dark

Unravel

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

the rug by the door. the tongue

-tied twisted loops
                                i am reckless

driving east on 76 intoxicated

by skunked memories
           smoking in the garage
before mom got home

                           black lunged
i-wanna-be-young
-again.    only
to change
                               my course
of history.       of course.

dandelion petals    torn
in two.
                  into something
not a flower.          no longer

the sour taste stays
on my tongue

(originally published in Across the Margin, Summer 2020)

you couldn’t sleep until three;

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

my consciousness abandoned you hours earlier.
and when your alarm chimed in the early morning,

you said I hate being up, and there was an ant searching
along the spine of your novel. we watched, for a moment,

before you crushed it with your thumb. crawling up the bedpost
was another. I should have told you, you said. I should have told you.

(originally published in The Broadkill Review, Summer 2021)

Weeks of Rain

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

It began to rain, it rains, the
drainage of the city trembles.

A moth dances in the wind
through Carl Sagan’s window.

When we live, we apologize
for the love. Rain falls, rain

drains, and water is the body
where we lose trust.

Shadows drown
the house at night.

In the sun there is dust–
the moth follows love there.

We apologize to moths.
Rain is the body; trust

does not return. Shadows
eat the moths at night.

 

(originally published in Terror House Magazine, Summer 2019)

Mud

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

or is it clay or is it ghosts I remember
muddy footprints you walking in from
rain white plate of cookies in sweat-palms
mud on floor you said sweet, sweet, sweet,
sweet children all those black nights the salty
wind knocking its way in through shut
windows the dead flowers in vases
received sunlight their daily bread
give us ours the ramshackle trinity of unclean
dishes filthy hands and the sticky fridge door
which wouldn’t open not for you
and certainly not for us

 

(originally published in Califragile, Fall 2017)

Half

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

to cut immigration
is to cut me half

-Filipino I am already
halved quartered diced you take

a knife to my mother she keeps
a knife at her neck we both are

American in the blade of the word
I used to pretend to be more

my more-accepted half
to have to choose

is to have nothing

 

(originally published in Serving House Journal, Fall 2017)

So Find Meaning

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

in the blue diner
we laughed
made something meaningful

but how you puckered
your lips
didn’t mean you need
communion

I am
trying to make my way
down High street
without kicking every red hydrant
I walk by

without drowning in wish
without
finding meaning in every stop
sign
every green light
turned red

I’m finding out greasy fries
aren’t made to be shared
they clump
onto the salty plate

every intersection
is just an intersection
avoiding cars
strangers

every passing honk
is for you

I was not made
to philosophize

words
mean nothing
until spoken

 

(originally published in Nixes Mate Review, Winter 2017)

All the Bulbs are Burning Out

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am scared to death
of death.

Not just the big death
but tiny deaths, too.

All the bulbs are burning out
in my house one by one.

In living, we accrue small darknesses.

Mirror to mirror: void
where my eyes should be.

Hung mauve towel.
Vines of black mold.

Plastic ringlets steady
stained curtain infinity.

The silver shower faucet was once
a sunflower dreamed of fluorescence.

Now, downpour, no bright
for every prayer.

Gallons of black shower
(plead with God just–).

Gobs of

gobs and gobs of hair
cling to the drain.

Genuflect in the porcelain pitter-patter.

A feedback loop of weeps.

Hot water, cold water,
no water.

 

(originally published in Isthmus, Winter 2016)

Chapbook Release: ‘The Frayed Edge of Memory’

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Today’s a bit of a special day for me: my first poetry chapbook, ‘The Frayed Edge of Memory’ (Writing Knights Press) has released and is now available for purchase! It’s 44 pages and only $8 for a physical copy. Really excited for you to read it! Thank you so much for your support.

Two sample poems that are in the book: ‘Gate C55’ and ‘Short Return to Los Angeles’

(Goodreads)