capitalism

A Sale on eBay! A Newer Roomba!

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am happy with my dumb robot vacuum
though I nearly clicked Buy Now
with PayPal credit, thirty-six dollars
over twelve months, which is a more
tantalizing mountain, in increments,
if that’s the route I want to go, though
there have been, in the past two months,
too many sudden changes in my life.
I am reinventing myself, forming
new habits– I make my bed each
morning now that you’re not there
still sleeping when I awake, and
shave my armpits when black hairs
unfurl around my arms. For a while
I have been a wild animal and you
asked who I am now last time
you were over, saying now that we are
not together, you have good traits,
which is a phrase to run through mind
I promised not to think about, but
it’s true, my date– the first after
our ending– asked what are your
goals for your time? And
I blanked, what are my goals?
I had already told her about poetry,
that I am always reaching
for meaning that isn’t there.
I answered I want to reclaim
myself, and she said that’s
a lofty goal, without knowing
what I meant. I don’t even
know what I meant, and that
has always been my problem.
And my allure. We sucked
down cucumber gin and
left each other. Hanging.

(originally published in The Indianapolis Review, Spring 2025)

The View at Work: Dump Trucks

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment 
Look at this kingdom of garbage 
trucks. A survey underneath 
the 31st St. Bridge, where I spend
my horrible days collecting.
It is Friday night and there is
pressure to deliver. I told you
nothing we do here is important,
so take a deep breath. Smell
the compost of contemporary
capitalism. My blue brain
has ceased to need a function.
My winter is every man’s
desire for himself. It is waiting
for my back to give and bear
the weight of the waste: 
the compacted nature of my life,
squandering, squandering,
squandering the ineffable.

(originally published in A God You Believed In - Pinhole Poetry, 2023)

Shoppers

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

At Westside Pavilion, I watch shoppers
walk slowly to their Jubilees, carrying plastic

bags of silk and thread to the thrum of Monday.
I shop enough inside my hungry flesh, living

in my Ford, booking tiny television gigs to
replace my shoes. Sometimes, I am able to

watch myself in the lens of a softer society–
playing voyeur to my temporary belonging.

(originally published in Communicators League, Fall 2021)

Some Class

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Several thousand dollars
to become fancy. I wish
(upon wishes) I had
a muted suit to be
a chameleon on the
A-Train. I have sweat
in my pits and hummus
on my breath and the
world is spinning
slowly. Double shift
in opinion: the first
I am blue; the second,
confused. In all aspects
I am overworked,
hungry– eating a wrench
when I should be pulling
my own teeth out.

(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Fall 2023)

Of Passing Cars

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Each night after work I leap
to new conclusions the chatter
of the world consumes me

I watch who I wanted to be
years ago materialize in the music
of passing cars some deep ache

slows in my chest I need
to relax my shoulders I am not
giving my life to the clock

now people return
to my street I need
to go inside and hide

(originally published in First Literary Review-East, Summer 2023)

Grays

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The word just past
your grasp is deaden,
as in: I can’t believe
I’ve been at this job
for five years now.

Still, I wish I had
the fortitude
to last forever
without ominousness–

no heat death if you stare
out into infinity. No
loved ones dying
their hair black
in old age.

(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)