rent

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 Days Are Bored With My Language

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

we are sitting closer
to the television in a brand
new bedroom not
that we bought a new
house rather rearranged
everything the television
Playstation mini
tables dustballs morals
we never labeled
outside obvious
corners the air
conditioning vents in the faraway
summer I hope never
comes yes I am this
amount jaded the new colorful
reflections of the TV
beside its fresh horizon
almost like the screen’s
outside where I can finally live
my real life in pixelated terms
I know I know I am
conflicted about even
the architectural oxygen the wood
was inspected man just not
by me I mean girders in the semi
shallow underground been
scrubbing raw potato skins
only still to grok the boiled
intentions steaming the
mind’s kitchen I don’t got
knives I don’t got any
memory of the chicken
carrot stew just I often
feel infinitesimal I can’t
stop filling overfilling
the pot hot water simply
abundance very thankful
for plastic bags stuffed
in the cold seam of the
world our window
won’t open

(originally published in datura, Summer 2021)

Runner

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

You always have to run.

Short North to downtown,
city to city, Indiana

to Tennessee–
one shoe on gravel,

the other careening
through time and space

into a green
where you are unknown

and your running shoes are empty
at our red swing’s feet.

I know you never run to leave,
driving your horizon eyes

miles to sun– and you, after its setting,
glide beside each highway’s unlit rivers

on the bridge of the median, drunk
from driving so long under moon,

far from where our empty bottles
collect in a skyward infinity,

a mountain of clinking memories–
a marathon, a gap traversed quickly.

(originally published in VerseWrights)

10514 National Blvd

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

the couch a forlorn slinky
stagnant. f-stop set to zero. focus:

predestined flickering lights
where dreams meet swan
matches and peel, lit & untethered

jaunty flows
the air beneath
the vacant couch

warrior of staleness & mildew

ambassador to dust-covered curtains–

shards of dreams
in beams of sun
stream into the room; at least
what is breathed, what can be seen
through blinds in deep sleep–

 

(originally published in VerseWrights)