restaurant

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)

At Azorean Café

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The party behind me laughs
in my sadness. The blue walls hang
hook in me. Even the painted violets–
islands. How can a restaurant make
my table larger? I am spreading out–
a tendonless goo– and still, the
server checks on me. I swear she says
have the Portuguese custard carcass.

(originally published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2020)

Chicken Imitations

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–

being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room

when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed

pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,

that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.

(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)

Chain

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Cramped in that silver
nook by the kitchen

was how not to know me.
The panini-maker pressed

pitas onto various vegetables
that were consumed and

capitalized. Chickpeas
churning in the high-

grade processor (with
special red spice).

Carrots in the juicer,
bananas in the blender,

hearts on dark trays headed
to tables by the window

overlooking the snow-
plowed parking lot. I dropped

wine glasses all week
and would you agree

it was too much when
the army came in

to sweep glass
off the floor?

(originally published in Stick Figure Poetry Quarterly, Spring 2023)

Early Twenties

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

At Giesen Haus late, we drink long
islands on empty stomachs until
we make nacho shots – chips loaded
with beans, jalapeños, cheese, the finisher
being the rest of our twenty-
two-ounce Doppelrocks. Because
the Haus is closing (we do not
know soon, for good), we
walk the blurred street to
The Basement, get another ale,
maybe two. We tweet Rob
Delaney when we decide we need
thirteen more drinks before the end.
We make another shot, the Dog Blowjob–
Raspberry, Blue Raspberry, Jameson–
IHOP at 2 AM, our waitress tells us a time
she was stuck in the snow, drunk, and a
customer paid her for sex. Cinnamon
pancakes, hash browns, we wait what feels
like forever amid endless summer now
that we are adults. 5 AM we walk back
to Giesen Haus and somehow, I drive us back
now. We cruise down Whipple to Bloom’s
hypnotic Wild, witnessing the sun attempt
to rise from the depths of night. In a few hours
I finish reading Conrad’s Heart of Darkness,
which I want to like, then watch birds
in branches with binoculars received
in the mail. I peer through all the nothingness
green. I start Siddhartha, play Skyrim, binge
Breaking Bad. Later in the week, I put in
thirty hours of restaurant work with
all the time in the world.

(originally published in Dreich Magazine, Summer 2020)

Ladder

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Asking where
the ladder led
was stupid
you said up
to the roof
and of course
it does
I guess I’m
saying we both
work at Panera
and when
thinking about
my prospects
they are not high
because if I were
to grab a rung
and lift myself up
I would probably
fall but if I didn’t
the locked door
at the top means
I’d struggle for an
unspectacular view

(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)

Red Lobster

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The host stares blank pages at us,
mumbles in the vicinity of lobsters
in that overcrowded blue tank.

The waitress sings the menu,
points to CrabFest (overtures /
variations) – we are here,

always, for Cheddar Bay Biscuits,
the perpetual stream birthed in wire
baskets that make our intestines scream

minutes after paying
the check.

It is July 6th and fireworks explode
over trees
and, of course, we think them gunshots

because we are in a public parking lot,
our bodies full of grease that could drop
any minute in this America,

two-thousand nineteen.

(originally published in Toasted Cheese, Fall 2020)

Piss Christ

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

At Tango there’s a half-full bucket under the urinal
yet no one wants to talk about Piss Christ at the
dinner table. It’s the eve of Christmas Eve and
you tell me my family is your family. I don’t
want to eat the bucatini anymore. The short
rib in grease is a clog the whipped ricotta
is trying to lubricate down my gullet.

*

We don’t want dessert at Grandpa’s. The
cookies are rolling stones and I can’t
mention Piss Christ. Everyone sits in
a circle and talks accomplishments.
The architect, the dancer, the lawyer.
My name is in the credits of a movie.
Who cares? No one can talk about
drowning.

*

Everyone talks about wanting Yang Ming,
but it shut down. Because of the rats and
flies and spider webs and black mold
and uncovered fruit and the workers not
washing their hands after trips to the toilet.
I want to go, too. Seems like a great place
to talk about Piss Christ.

*

On Christmas morning we open presents
and Liz mentions a chef from China she
wants to reconnect with, but his restaurant
closed. She’s not sure what part of China
he’s from, or even the spelling of the place.
This spurs talks of other defunct restaurants,
which returns us to Yang Ming. Michael
mentions the urinal at Tango with the half-
empty bucket beneath. Of course I snapped
a photograph. Of course I show everyone.
Mathew says this reminds me– what’s that
piece of art? And I respond Piss Christ!
But everyone’s thinking of Duchamp’s
Fountain, and we all take another bite
of the home-fried bacon and golden
scrambled eggs, seeped in a tradition
that will seemingly last forever.

 

(originally published in Harbinger Asylum, Spring 2020)

Say Grace at the Drive-Thru

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Voice sings through static
in the dark.

God forgive
me my body–

jumbled
chirping syllables.

One at a time. Heartbeat
crinkling in a sugarpacket.
Sand on beach.

I’m thankful. No one

inside
but you.

She asks what you want.
Ministerial. Ocean

breeze
through open

window. Flat stale wall.
What do I need?

More salt, more salt, more salt,
amen.

(originally published in Punk Monk Magazine, Summer 2019)