video games

Strangers with Appreciation

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

IN BOUNDLESS EXPANSE
BETWEEN JOB AND SILENCE
NOSTALGIA AND THE EVER-
LIVING PRESENT I SIT IN FRONT
OF A PROJECTOR SCREEN
COOLED BY THE WINDOW
UNIT I CAN DERIVE NO
MORE MEANING TO VIDEO
GAMES NO
                               it is the purpose of a stranger to dream
                               for me to be engaged so in his fever
                               your creativity is what I want
                               now that I don’t have the rapturous
                               privilege of losing myself
               but haven’t I
          wrestled with every single
whim every whistle
   of the wind that calls for me
I answer
                               for a little while then reach then
                        ASK NO QUESTIONS
                        FOR ANSWERS I COULD NEVER KNOW
                        THE MEANING OF THE STARS NOR
MY PLACE WITHIN MY BRAIN WHERE
                        THE SOUL SITS
                 it’s sick sometimes in
                 how I want to be someone else???
                 but I look at old pictures of myself
                 and think he’d be so happy to see
                 how unrecognizable he is to himself

(originally published in confetti, Fall 2023)

Fall Guys

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

gonna be a good dive
            pink windmills spin forever
                       I thanked you already
     I am always thanking you
consider this next apology all ready
               dizzy heights
                       I’ll file in the hi Sara folder
       maybe I will choose to drop
                       down to blue under-surface
                              where everyone’s at I miss that
           you mean I’m supposed to grab a tail
                     with these conveyor belts & keep it
         I don’t know my role
                             but the walls
                       have googly eyes & I don’t mean
                                            the stampede at the checkered line
             these same damn races every time
                      I’ve never watched the procession after me
          don’t worry you haven’t done anything wrong
                                                                                  yet
                          the situation’s complicated
                                                                        continue

(originally published in One, Fall 2022)

Video Games on New Year’s Day

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

grape stem the fruit centipede

          parched time

                    a skin between my teeth

fingernails tapping on blue porcelain bowl

          then the controller my hand’s touched everything in this place

thanks for your spider fingers on the soft of my chest

          lips purple with last night’s wine

                   new year burst with pessimism not

optimism beginnings are overrated

          I do best when I don’t know where I’m going

(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)

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)

World Series, 2019

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

First baseball game I’ve seen this season– game seven
of the World Series, Houston versus Washington. A sea
of orange in Texas. Scherzer versus Springer. Joe Buck
talks about muscle injections, pinched nerves, breaking
ball– full count. He says this series is full of big swings,
big emotions– isn’t that a normal week? Dad watched
every Cleveland game. Ever. For a summer I did,
too, but October is chillier than usual. Last week, we
buried my oldest brother. We used to play sports
games– Triple Play 2000, Gran Turismo– on the
basement’s cold, brown carpet, where all physics
hurtled toward inevitable destinations: a ball singing
through the air into a blurry glove, or tires spinning
through some grainy tunnel. We’d trade wins, half-
luck, but there was always a conclusion. Last year,
I held his hand in the hospital. He squeezed my
fingers and said what he couldn’t with his eyes.
Last week, he didn’t get the kidney he needed.
When Washington wins, I see men cry on each
other’s shoulders. When my brother dies, my brother
cries on my shoulder. I cry on his shoulder.
And when we look at each other,
we find someone we both miss.

(originally published in Knot Literary Magazine, Fall 2021)

Meditation on Muscle Memory

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

If I had musical talent
I wouldn’t write poems.

Guitar-grown fingernails.
Nimble strings.

There’s no need
to lie. I couldn’t bring myself to try

when my parents thought
it’d be a good idea for me
to take piano lessons.

I had Game Boy eyes
and the Final Fantasy theme on repeat.

My dad had already explained
the difference between basin wrench

and torque. Wasted an afternoon
taping leaking pipes.

Like many of his time
he knew plumbing, mechanics,
home improvement

then brought me into rooms with broken
machines. My mind was Mickey Mouse
spelling words and song,

not the kind to vivisect
a bird to learn the function.

All I knew were not even stories yet
and still my hands
sing few callouses.

 

(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain, Spring 2018)