I am
& nothing
about
the murk
of love
extracted
from
my worst
(originally published in Terror House Magazine, Summer 2019)
Writing
Take the City, Too
you say a package was
stolen from your porch
I am just trying to stay out
of the rain
vent blowing frigid air
through this new home
& you tell me Robert witnessed
the van speeding beyond the jangled suburbs
as if thievery need be
so complicated
stealing happens
on the sidewalk
these blankets of concrete cracked
beneath high-rises
a UPS truck sputters past a pothole
right turn signal blinking, blinking
(originally published in BOMBFIRE, Spring 2021)
rubber ducks were in the river oh it was a game
it was a game youth I walked across the bridge
above the canal to burlap fields we ran to sun
static the radiation the gravity aged us it agitated
us swish-swish in the darkroom and developed
into smudges a shake of camera to the window
to blur what we were
(originally published in Uppagus, 2019)
Can’t Strategize Depression
Chunks of chess in my brain / surgery for / inclement weather.
Sacrificing pawns for the greener good. The greener god.
I am laughing at the things you say / though they’re not funny.
Nor trying to be. But I want to be liked / and to like / and to
continue the niceties on this island. To sever the sadness / I
said I never / wanted again. But words differ from / what
happens / when you swim the sea / no shore in sight.
(originally published in COG Magazine, Spring 2019)
This Morning
I woke up disjointed, ripped
the blanket off my head
to drink some water. I waited
around last night– downing
whiskey in my going-
out best– for my phone
to light up, to lighten
the room a little bit.
(originally published in Studio One, Spring 2021)
Medicated Anticipation
you said wait a few years
you’d move to California
by then already gone
an ill-timed applause
two hands in magnetic
motion missing
like sipping fluid through
an allergic throat closing
such lean times
the tangerine sun
sleeps til noon
didn’t your dad write
a book on the art of joy?
because it is an art
a painting with overused
blues these uppers I knew
gleaming in the froth
of your mouth
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Fall 2019)
Commercial Compost
marketers place rocks
in the rubbers of slingshots
define need: your dad
can beat up my dad
muscular and well-rested
yours can afford fresh vegetables
oh plentiful soil
I call upon the wisdom of worms
slithering underground civilization
thrives on the waste of buckets
inside the firmament of dirt
(originally published in Pomona Valley Review, Summer 2019)
Inevitable Change
surf another wave
of cyclical maturation
I am who I am, you
are who you are–
static trust– your white
noise a velcro
loosening of being
unhinged– I leave cities
faster than lovers, cruise
the interstate in blindfolds
before rumble strip sobers
me beyond the paved path
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2021)
Elsewhere
in darkness we wade
into this shimmering orb
a crystallized common
ground beneath the palm trees
in this desert spanning the time
since I saw you last I lived in my car
when you went on vacation
and handed me the key to your home
for the week wood panels covering
your windows blocking light
I remember thinking I’ve lost
my sense of place like
sleeping through a daydream
staring at the ceiling
from your pond-sized bed
I could not wait
to leave the key
in the top drawer
of your dresser and
never see you again
because I didn’t
want to tell you
your home was more
like a prison at least when living
in a car there’s the
illusion of motion
with nowhere else to go
I find myself with you
now in this outdoor pool
swimming on its own
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Summer 2019)
Ramen in Japantown
I had been eating like shit living
in my car, fingernails full of fungus.
We agreed to meet in Japantown
to enjoy a fancy ramen
but this would be my first
in many years
that wasn’t Maruchan
(cheap crinkly plastic,
cancer-flavored beef-dust
in a sawtooth packet)
& you must be aware the body
struggles to digest it.
During our meal,
two years since
we last talked,
the cheap ramen must have
intermingled in my stomach
with the pork-broth
real deal. I put an egg
on top for authenticity
when you told me you had
just bought Coachella tickets
for yourself & your brother
& I didn’t want to know the
price because I was living
on wages made on the days
I was lucky enough to
find work. Umami
lingered on my tongue
as we ruminated
in silence over
how vast the distance
our lives traveled
in different directions.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)
James Croal Jackson 