poems by James Croal Jackson

August 10, 2012

 

Friday night patio party.

Drinks with the server crew.

 

The Exterminator untangles

cords behind the stereo,

 

a glowing green-eyed demon,

excited to unleash

 

a swarm of houseflies

into our ears.

 

 

 

Finger

 

at our local bar

you put my finger

 

in your mouth

and suck

 

apart from

your partner

 

this now lingers

in my mind

 

takes a field day

in my dreams

 

because

I had a crush

 

and this kind of touch

will lead me where

 

I must go no

longer

 

 

 

The Photographs of Layzerus

 

were supposed to have fountains

not just in Santa Clarita, but

in Akron, too, a missed

moment against a brick wall

of self the undermined

understanding of art

versus creator, physical

creation versus memory

music I sang to create

a sentiment of dust

 

 

 

Three Rivers Studios

 

I.

wood waddles

down the path

of silos

 

II.

maze of memories–

in each room

you’ll find a hundred

 

III.

a vastness

walking

end to end

 

 

 

After

 

I want more– god,

our nights on the patio

are memory’s reruns.

I want it back: you,

your hand secretly

caressing my chest

beside the dead firepit.

Everything. You asked

to craft me a drink

with Firefly whiskey.

You made it strong

& asked if I could

withstand this. No–

I’m weak. Each kiss

that night, your lips

sudden, brief– through

the crowd we looked

for each other, making

a game of running

around the kitchen island

to never catch the other,

but how close we were

to giving our all. This

close to telling you

I never could get over

you. But here’s

a chance to start.

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