pa

Rectangular Rainbow

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The clouds induce trance on the drive
home from work today. White sheep pile
atop each other on a ranch in Montana
until the weight of an oncoming storm
that never comes except for a stub of
rainbow that peeks from behind far hills.
In the open stretch of highway it reveals itself
as a rectangle floating in the middle of cerulean,
squiggly lines across it, a glitch of physics
my phone cannot capture. I text you from
the middle lane– soaring eighty– because
you love rainbows. You say you walked
around our block but could not find it.

When I arrive home I am filled with unknown,
spiritual vigor. We split a red, frozen pizza
then leave for a journey following our favorite
clouds above, on high alert for the rainbow.
Guided by pink translucent clouds in blue
outlines, you ask me holistically, what are your
career goals? I can’t stop searching upward,
awestruck by the air and rare beauty
in the world, in the center of our elevated
city of bridges and transitions and roads
that fall into each other in chaos you
must understand to survive. The sunset
is somewhere and I know our clouds
obscure it. I know my career involves
sacrifice but I am chasing film’s thrill.
The whims of our uppermost winds!
I have taken you along.

(originally published in I-70 Review, Summer 2024)

Cedarville

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Cycling in you stayed to ignite
electricity dark neighborhood wind zapped
on in your humid house the memory
is orange on the porch by the grandpa
scarecrow who greets all genial hearts
that bump and bleat without intention
tiredly you say we never should
have seen their home we could not
convince the world to move us

(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Autumn 2023)

Omnipotence

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Your laugh could knock civilization out
but you are too modest.

I spent time at the cafeteria alone
at school. Red trays quivered.

On film sets I can’t look up.
How tight is the lighting rig?

When I apply that logic
to our place in the universe–

it’s too cold a stone to live alone.
When your soundwaves reach me,

in my solace, from the moon
or Mars or Mars, Pennsylvania,

I want my life to begin again
and I want you there

the whole time.

(originally published in Ephemeral Elegies, Spring 2023)

Milgate Bathroom

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When you can’t leave for the forest–
bloomed flower petals on white tile
by the toilet rug. Black comb bleach
cleaner. A tendril reaches from water
glass, vine lights looming. What for
but pale wall? Crystal window. Self-
haircut grass. Small room. Small
ambition. I track my movements.
My hunter is somewhere, hiding.

(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)

On Sassafras the KEPT ONES

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                         In the alley toward the strip yellow
                       plant caution tape walking through trash

                                 valley to Iron City Beer no one
                             needs to pack bags stepping on

                    white rocks on Sassafras the KEPT ONES
                           under clouds. Wonder who makes

                    it out alive. Plastic bag with Lysol
                           wipe flapped in the wind when tossed

                        in the trash. Another event stupidly
                               beautiful to admire. When I look away

                     I could crash into sunflower NO PARKING
                                        signs. What masochist places

                                  these in the middle of a long busy stretch
                                      of sidewalk? Now bees won’t leave

                          me alone in this heat

(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)

April 6, 2020

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We rearranged the patio
though no one’s allowed
back. Silver chairs survived
the winter, now the virus.
The navy rug we slid on
brick, under long legs.
We hung string lights under
nostalgic blue, a horsefly
floating by. We put our porch
tables there in negative sun
when I said the new people
watching is through barbed
wire, through dead weeds
overlooking distant sidewalk
behind the abandoned printing
press and the parking lot
of Rite-Aid. There
I saw a congregation
shouting and prowling
abandoned concrete.
All I could picture
was ubiquitous spit–
how will the world
seem clean when
we are allowed
the world again?
Beaks of birds,
always lurking.

(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Summer 2021)

Serious

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Vodkas ignite a serious conversation we sing cacophony
our mouths open machinery in the room whirs the gears
clank and then the whole dark bar lifts its legs and flies
                                                                                no windows though
we perceive sudden shifts as turbulence impending
storms we move as far from as we can talk about

(originally published by Mad Swirl, Winter 2022)

What Else

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

On a towel eating Lays
at the shore of Lake Erie’s
ocean-simulation but I just want
to piss in sand
singing memories of Los Angeles.

Sorry, the masses I abandoned.
What song of salt on tongue.
What rustic swampland.

Nothing
about the tide I claim
to understand. Water’s not even
clear. Only unexplainable shifts

of the heart coming
and coming at me relentlessly
like I never settled when it mattered.

Now I prefer deepwoods drugs.
Life’s a slow death
and I just need to get to the end.
           (go)

What else do you want / what else
do you want / what else do you want? To do?

go

           go

go

           go

                    go

(originally published in Spotlong Review, Winter 2023)

Reruns

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I sit by the fan
this May afternoon
alive forever
in the green
of our home-
made salad
(spinach, chickpea,
yellow pepper, tahini),
sore and sweaty
from carrying air
conditioners up
steep hallway stairs.
Using the heat-
gun and pliers
I straighten
my brain’s
antenna.
Our argument
becomes static
on a tube TV
in someone
old’s living
room.

(originally published in San Antonio Review, Winter 2023)

Late-Summer Saturday, 2021

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

we walked a horseshoe through the Strip
ginger whiskey coffee whiskey honey whiskey apple whiskey
no matter what I always see this brand-new city

slamming glasses into a blue-skied table
what’s passed around we finish swiftly
while friends attempt to maintain some order

never too early to rush into a burger order
time being what it is
we consume all we can

(originally published in DREICH Magazine, Fall 2023)