in parentheses

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022) and Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021). Recent poems are in Stirring, Vilas Avenue, and *82 Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)

J. C. Jackson has been previously featured by In Parentheses.

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The Mall

I am as vacant as the mall
my mom works at. To sell
myself would be a grave
marketing mistake. Love
to all who try their best,
and love to all who don’t.
My hair smells of cigarettes.
I haven’t smoked in
fifteen years.

the conspiracy of money

on
plots
you
planted
gold
is
still
too
green
for
plants
you
are
pale
as
a
piece
which
sticks
to
your
mouth

Wandering Alone This House

I didn’t come along into the song of walk
to wander through the city alongside you
I wanted alone I needed alone I been encumbered
with energies emanating through light computer
screens I been cucumbered been seeing
from your kaleidoscope perspective I don’t want
to fight anymore in this bounce house no
fruits of our passionate longing to flatten
out on the grass with our flavorful juices
absorbed by earth

I Believe I Tend to Complicate

I believe I tend to complicate
all matters, but when I strain

I remember we are one unified
being swimming between the lie

of stars as tides sweep over the city.
Quiet night– at least no one

seems to mind the oak of
my cologne. I can smell

the earth and the rain all around,
the seaweed everywhere.

The tang of time is yellow,
maybe parched, alongside

herbal tea and
cool desiccation.

I am on
the beach below her, watching clouds,

splintering sky, my eternal life
a big house just waiting to

sell to a surfer. Above, the yellow light
depends on the seasons, the turquoise

narrows the closer it gets to the blue,
coinciding with what looks like a different wave.

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