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James Croal Jackson


Franklin Avenue in 2015

Two years ago, we would drink tall beers 
hidden in black, plastic bags 'til we passed
from laughter, fluttered to fill
our glasses with more.

There would have been more pages 
to turn, but none of us spoke our
human language anymore.

Now, a browned frond slumps 
between parked cars.

Two teenagers flirt
underneath a palm. Whispered leaves
are fragile– each movement 
a link to the next
until it is not.

Their laughs reverberate
when they, too, part. Uncork
those swan bottles–
let them go, graceful 
into night.
​

10514 National Blvd

the couch a forlorn slinky
stagnant. f-stop set to zero. focus:
 
predestined flickering lights
where dreams meet swan
matches and peel, lit & untethered
 
jaunty flows
the air beneath
the vacant couch
 
warrior of staleness & mildew
      
ambassador to dust-covered curtains–       
                     
shards of dreams
in beams of sun
stream into the room; at least
what is breathed, what can be seen
through blinds in deep sleep–
​

LeBron Comes Home

Sawdust struck our eyes
when his teeth jawed
themselves against our tree.

His headband
constricted us like
a snake.

When he unclasped,
so did we.

Our bodies slackened
like absolved marionettes.
Held beers became
puddles on bar tables.

The yesterdays burnt
wax into our throats.

Today he is Atlas with the city
perched on his shoulders, the Earth

a lacquered basketball. Willingly,
now, we witness and worship his
every move, drawn by an influence
we ourselves do not carry with
every blink, every breath.
​

F(X)=4x+2

I.
 
The function is linear. With
each increase of a second, the
distance traveled moves west, inward,
west, a water bottle jammed
beneath the brake pedal, radio
static, velocity dependent on
time, a subset of timing and luck,
on your face embraced
in a cradle on my chest,
heartbreathing, 
the raft-like rhythms never
let me sleep, never being
 
II.
 
Independent variables,
seconds (x),
muted starlings
struck with the affecting
distance per second, the moon an eggdrop
removed from home, gentle snores,
initial velocity of two meant for two,
the intercept x or y, meaningless
letters to write you, no matter
the slope increasing, decreasing:
always feels like falling
when I stop
​
Picture

James Croal Jackson's Profile

Lance's Lament

as we gathered to mourn
the puppy struck by a car
outside of the bank,
i was reminded of glue:
how it encrusts fingers; if
it could seep through skin
it would sleep in your lungs
& heart & hasten the path
to the common rest

they couldn't have fastened
the coffin with glue– too cruel,
they said– 

if your hand could even summon
the will to move

a square, red magnet fastens
your snow origami valentines forever
to green construction paper, tiny prayers
bottled

i hope there is another side, even when i open
the door for orange juice, cool breath of air
within, glass, it breathes, infested
with my own fingerprints, tartness
prior to the swallow
& acceptance– for as long as i am,
you are, too
​

Baklava Smile

at four A.M. we drink burning
rivers under the solitary
light hanging from the crusted,
tall white pole perpendicular
to dad's red, handcrafted birdhouse
which spins in the wind.
 
by five it rains.
we leave the cobwebbed lawn chairs
in darkness and sniffly we travel
to France with rocks in our boots
on hilly sides of streets next to deep ravines.
statues stand tall in driveways
and gleam gargoyle teeth.
 
sunrise and your baklava smile
is reluctant sweet summer
molasses and you say we will
always be friends but not when
you are cold. I procure a folded
blanket and wrap you in it and
 
underneath
it seemed appropriate (didn't it)
how we didn't know yet how to cross. 
for a long time we did not and
miles make for lost time
adrift of the other
​

Runner

You always have to run.

Short North to downtown, 
city to city, Indiana 

to Tennessee– 
one shoe on gravel, 

the other careening
through time and space

into a green 
where you are unknown

and your running shoes are empty 
at our red swing’s feet.

I know you never run to leave, 
driving your horizon eyes 

miles to sun– and you, after its setting,
glide beside each highway’s unlit rivers 

on the bridge of the median, drunk 
from driving so long under moon,

far from where our empty bottles
collect in a skyward infinity, 

a mountain of clinking memories–
a marathon, a gap traversed quickly.
​

Long Distance

Home is on top of my orange blanket
that's a lump in my bed like a
coffin, sweating in the August heat,
knowing you won't call, Pepsi cans tethered
by string three thousand miles
apart.
​

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***

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