Table of
Contents
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PUNCH ME IN THE GUT OF SADNESS
rain I am trying to provide
like you the red cardinals
pecking at ground forever
holes into deepness a guitar
wailing thunderstorm solo
concert of flashing lights to
burn the world’s an AA chair
& I’m mumbling into the air
I wish was your ear shawled
with your black hair & warmth
my teeth nibbling the edge
until it gives
James Croal Jackson__
�Aldo Vigliarolo: Progression #3
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VICTORIAN VILLAGE / WEST ADAMS
Walking over paved bricks
under sunlight in January,
it is quiet enough
to hear the earth shiver
from her breath, far
from the Los Angeles heat
I grew used to– a hundred
police cars wailing down
Vermont past blurs
of fleeting sidewalks,
boarded-up businesses
adorned in graffiti,
and dead black bags
full of not-Autumn
leaves.
James Croal Jackson__
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WEEKENDS
You said it was your best birthday weekend ever.
You sang on stage in a large bar surrounded by friends.
When we turned our bodies into rhythm, pulsations,
and streamlines, the physical elements of snow and rain–
of kisses outside in blowing wind, and people honking,
winnowing by, I wondered about unicycle riders, the way
they wheel tall along sidewalks, straight-thin razor
cutting sound– their legs in cycled motions suggesting
let’s drag this out until we can’t
James Croal Jackson__
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