tv

Career

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

After I axed past the tree-lined path, I turned
the wrench that opened safes of gold with my own
hand. And then I hired someone with wrists

of a little more tension. I should have
never slept in the bed of wealth. I should have
known, in the night when every dreamer is

dreaming, I would sink deeper into that
endless hole of jagged desire until
I was thrust like from a slingshot

through my roof into a room
of mirrors where I seemed to be me,
but adorned in glimmering garbage.

(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Winter 2021)

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)

Buzz Burn

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

glass of prop champagne could
be a three thousand dollar shot

I can’t pay these costs the
moving parts all I want

is to buy you liquor an
André for us to drink

such fine and cheap champagne
in front of the camera I turn

to improv heroes and beg to
break the bottle I am stuck inside

of work yet warm in winter when
the bottle breaks I always crave

(originally published in Ink Pantry, Spring 2020)

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)

Rugby

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

on television are beefy men
staring each other down
the camera zooms on one he

blows his snot onto the green
grass a quiet meteor my friends
and I see that half-drunk at

the tavern then proceed to
agree we are too anxious
to blow our nose with one

thousand people watching
I guess it’s just testosterone,
man, the comparisons of

muscles and tendons without
the tenderness of inward
reflection, a pool rippling

out from the inside then
pouring out over the field

(originally published in Impspired, Spring 2020)

Hive

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I rented an apartment of bees
that first year in Los Angeles
sticky buzzing day and night
stingers past the turn of knob

sunny day the bees hovering
over body encircling you
paranoid optimistic dreamer
don’t leave the hive yes stay

get stung camera rolling and
action as in stasis as in days
wrapped around you burning
August blankets dripping lust

for fame everyone plays the
game gathering in droves to
hot stove hands on surface
level interaction as in in-

action

 

(originally published in Chronogram, Fall 2019)

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)

Let’s Make a Deal

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

At a McDonald’s in Ohio the TV
plays Let’s Make a Deal & two
old white men are enraptured mouths
open in awe of the studio energy
around Wayne Brady & I
know he’s happy but the audience
is fake I was paid to be
fake in L.A. forty dollars cash is all
it takes for one to clap clap
mid-clap three hours palms
burn & lucky luck even those
who somehow chosen sneak
onto stage know they did
not bring the green glittering
top hat they’re told to wear & now
their hair holds dead rabbits
the producers keep killing
& we’re laughing it’s funny
they tell us & when I was on
the show they asked me to whoop
my gutted-fish stomach out
& of course I yelled the wrong
numbers in the game & brand-
new sedans were revealed
as what I could have had
had I said six instead of
seven & then collected my
forty in line alongside everyone
returning loopy props to
props I know my mom is proud she
shows me & my colorful howling
crowd to happy rooms years
after the date I’m biting into
McNuggets with gold teeth
& cavities

 

(originally published in New Pop Lit, Spring 2018)

Kentucky Murder Mystery

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

no blood
where they found
my uncle
on the kitchen floor

hole in his heart
gun on steel barstool

on the drive to the wake
my aunt admits
she suspects
the eldest son

when I meet him
the first thing he says is
someone stole my idea
when I wrote Dexter in the 90s
I always wanted to write
about serial killers

when searching the room
no foam erupts from
volcanoes of old couches
no fingerprints to find

his suicide does not add up
my aunt says again and again
examining scrubbed floors
for heavy footsteps to appear
when nothing else will

 

(originally published in #theslideshow, Winter 2018)