LA

The Parking Garage Beneath Westside Pavilion

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I slept beneath the mall for some time
to avoid the burden of capitalism ha!

if I could that would be glorious to
avoid the landlord hey look I am in

the parking garage what garbage
all these ads for movies I do and

do not want to see but I would
not know I did not want to see it

until seeing that is the predicament
I do not have the cash nor the time

to spend paying for rent give me
gunmetal cement walls six floors

beneath the surface where I drive
to where not even bugs venture

there I am unbound
I fly in my dreams

(originally published in Train: a poetry journal, Fall 2022)

The Spectacle of the Oscars

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I can’t stand it– in LA one year
Alex King and I were invited to

an Oscars party but in the midst
of another sad singing act we left

for tacos but still stood around on
the green and red tiles watching

a muted tv anyway I think Billy
Crystal was the host that year

the gleam in his eyes dead I
walked Sunset and Vine seeing

unsharpened pencil eyes all
these wannabes myself included

I peeked in one mirror to comb
hair and breathe into glass then

outlined my name inside a star
to leave a filthy myth somewhere

(originally published in Whistling Shade, 2021)

Silicon Valley (Season One, Episode Eight)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When you see me on screen–
with blue jacket and plastic
glasses– listening to Zach
Woods brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper into
an app that can attract
rodents– like the fairy tale,
you’d think this guy on TV
is one lucky bastard.
But you probably didn’t
notice, because you don’t
know me, and you see hundreds
of people on screen
living the dream every day.
And you can see me in season
two and the first episode
of the show, ever–
the very first scene,
during the Kid Rock
concert– on stage with a
hundred other extras, and–
at the time, I had
just moved to Los Angeles,
and the background roles
I had been cast for
resulted in me
on a projector!
My friends at home
who got used to me
no longer being able
to meet them drunk
at Highland Tavern on
Mondays were now not
completely surprised
to see me rewindable
in their living rooms.
I felt destined for great
things, marked this only
the beginning, like
everyone else chasing
dreams in the city of angels.
But all I could afford to eat
were packets of beef
ramen, boxes of blue
Kraft mac and cheese
with water instead
of milk– no butter.
Hard-boiled eggs
kept me alive
long enough
to come home
to show friends
who were getting used
to me being able to
meet them drunk at
Highland Tavern on
Mondays my favorite clip–
with blue jacket
and plastic glasses,
I listen to Zach Woods
brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper
into an app that can
attract rodents–
like the fairy tale.


(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)

7.13.13

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We covered ourselves in soot in my mom’s basement–
you told me you loved me but I had to move home

to have your heart. We dug holes in the backyard
but already too many buried bodies so I boarded

the plane, returned to L.A. to live at the foot of hills.
I said I’d visit sometime, up top, to overlook the ocean

I knew teeming with unspeakable life–
I could not say a word of it to anyone.

 

(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Spring 2020)

Adjusting to a New City (Thank You for Your Calls)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

you say go
                 to the lake    I can’t
             articulate

connection   (the multitudes

        slathered     in fog lotion)

                                               I have
believed in you
                                all our distant

foolishness    outside this realm
    of such irrelevant people

 

(originally published in Modern Literature, Spring 2020)

Blue

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The wave at the shore
was followed by blood
and flame. California singes
itself, Thousand Oaks
surrounded by smoke
clouds rising
into a blanket, smothering,
like the chorus
assembling on our streets–
the world is dying,
but first our friends
and neighbors,
how this bloodshed
has been on the fringe
of our existence until
it’s not, it’s everywhere–
down the road, polluting
our hope, it seemed
everyone
we knew cast a vote
to turn the world
blue
so how do we
drown the flames?

 

(originally published in Capsule Stories, Fall 2020)

Hive

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I rented an apartment of bees
that first year in Los Angeles
sticky buzzing day and night
stingers past the turn of knob

sunny day the bees hovering
over body encircling you
paranoid optimistic dreamer
don’t leave the hive yes stay

get stung camera rolling and
action as in stasis as in days
wrapped around you burning
August blankets dripping lust

for fame everyone plays the
game gathering in droves to
hot stove hands on surface
level interaction as in in-

action

 

(originally published in Chronogram, Fall 2019)

The Current

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

There is a universe where I am
a barista or videographer or marketer

or astronomer. I could have said no–
I skipped an interview– when you asked

if I would come to Palm Springs. When
you said you know what this means if you

go, I could have pivoted and returned
to painting my rented room in sadness.

This matters. This doesn’t. This cyclical
current. Of course we’d split, even after

you said– eating biscuits at the bakery–
the universe gives what you put in.

Yes, perhaps. But I am alive, formless,
confused as the river flowing opposite,

a flight response to a hurricane I would
never fight. I stayed in Seth’s basement

for a week after. Who walked upstream
out from it was never relevant, anyway.

(originally published in CERASUS, Summer 2021)

Ramen in Japantown

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I had been eating like shit living
in my car, fingernails full of fungus.
We agreed to meet in Japantown
to enjoy a fancy ramen
but this would be my first
in many years
that wasn’t Maruchan
(cheap crinkly plastic,
cancer-flavored beef-dust
in a sawtooth packet)
& you must be aware the body
struggles to digest it.
During our meal,
two years since
we last talked,
the cheap ramen must have
intermingled in my stomach
with the pork-broth
real deal. I put an egg
on top for authenticity
when you told me you had
just bought Coachella tickets
for yourself & your brother
& I didn’t want to know the
price because I was living
on wages made on the days
I was lucky enough to
find work. Umami
lingered on my tongue
as we ruminated
in silence over
how vast the distance
our lives traveled
in different directions.

 

(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)