job

The Continuum

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Jobs– the real number field (unlimited
digits between two dreams). Your hard
work amongst the wolves– howl-at-the-
moon simulations, projections of progress.
Semantics, dynamics. You needed to feed
yourself systems: fluid flows, fluctuations,
heartbeats, celebrity. Your models are based
on the old scientists, to whom greatness
we all equate (implicit assumption of a
linear progression, your rate of desire in
lieu of time, space, and all its constraints).
Traditions are the equations to overcome.

(originally published in Magnolia Review, Summer 2020)

Sixty-Hour Workweek

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

the work never ends got slurry
in my mouth called schedules or
points of reference for words
beyond words I say can’t
capitalize on limited resources
I have a tiny appetite you said
after twelve hours repeatedly
you are disappointed in the
remaining hours what’s sunlight
what’s wind got to do with well
being the highlight of my week
was assembling a black leather
gaming chair I like to wine
and dine in slow interior dying

(originally published in Rabid Oak, Summer 2022)

Photonics

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I heard on the radio about a career in photonics
so I did research, and it involves quantum physics
and light manipulation. NPR made it seem like
the simplest shit ever, that if you were good with
your hands you could master it. As a freshman in
high school numbers were jumbled in pre-algebra.
I was the weakest link of the Academic Challenge
team, sitting on the sidelines during the matches.
When does one need an alternate in a trivia
extracurricular? Does someone squint their
brain too hard and need a breather? I’m trying to
figure it out. I coasted through college on a 3.0
because I was expected to go. And one time
the alumni “giving” center called and asked me
for a donation when I lived in my car in California.
I told them I was sleeping by the beaches, eating
canned beans and tuna. They said they were sorry
but could I please spare a twenty? They couldn’t.

(originally published in Green Hills Literary Lantern, Winter 2022)

Factory Friend

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

we live the same lives
one limestone the other

the mountain gray clocks
hold hands in concentric

routines using boxcutters
to slash tape off freights

of textbooks the insular
world blurs platitudes

won’t make the day run
faster as the forklift as

convertible into stacks
of cardboard papercuts

eats away at my flesh
you lend me an apple

in leather gloves lunch
for the weary cores of

a warehouse we drive
away to separate lives

(originally published in Otoliths, Spring 2020)

Endless Imagination

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The bowtie light switch has a mustache.
What does that say about me? I’ve spent
too much time seeing whatever I want
in office objects. Tape gun forklift.
Soap giraffe. All I want is to love
what I have however diminutive
the love, however diminutive
the day stretches out in consuming
all other days. My endless
imagination boards me
on its paper airplane,
the rock slungshot the first
time I read a book and never
arrived at my destination.

(originally published in OpenDoor Magazine, Winter 2022)

Late for Work

/ James Croal Jackson / 1 Comment

I expect mountains! Unrealistically
my brain brims with possible
outcomes: you’re late for work
again in Aurora, Ohio, the passing
green whooshing around you–
all I fear is accident, the casual
mistake, the narrow passage
of time I waste still looking
in west’s general direction,
like I could cause a change
in the wind if I willed it, if
I asked God for a second
helping of mashed potatoes
at my mother’s lonely house
that sits in a dark gallery
at the edge of my– our–
relentless American street.

(originally published in monologging, 2022)

Whip Your Flame Hair Against Me

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

and I am on fire too ready
to burn Panera down
no one really wants this hospital

food its chemicals inside
that make it breathe the bread
is moving if you watch

close enough its heartbeat
in your mouth we are all on
fire this former dead living

animal a baguette string inside
my intestines there are wings
in my salad flapping dead cells

floating and all I can do is be
the sun and burn the whole world
then flush my throat with water

(originally published in Madness Muse Press, Fall 2020)

Office (August)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

is this how you spend your days? laundry
filthy as furniture.
                     the room cold between two
worlds. I am awash in
transition: upbringing /
                                       nirvana
give me a place to call home
I am stuck in the wedge
of
       wanting nothing
but your long arms around
the circumference of
my body. here is
the ticking clock
                  a timepiece
                                       countenance
allowing sea change
along the equator
                  indecision
east of my brain sees desire in
a sleeping blanket. I am trying
to wrap my mind around
the absence
                    of the life it
                                           leaves.

 

(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Winter 2020)

In Another Life I Am Content Enough

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

What simulation’s numb you ask
if I want children this time

definitive we boil Kraft mac
and cheese. I toss our meager sweet

potatoes in oil and ramble about financial
self-worth the oven nearly at four hundred

degrees. I can’t stop petting your shoulder
the ashy cat roams in the loam of our love

our newly swept hardwood the house
our home for now so limited already

steam from the inside a pressure
cooker of different timelines. What river

these converging lives to seek meaning
in the biological job postings some of us

are born to call. My dad was sixty-one
when I was born my grandfather clock

ticks nonexistent. We have gorged in all
our broken cabinets to rustle the blue

plastic grocery bag pile. I can’t stand
to live another day preoccupied.

(originally published in Flights, Summer 2021)