Two Poems by James Croal Jackson


tin colander holes  parts of me peeking
out into the kitchen horizon    past the stove
which so very recently burned blue & 
contained above potentially dangerous
gas    of which you were in control
unlike last night you did the right
thing  begging cathy not to drive 
home   her slurring sentences
& drunken desperation   just
hours before  all three of us
together   I had to walk home
after downing Nosferatus
and you were there with her 
drinking tequila when you called
to say now I really
have to say goodbye
but everything was fine you 
arrived at your destination
but she wanted to
drive again the night
air thin
& shivering & 
blue when she 


Clothes as mushroom mindtrip– 
spider silk covers a body. 
A wallpaper of lava lamp 
transformations – decorate the house
however you see fit. Clown pants. Squirting
roses. Tuxedo coated in gelatin. All art is 
political, or none of it. This statement launches
to the topmost window of a towering bank
and bounces deep into the trenches 
of my thin, leatherworn wallet.

About the author

James Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet. He has two chapbooks, Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, forthcoming) and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), with recent poems in White Wall Review, Subnivean, and Thin Air. He edits The Mantle Poetry in Pittsburgh, PA.

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