Subterranean Blue Poetry


James Croal Jackson


by James Croal Jackson

I don't know how to help.
I have been in my house,
mouth shut, for months and

when I speak, it is the wrong
thing, so I apologize
for everything. Mostly I am sorry
I didn't burn the station



by James Croal Jackson

I know nothing
about you anymore.
Can't remember conversations.

Sometimes you are a leaf
blowing past the yard of memory,
a whisper reminding who

I was and am.


by James Croal Jackson

you answer when you are ready
to leave we want to rush to the next

drunk-stop the next essential crying
opposite ends of Silky's shuffleboard

table all the sugar scattered on wood
by the windows of natural sunlight

we slide the puck across attempts
to not cross the line too late

we have said what we have said
I am on my phone sobbing

to an automated voice the bank
the prophet's lugubrious martini

raised inevitably to our lips

Subterranean Blue Poetry

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