pennsylvania

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)

Introvert Tuesday

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Living in the golden-shadowed
window reflection through bam-
boo, such is the layered tone

of the rest of my day, nose
sore and red, I am urged
by friends to celebrate (this fall

day fifty and slow, so sunny).
Though my sentinel self rises
from the seat it sits in– mind

released from body, you have
fulfilled your duty– stay home.

(originally published in The Wise Owl, Winter 2023)

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)

Zone 28

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Tara, the arcade was not the answer
(air hockey shots & bowling)   such
fantastical surrendering     with hollow
hunger     & the terrapin match /
between dinosaurs Maureen was
drunk & screaming. typical
punch bowl.    red & strung
with lights I lied about my blue
ice I said     I did not have enough
but I drove to Taco Bell next door
& ate five soft ones     texted
you I made it (though I live somewhere
different now)    home    if I move
how will the wind know
the difference?

(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)

After Millvale Music Festival, 2021

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

at Grist House the day is everlasting
       & we have just lived
through a pandemic.

August sun shining
                   I feel like an emperor
            owning the day
                                          til its end

the sandwich trucks
& hot dog carts
                                all of my life is good

we have just lived
through another
                           week under
                             shade of the
          everlasting days.

in all my life
   how many
                      days
  will
               I ever
                               get to feel like this?

a hundred?
                        maybe
                                         in only eighty
    years I need to
                               count
           my inventory

(originally published in Statement Magazine, 2023)

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)

Bundt Cake!

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The recipe I research online
calls for Mountain Dew
(or Mello Yello, if one prefers)
and I’m curious if it becomes
a lemon tea with a reservoir
of sugar in it. What happens
to the bubbles? Do they turn
into a slime? I buy a liter
from IGA, ignite the oven to
a torrid Fahrenheit, hotter than
my usual showers that set off
the second-floor smoke alarm.
Grease and flour in the Bundt
pan, fluted and grooved and
eternally circular– my partner
wonders if I have the expertise
to do this, and I read her the
recipe, which she says is not
typical– the carbonation nor
instant pudding it calls for,
the boxed cake mix plucked
from a million others at the store.
But in a large bowl I combine
everything: the oil, the powder,
the eggs, one at a time, and stir
in the lemon-lime soda.
It has a texture like roof tar
when I tell her I don’t even
enjoy Bundt cake, I just wanted
to do something productive with
my day after being laid off.
She helps me pour the sludge
and bake until I insert a toothpick
into the center. We let it cool.

(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)