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 departed
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.