bedroom, black Walkman
spinning CD-Rs of Mega Man
music. I want to dance–
anything but obsidian.
Scraped knees learning
to ride a bike– bloodstained
handlebars leaving the woods.
I can handle myself better
now, not always falling into
potholes I noticed yesterday.
Last week, driving home
from work in the city,
my tires hissed
as they failed to replicate
their cells, then blew out
in the middle of the road
in the warehouse district.
But I had music going–
OverClocked ReMixes
from Chrono Cross,
which got me thinking
about the Winds of Time,
parallel universes,
the inevitability of Lavos–
I had to call for help.
I spent green youth
cooped in front of
the basement television.
Now, if I were to fetishize
anything it would be
no real consequences–
to the cyclical parallels
of the universe.
I shuffle through memory for
a single midnight. What did we do
at school? Redeem gold tokens
at Swings ‘N’ Things? Cleveland led
me to lake by leash. We listened to Feist
among lilacs and buttercups. We lived
near the airport, never flew. I shouldn’t
keep money for unusable transactions. What
a concept, after the drinking started. If darkness
is inevitable, please invite me to your party.
---
James Croal Jackson (he/him) is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has two chapbooks, Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021) and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)
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