strange

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)

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)

Look for Me, Someday, in a Sentimental Ad

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I dive into a fresh pool of shining glass–
who wants to spend their years with me?

The new-city-me screams its lungs out for
you. Looking to the past, I fall in love

again. I’ll be promiscuous when
unemployed. I can’t face life

pursuing absolute perfection. Maybe
I will soften my hair, finally. My cat

may not be into this. We lay sideways
in a beam of sun on dust-layered carpet,

moving our eyes to the wall’s tricks of light.

(originally published in Count Seeds With Me [Ethel Zine and Micro-Press], Spring 2022)

August, 2020 (Five Months Quarantined)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

sorry about all this junk everywhere
we won’t leave the house it’s a hundred
degrees heat the same rooms the same
clouds the same dust nothing to escape
so much shit you yell all of it is oil slick
off our bones if I could sell my veins I
wouldn’t but someone would you would
purchase them and ornament my body
sell my cheap taxidermy that’s just how
it is there ain’t enough drugs in the world
to convince me otherwise there are
I’ll trade you thirty dollars for an exciting
week enough for an air bag each small
car ride home do you have weed? what
should we do?  these nightmares every day
give you nightmares every night they hit
you in the chest and your mind just screams
no more what is the problem do you care?
let’s play fucking music we need blood
so we can sweeten so we can sleep finally
classic rock we got the sixties beat
let’s drink until it’s cold until heaven
is an illusion we did it now look

(originally published in BarBar, Summer 2023)

The Hunger

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

First were fruits drifting down like feathers,
their sugar shells & caramel centers gooey.

When the fruits stopped fruiting, she scraped
off the tree’s gingerbread bark using flint

as a spatula. Next gone were leaves–
the sweet ones– but the branches chewed

like celery so were spat out. Feet swollen,
hands rugburn red, she climbed all

night, eating, the tree only sour leaves
& skeleton, exposed heart beating

before a death between teeth, strawberry ice
cream gushing past the mauve, ravenous moon.

(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2021)

Silicon Valley (Season One, Episode Eight)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When you see me on screen–
with blue jacket and plastic
glasses– listening to Zach
Woods brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper into
an app that can attract
rodents– like the fairy tale,
you’d think this guy on TV
is one lucky bastard.
But you probably didn’t
notice, because you don’t
know me, and you see hundreds
of people on screen
living the dream every day.
And you can see me in season
two and the first episode
of the show, ever–
the very first scene,
during the Kid Rock
concert– on stage with a
hundred other extras, and–
at the time, I had
just moved to Los Angeles,
and the background roles
I had been cast for
resulted in me
on a projector!
My friends at home
who got used to me
no longer being able
to meet them drunk
at Highland Tavern on
Mondays were now not
completely surprised
to see me rewindable
in their living rooms.
I felt destined for great
things, marked this only
the beginning, like
everyone else chasing
dreams in the city of angels.
But all I could afford to eat
were packets of beef
ramen, boxes of blue
Kraft mac and cheese
with water instead
of milk– no butter.
Hard-boiled eggs
kept me alive
long enough
to come home
to show friends
who were getting used
to me being able to
meet them drunk at
Highland Tavern on
Mondays my favorite clip–
with blue jacket
and plastic glasses,
I listen to Zach Woods
brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper
into an app that can
attract rodents–
like the fairy tale.


(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)

The Tendril

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Friends seem to love it
but the flowering plant
in the bathroom creeps
me out. There is a half-
empty/full glass of water
on the shelf beside
the dinosaur-cat mug.
I wonder about that,
too. I guess it depends
on how you look at
the world: the stone-
green leaf reaches for
your hand or punches
at your jugular. I want
to say I don’t have
trust issues but
you say you’re taking
a shower and shut
the door, but I know
the steam is watering
the tendrils. These
leaps of light
I can’t provide.

(originally published in Ink Sac, Winter 2022)