pennsylvania

The Doubt That Follows Improv Class

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Projection meaning screen is blurry.
I don’t want any part of.

Correct. I ended improv
class inspecting
my anxious habits–

has it been too long?
my demons asked.

                            I could not
answer honestly. Walked
away and waved
to the prospective
attention of no one.

Still, when clouds
are classically beautiful
I recall the simple mistakes.

No one counts
their turns, no one
passes their
inhibitions.

I scan the sky
for a piece of absolution.

Such indelicate pertinence,
this honest-to-however-many-
times I treat myself
like a stray without looking
away.

(originally published in Yellow Mama Magazine, Fall 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)

Of Passing Cars

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Each night after work I leap
to new conclusions the chatter
of the world consumes me

I watch who I wanted to be
years ago materialize in the music
of passing cars some deep ache

slows in my chest I need
to relax my shoulders I am not
giving my life to the clock

now people return
to my street I need
to go inside and hide

(originally published in First Literary Review-East, Summer 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)

You’ll Know Me Always by the Red Door

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

you said the first time I picked you up
on our way to a family-style dinner &
then we drove through curvy hills I am
not yet comfortable with, the darkness
now so fitting.

I came empty-
handed, I didn’t want to drink
too much then drive you home. &
we didn’t know anyone who’d be
at our table but you’re better with
strangers. The restaurant was on
a corner facing a bus stop, &
people watched as I drove doughnuts
around the dual-railroad tracks
adjacent, seeking a place to park
not marked by sign or road decay.

I wanted to talk to you more
about anything, but you opened
my driver door
& walked me in.

(originally published in Words & Whispers, Winter 2023)

Twix

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

If there is a bowl
of Twix at work,
I will act apathetic

when others are
around. Alone I will
bury open wrappers

tenfold in the trash.
Perhaps I have been
watching too much

true crime television,
or lived in the U.S.
too long– standing

over candy, ripping open
Twix after inadequate
Twix, I find the initial

bite of chocolate
caramel into biscuit
enough to make me

want the whole stick,
the whole candy bowl,
everything I can have

that’s for the taking,
like anything has ever
been entitled to me.

(originally published in PPP Ezine, Winter 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)