Poems—James Croal Jackson

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Ghost City Review, Little Patuxent Review, and Pirene’s Fountain. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)

 In Kazimierz I Chased a Pigeon

                      holding a cigarette

                                                    until it flew into the mess

                              of a tree

      smoke

                                    like a white twig

               I wandered 

                                       

                                   onto the crosswalk 

                                                         without looking

             the black sedan didn’t stop

Documents

Sitting on several stacks

of documents–

production reports,

call sheets,

deal memos,

shooting scripts,

& breakdowns.

                         

                         & you

think I could be safe?

In my powerlessness?

Before the studio’s

sharp teeth?

You want me

to confess

a conspiracy,

but I stand

no chance.

It is already written.

The Unknown

It rains heavily at the canal of my childhood.

Noah’s Ark, a woman says while entering 

the speakeasy. No, I never bring my umbrella

whenever I go home. I never feel a storm

coming on. Waiting by my phone for

old friend connections. And clouds

of new love, being always where 

I don’t want to be when it starts.

The weather lingers over my head

and runners populate the street

into a strange mass, bobbing

and chanting through puddles.

If I leave everything behind

I can run deep into this marathon,

a strange absorption into unknown

path, panting and following

the memory of sun.

Chipped

At the end of a long day all I want

is some sense of accomplishment

but I have been typing sentences

that belong to no one just

the gear that leads to grinding

teeth when I sleep

wears down enamel

in passive aggression

a chunk of me

crumbles and 

I almost eat it

On a Dark Street

I have been that guy

sitting in his car on a dark

street headlights off in

the company of siren 

cicadas during a festival 

down the street its residents

wanting sleep I have been

that hungry that listless

that finished within porch

light of someone else’s home

 

while people who look

like your past

walk on by