere. Love
to be alone but don’t know
what to do with my hands
when I am. Nor could I be
a surgeon. Or a fisherman–
imagine me, who can’t swim,
casting a net into the lake.
A splash of water and I’m
wishing for a wishing well.

(originally published in Pomona Valley Review, Summer 2022)