I’ve Been on a Bender Since Becoming an Adult

November 4, 2022December 16, 2021 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

in the dark of grimy
bars floral couches live

feathers (what a thrill beneath
neon green) in view of Saint

Maria’s grand brick parish
I unclasp Catholicism’s hands

from my neck (backdrop always holy
human touch) how can one believe

in anything other than getting fucked
up loving people at parties

unconditionally my friends I have
forgotten too many nights not

to complete the circle offered
under guidance of compass

and an unsteady hand
flicking the lighter

(originally published in Incessant Pipe, Winter 2021)

Bird Boredom

September 13, 2020June 12, 2018 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The rapid flute of birds
is overdone–

flying through loops
of branches, etc.

Give me a
sculptured break,

e.g. snapped twigs,
seesawed oaks.

I look for a natural disorder
to split the monotony

of days watching
windows of walkers

to the tune of A/C’s
perpetual, tone-deaf baritone.

(originally published in Ink in Thirds, Winter 2019)

Office Job (August 18, 2017)

July 1, 2020April 16, 2018 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

the cat purrs, content
on his own, clawing my blanket
that rests peacefully and soft.

meanwhile, I entertain fantasies
about quitting my job again–
every day, the drab walls

say nothing to me.
the squeaky chair says
too much. another paycheck

arrives, not enough to sustain
me past the day’s bills. I work
for the grim reaper, ghastly

and gray, worm-smile rotting.
there is a scythe to my head
when I sleep that I set the night

before but I can’t even sleep
long enough to meet it.
the cockroaches share my bed,

and I know they will make it
out of this alive, whether
nuclear war or work.

(originally published in EgoPHobia, Winter 2018)

Morning Reflection

June 3, 2020March 7, 2018 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I walk waiting for the clarity of nature to upend my core
having forgotten again another grand idea I had the night before

the rain-soaked sidewalk
& deep dent on a passenger door

a two-story house I think is too tall
too wet bricks and white columns

each window a translucent universe of past
raindrops & the universe everything ahead of you
out of reach past the physical

the American flag waves in the wind
black sedans drive to a hair studio

talk show hosts spit they just
spit

& my dream once was to be on television
& in Los Angeles it happened
my face on mom’s television

but otherwise forgotten
still signals invisible waves

here I am a field the scribbled wandering
eyes & a blue jay makes a home in a tree

& me in the days I become
when I look in any mirror

(originally published in Botticelli Magazine, Spring 2018)

Blendoku

May 31, 2020March 20, 2018 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We can work on puzzles all day,
watch the patterns move
from one color to the other.

Block colors twist in gradients
until blending into something else.

The sun removes itself
from the scene, shifts
behind a cloud,

creates a change in light,
a block of bricks on a building
slightly darker than the rest.

(originally published in SOFT CARTEL, 2018)

Unemployment Dirge

February 19, 2020March 5, 2018 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I have given up on adulthood this time
at least not trying to pay bills
every electronically white-licked envelope
arrives the kiss of a faceless reaper
but I’m not playing that capitalist game
of unending rain filling plastic
cups the days that spill
on plain tile to move
the needles of hairs
and dirt I never
knew was missing

(originally published in Foliate Oak, Spring 2018)

In the Office During a Storm

August 7, 2019August 7, 2019 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

In the bask of computer light my boss
says watch for leaks in the room.
I know now what to pray for. Thunder
burps and rain’s radio static steadies
on the roof– a beating applause
that, for once, recognizes all the good
work I’ve done.

(originally published in Unlikely Stories Mark VI, Fall 2017)

Illusions

July 14, 2019December 1, 2017 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

look in the mirror
that’s the ghost of you
a fraction of a second ago

I look into my lover’s eyes
and she seems alive though
I know we’re wilting

together when we hold
hands the action is
a time traveler

our atoms providing
the illusion of touch
but what of the heart

does the beating keep
us breathing or the
faith that we might be

my head rests
on your chest
soft thumping

echoes of eternity
I am both part of
and removed

(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, 2018)

Paradox

May 12, 2019January 9, 2018 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

in drinking
I add more

of myself
to myself

in living
I add more

time as
it subtracts

(originally published in Misty Mountain Review, 2017)

Two Nightmares in My Car on Rosewood

January 30, 2019October 10, 2017 / James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

A shadow figure outside the Ford’s locked door.
He jiggles the handle
hey can you drive me to Santa Clarita
I said no I have been drinking whiskey
which was a lie
he said let me in
I did not

II.

When I wake for a walk in the middle of the night,
clothes bunched on red benches under streetlights
like someone had been there
and disappeared

III.

I call my ex
I can’t stop thinking about you

shadows float from her eyes
into mine

cigarette smoke

bats

understand: we lived
in the cave of each other

IV.

under orange streetlights

blankets hang from headrests
to drape me from the world

(originally published in The Nottingham Review, Fall 2017)

James Croal Jackson

Poet / Editor

life