game

Fall Guys

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

gonna be a good dive
            pink windmills spin forever
                       I thanked you already
     I am always thanking you
consider this next apology all ready
               dizzy heights
                       I’ll file in the hi Sara folder
       maybe I will choose to drop
                       down to blue under-surface
                              where everyone’s at I miss that
           you mean I’m supposed to grab a tail
                     with these conveyor belts & keep it
         I don’t know my role
                             but the walls
                       have googly eyes & I don’t mean
                                            the stampede at the checkered line
             these same damn races every time
                      I’ve never watched the procession after me
          don’t worry you haven’t done anything wrong
                                                                                  yet
                          the situation’s complicated
                                                                        continue

(originally published in One, Fall 2022)

Tetris

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am reading old journals, putting
pieces of my past in place–
a series of staircase Tetris shapes,

a broken board mixing L.A. palm
fronds with bad haircuts Dad
gave me, but we needed to save

money, and I was bratty. I wanted
video game anime hair but got slanted
bangs laughed at by classmates and

teachers (who would never admit they
found it funny). I knew, and still do.
Sharp laughter edged in memory. I

want to say I’ve gotten over it. Over
all of it. But I still hold the smoky
gray of Nintendo controller in both

hands, and I am trying to move the pieces
where they need to go– but I am
older and life is faster, blocks falling

into places I can no longer find them,
stacking dark spaces to the top of my
screen after these earlier, easier years.

(originally published in Bond Street Review, Winter 2021)

Bananagrams

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Hard to say goodbye a bunch
of jumbled words

this freeform
scrabble of knowing our

ups and downs two
poets at the game café

hovering over August
and detonate

this limited time we have
cloaked ourselves

we slap plastic
tiles and yell peel

racing not to say goodbye
I’ve got a few days left

in the parking lot after
we clutch each other

unsure whether to cry
in the authentic light of sunset

(originally published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Spring 2022)

Disc Golf

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My excuse for a poor score:
the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.
It chose to rebel inside the wind–

I agree, of course, when you say
our food delivery job is temporary.
We have hours before we need

to clock in– an ordinary morning
straddling the Olentangy river.
Any way to get our minds off

routine: when scanning the field
for ticks, I find nothing but
excuses, for never becoming

the suit-and-tie my parents
wanted me to be, my score
well over par, another

wayward toss into the breeze
hopes for clarity on a journey
I know not where will lead.

(originally published in Penmen Review, Fall 2020)

April 14, 2008

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

after inflatables
        and Friday night I went to the House
        after making fun of King
        Kong with the brothers
                Dance Marathon we first talked
                then went to Pizza King with Dabs
        accepted oxygen in my water as trees
        dead napkins we returned to Constitution
                played sober via HORSE
                with bottle and recycle bin

earlier I helped Gary with the Poker Mixer
           it was either the cheesy bread
           or Gatorade that got me
     we went to Walgreen’s for beef jerky
           along the way we stopped at Sara’s for Orloff
           at Fisher’s for refried beans

(originally published in Literary Forest, Fall 2022)

Beer Pong

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

beer pong is concentric
angles & behind-the-back
a miracle of physics

not that I understand
the finer maths of sport
I held an endless reservoir

of alcohol schoolnights turned
blue-lipped and blurred
pages flipped to I-don’t-know-

how-I-got-here one time
awakening on a bed of roses
at the belly of Constitution Hall

staring to the vacant moon
soaked in sticky juice a book
with its pages torn out

(published in HAD, 2022)

World Series, 2019

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

First baseball game I’ve seen this season– game seven
of the World Series, Houston versus Washington. A sea
of orange in Texas. Scherzer versus Springer. Joe Buck
talks about muscle injections, pinched nerves, breaking
ball– full count. He says this series is full of big swings,
big emotions– isn’t that a normal week? Dad watched
every Cleveland game. Ever. For a summer I did,
too, but October is chillier than usual. Last week, we
buried my oldest brother. We used to play sports
games– Triple Play 2000, Gran Turismo– on the
basement’s cold, brown carpet, where all physics
hurtled toward inevitable destinations: a ball singing
through the air into a blurry glove, or tires spinning
through some grainy tunnel. We’d trade wins, half-
luck, but there was always a conclusion. Last year,
I held his hand in the hospital. He squeezed my
fingers and said what he couldn’t with his eyes.
Last week, he didn’t get the kidney he needed.
When Washington wins, I see men cry on each
other’s shoulders. When my brother dies, my brother
cries on my shoulder. I cry on his shoulder.
And when we look at each other,
we find someone we both miss.

(originally published in Knot Literary Magazine, Fall 2021)

Fall Guys #2

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

all this balance nothing to show for it
    seesaw the most patient of virtues–
                                   patience
                   get up god damn it
                                     when you fall can you please get the fuck up
              lemons fire from cannons
                        zest on my back
                        & I am always running
                                           can’t say the words right in my head
                              but in the glitch of No Music just levers clicking
                        & motherfuckers shouting woo! in the sorry
                                                                                               white
                                                                                                         sky

(originally published in TRIBES, Fall 2021)

My Employment History as Jenga Game

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                         I see the opening
                                  can’t breathe
                                                 when placing down
                                        the block–
                                                                    one wrong move
                                     and I’m living in my car again.
                            Cheaper rent. The simpler things–
                                       brick house,
                                                   blue tuxedo–
                                             were romantic once
                            but my mouth is full of blood, teeth
                                                                       falling
                                                                                 out,
                                    my stomach yellow-splotched
                                                             (but not from sun).
                                 The rocks in my shoes,
                                                         holes in my
                                                                         wallet,
                                                   ripped nets my lovers fall
                                                                                     through
                                                       (rely on me?
                                                                           They know
                                                           I grind my teeth in sleep).
                                 How summery it was to think I could
                                        make the next job work, mountains
                                                                  of manila folders
                               perpetually stacking, tumbling–
                                                  the dim light’s exit blocked
                                                              from collapse.

(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2020)

M&M

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I was searching, too,
having lost the will to film
when I left Los Angeles. So
when you and Kim hid bags of
Haddad’s M&Ms from the other,
I learned it’s okay and rare
to find such sweetness inside
the seams of a rolling chair.
And when I watched you
climb desks and tables
to seek an advantage
inside the pillar, the cords,
the tethered lights– which
resulted in a broken device–
it was never malicious,
wasn’t some power play
I’d become accustomed to
in this industry, just a game
that ended when Janice
emptied bulk bags of the candy
over our desks because
even I was in too deep and,
yeah, it was hilarious. Now,
as we clean our desks to leave,
we find stray M&Ms buried
under paper stacks that serve
to remind, if for a moment,
that you are my friend.

 

(originally published in Eunoia Review, Winter 2019)