sorry about all this junk everywhere
we won’t leave the house it’s a hundred
degrees heat the same rooms the same
clouds the same dust nothing to escape
so much shit you yell all of it is oil slick
off our bones if I could sell my veins I
wouldn’t but someone would you would
purchase them and ornament my body
sell my cheap taxidermy that’s just how
it is there ain’t enough drugs in the world
to convince me otherwise there are
I’ll trade you thirty dollars for an exciting
week enough for an air bag each small
car ride home do you have weed? what
should we do? these nightmares every day
give you nightmares every night they hit
you in the chest and your mind just screams
no more what is the problem do you care?
let’s play fucking music we need blood
so we can sweeten so we can sleep finally
classic rock we got the sixties beat
let’s drink until it’s cold until heaven
is an illusion we did it now look

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.