signs

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)

Don’t worry, I’ve seen Signs.

I know we’re not vulnerable
the way those on-screen aliens are,

deathly allergic to water. We’re made of
the stuff yet haven’t learned to fear it.

Avoid city taps. Toxic, they say.
I’m drinking tons of it, unless you mean ego,

in which there’s a bucket devoid of myself
the dark sky so badly wants to donate to.

In the way you believe, we are not aliens,
unless you mean we don’t know ourselves.

Every day, my mouth dries up
avoiding strangers. M. Night Shyamalan

dons an aluminum hat upon spotting me.
I’d do the same– leave the store looking

down at my feet, toggle up the heat
in my Ford in heavy winter clothes

to sweat my chemical reaction out.

(originally published in COG Magazine, Spring 2019)

James Croal Jackson