isolation

32nd Birthday (Quarantine)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

yesterday felt a few years older
but not in a wisdom way rather
the heartburn et cetera & today
we could meet somewhere in
the middle of the highway vines
creeping underneath its floor
boards with boombox boom fire
working no one I know knows
anyone recently & your faces
have faded into pixelated versions
of your best selves I have faith
in you but fuck God congregations
I do not blame ducks for soaring
off ponds at the faintest ripple but
maybe I left home a little too late
I sat in the basement drinking Carlo
Rossi reds I thought then it was now
or never

(originally published in Windows Facing Windows Review, Winter 2021)

December, 2020

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I don’t have a new perspective.
Snow thaws on sidewalk beside
uncollected garbage. Half the city

workers are in quarantine yet
there are boxes to be shipped
for Christmas or our mothers’

birthdays. I drove on dew
streets to buy you bagels–
but stopped at the sight of

a long line to retreat into
the O of your arms in my
mind. Please park

your car next to mine.
We will sit in our usual
distance and wait for spring.

(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Winter 2021)

The Days Are Bored With My Language

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

we are sitting closer
to the television in a brand
new bedroom not
that we bought a new
house rather rearranged
everything the television
Playstation mini
tables dustballs morals
we never labeled
outside obvious
corners the air
conditioning vents in the faraway
summer I hope never
comes yes I am this
amount jaded the new colorful
reflections of the TV
beside its fresh horizon
almost like the screen’s
outside where I can finally live
my real life in pixelated terms
I know I know I am
conflicted about even
the architectural oxygen the wood
was inspected man just not
by me I mean girders in the semi
shallow underground been
scrubbing raw potato skins
only still to grok the boiled
intentions steaming the
mind’s kitchen I don’t got
knives I don’t got any
memory of the chicken
carrot stew just I often
feel infinitesimal I can’t
stop filling overfilling
the pot hot water simply
abundance very thankful
for plastic bags stuffed
in the cold seam of the
world our window
won’t open

(originally published in datura, Summer 2021)

March 16, 2020

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I read that gun store
sales have surged, that

they have lines around the
chopping block. So we

decide when shots
rupture our street,

we’ll drive to my mom’s–
far from any city–

instead of hiding in a
closet in our basement

of centipedes.
Should we go there now?

No, we should wait it out.
We uncork a white wine

and play twenty games
of Trouble. Hours of

moving plastic pieces in
circles. Though trapped

in a bubble, the die
dictates our every move.

 

(originally published in Capsule Stories, Spring 2020)

Frailty and Fervor

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

  the religiosity of longing

             potatoes are my new church
long-lasting water-scrubbed love

             in the oven eleven of them
       I want you to count
              carefully

  our time remaining
                        provided what we want
                                    we really want

is growing underground in vast distant fields
    if we could see well enough to count

(originally published in HAD, Winter 2022)

Descendant of the Big Bang

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Self-absorption has turned me
into a selfish alien. On Earth,

we live in isolation
waiting for the cosmic dawn

to return in a brilliant explosion
that would rock this rock like

a great song
performing on its uppermost

stage, all of my being
expanding like a flower

until the whole universe
opens wide

like a Great Eyeball.
Our role will be to find

inexpressible
connection– a ring

of stars passing rings
of fire, each a small

cluster of blue petals.

(originally published in The Subnivean, Winter 2021)

Flotation Tank

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

close your eyes,
so you forget.

or remember.
whichever submersion

buries deeper
the salt within you.

it is only you afloat,
naked in the darkest night.

your body is a dream sailing
a sea of decomposing dreams,

patches of brown grass
underneath the auburn leaves.

release what you can touch,
especially if it is nothing.

by then it should not matter
if your eyes stay closed.

when they open, find comfort
in what you cannot see.

 

(originally published in Skylark Review, Fall 2016)