Short

Descendant of the Big Bang

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Self-absorption has turned me
into a selfish alien. On Earth,

we live in isolation
waiting for the cosmic dawn

to return in a brilliant explosion
that would rock this rock like

a great song
performing on its uppermost

stage, all of my being
expanding like a flower

until the whole universe
opens wide

like a Great Eyeball.
Our role will be to find

inexpressible
connection– a ring

of stars passing rings
of fire, each a small

cluster of blue petals.

(originally published in The Subnivean, Winter 2021)

Same as It Ever Was

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am reliving and reliving the remote
control buttons then buttons
in your bed, golden room of silk
and how many times did we drink
like that? Dropping beer after beer
at Zeno’s then groaning summer sleep
right after. What were we dreaming
about? The cat was snoring and
what an endless loop! Blinking
awake and wanting to crush
night back with aluminum eyelids

(originally published in The Drunken Llama, Summer 2021)

Spirit (Green Autumn)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

What I was telling Kurt
was the danger
nostalgia
of loneliness
too close to the wound
a candle drips
old-timey tunes
still fresh
like traveling
through the pinhole
of a new vortex
I say I am alive
and someone new
knows there is
disagreement
in the leaves
how this fall
they are not
changing
only pulling
by the shoulders
saying you
will come
along
whether
you want to
or not

 

(originally published in Pretty Cool Poetry Thing, 2019)

Diet Mountain Dew

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

my job? refill your addiction
slam it out
of storage into the office
refrigerator
                      the mountain stream
having peaked at an earlier age
you say it gives no kick
anymore this lack of sugar
necessary
                     these
tendencies materialized
into a lifestyle of cool
mixed with limited
not good enough
& such & such
aluminum this life
we recycle daily
in this waterfall
of unlimited pleasure
there must be an end
to any of this. at a certain
point there’s no more
zest there’s no
more

(originally published in Maudlin House, Winter 2019)