Karaoke Night

January 22, 2025October 21, 2024 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I have gone out for karaoke but the world
says otherwise. There is a line I think not

to cross. Surely someone I know, surely a boundary
full of music and atmosphere to let me be

myself and allow the frogs to consider me
a peer, rhythmic applause with their throats.

What a swamp I have become–
I wish I were the Everglades,

as relentlessly mosquito. As hot. As I am a thousand
miles from my destination though

you say I am close in this way. The roundabouts
of the city. How long have I not known how

this would end? That it would
end? Back of the line.

(originally published in The Wise Owl, Summer 2024)

Cape May Karaoke

December 23, 2022December 20, 2021 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

vocals rise night static the beach house we
sway to midi music call ourselves karaoke

machines what disappointment to not be
whole humid June familiar shadows

encroach the move I crack my song an egg
to thee to thaw cold exhibitions of the

bottle another popped Corona to thirst
for grand experiences cheaply the tide

a tape loop I do not sing the steady
hand of a lyric but rather the water

(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2020)

Tuesday Night Karaoke at Hounddog’s Pizza

August 8, 2021November 7, 2019 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Another weeknight. Of course
we’re being responsible. Hell,
we chose the karaoke spot
with the Christians congregating
at a table before the mic. The
first from the group sings
Reliant K; the next sings
Hozier’s Take Me to Church
and they all nod and clap
their hands. I want to
tell them it’s a goddamn
metaphor. The whole thing.
I mean, life. Not simply the
lyrics (although worship
in the bedroom seems
obvious– from Adam’s
rib came Eve, hard, both
of them, I mean they bit
into the apple, crunched
to the core, came hard
in the likeness of God’s
merciless love. But what
these friends mean is
a crucifix hanging
above the bed, in front
of the mirror, so that
they can watch themselves
pray in the presence
of Jesus). I mean I want to
tell them but I don’t say
anything, and they leave
as I hit the stage to sing
Psycho Killer, leave before
I can tell them you start
a conversation / you
can’t even finish it.
You’re talking a lot but
you’re not saying
anything. Run, run,
run, run, run, run
away.

(originally published in MORIA, Spring 2019)

You Say the Songs I Like Are the Ones I Can’t Sing

November 11, 2020July 19, 2018 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I process major key as minor,
slink into couches to cry at any
gushy thing on television. Before
bed I write pages to process the
day in journals only I will read.
You say I’m genuine only when
drinking. Love is ambiguous yet
I try to process how to manage
a relationship while singing
lyrics wrong to songs I need
to learn to know you.

(originally published in Fourth & Sycamore, Summer 2018)