September Pool Rental
Lost
that social
muscle,
backstroke
that
splashes all the
words
my mouth
wants
to say but
needs
weed
for,
the weeds
overgrowing
in
the far
away
wild.
My back
patio’s
unbearable,
its
familiarity.
I
want
a
pool, or
someone
new
to dive
into
my
mind
and
stay
a while.
28th Street Bridge
Every time I drive the 28th St. Bridge I
always make the joke
to myself– should I really be driving
on this?
It's a paunchy punchline to no one and
still I apologize for it–
a comment on the bridge's chipped green
paint and rusted
hinges, the (perceivedly) rickety
short-distance, its creaking (I
don’t hear a thing). How close I've
been to a laugh, some snicker
into an abyss– I've said much worse to
people and not apologized,
driving over the strip after a fight with
my lover, suspended
in the air a silence like tracking a FedEx
truck with a package
you know will reach you but when? That
apology– the tethering
between the space of sound, the hum of a
hungry engine,
covalence of steel and structure bonding
across a void.
Indie Film Production
Sherry from makeup tells me I am
cherubic, my face something mischievous,
a wallpaper torn–or an advertisement
from biblical times. I, however, do not
believe
I am responsible for the ten thousand dollars
she thinks I owe. This cash she says my
hidden hands hold are shredded shards
of fallen founding fathers. If you think
I am
a liar, a pig– come touch up my face.
Sketches of Buildings
Happy
to finally be introduced, you said I’m proud
of this architecture.
It’s
true– your sketches are exquisite. In the gallery, your large displays
of heart-shaped
buildings: blueprints of love in metaphorical forms.
A
while ago, when I was lost and new (and you were, too), I knocked at
your
door and the day led us to a festival, a sunny ninety. We drank
lemonade
and walked with sour-sweet lips as ghosts through strangers.
It
didn’t work out, us, but we’d see each other at shows and you’d ask me
when
you’d meet my partner. Next time, I’d
say, like I was ready to build
something
new from the crumbles my desire likes to leave, how
to
draw these ashes shapes for someone new to admire.
James
Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet. He has a chapbook, The
Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems published in
Sampsonia Way, San Antonio Review, and Chiron Review, among others. He edits
The Mantle Poetry (themantlepoetry.com) and works in film production in
Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com)