You’ll Know Me Always by the Red Door

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

you said the first time I picked you up
on our way to a family-style dinner &
then we drove through curvy hills I am
not yet comfortable with, the darkness
now so fitting.

I came empty-
handed, I didn’t want to drink
too much then drive you home. &
we didn’t know anyone who’d be
at our table but you’re better with
strangers. The restaurant was on
a corner facing a bus stop, &
people watched as I drove doughnuts
around the dual-railroad tracks
adjacent, seeking a place to park
not marked by sign or road decay.

I wanted to talk to you more
about anything, but you opened
my driver door
& walked me in.

(originally published in Words & Whispers, Winter 2023)

Now That You Are Engaged

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

       I refuse to believe
a word you told me. We talked home
movies by your bedside lamp
       and shared a feather pillow.
Don’t talk to me about the fate
of birds when morning comes and all
       I hear is silence. Then I listen a
little longer and hear your soft breathing
I know you’re faking. You don’t sleep,
       I didn’t either. The absinthe on your
breath meant we lived long enough
to forget another night. How could
       we forget a lesson like that?

(originally published in Sweet Tree Review, Winter 2023)

Whims

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am attracted to power
the sun is a battery and I bask
in a ruse of energy or chemistry
in my worn-torn pajamas
and constant wanting
to leave the house
to see some birds
with a warmer destination
in mind or casually
run into an old friend
and we will ask how
the other is doing
for a total of five seconds
before moving further
into our respective drifts
of time forgetting
the tentative pizza plans
we had just talked about
forgetting the ice cold
air around us that rises
up and only gets colder
and I am lifted too
arms first
until I latch onto
the wings of a plane
which knows where
it shall go and
my whole life
has been like that
following the whims
of whatever
carries me
further

(originally published in CultureCult POWERLESS Anthology. Fall 2024)

Grays

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The word just past
your grasp is deaden,
as in: I can’t believe
I’ve been at this job
for five years now.

Still, I wish I had
the fortitude
to last forever
without ominousness–

no heat death if you stare
out into infinity. No
loved ones dying
their hair black
in old age.

(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)

Twix

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

If there is a bowl
of Twix at work,
I will act apathetic

when others are
around. Alone I will
bury open wrappers

tenfold in the trash.
Perhaps I have been
watching too much

true crime television,
or lived in the U.S.
too long– standing

over candy, ripping open
Twix after inadequate
Twix, I find the initial

bite of chocolate
caramel into biscuit
enough to make me

want the whole stick,
the whole candy bowl,
everything I can have

that’s for the taking,
like anything has ever
been entitled to me.

(originally published in PPP Ezine, Winter 2023)

On Sassafras the KEPT ONES

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                         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)

Sine

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

sometimes I am too conformed to the shape
of music to hear the trapeze and

trampoline of flute and synth flinging ever
toward the eternal soundscape. pigeon

percussion next door the clanking spoons
below– I think we need distance.

Your heartbeat swells across soundstage,
no stethoscope, no starlight though once

we wanted to be famous. or want. it is
complicated. we are more paranoid

of strangers than ever before. that’s
no baking sheet, it’s rustling leaves,

not your shoes or mine. You ask
questions I don’t have.

(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain, Summer 2024)