Mean Machine

The only good thing in this city
is my 1968 Coupe – long, slick, olive
green. Brakes, good. Tires –
fair. I may have worn the rubber too quickly
the way I sped through red lights after you said Jesus
would save me in these hard rains that summon
mud from yesterday, hell onto asphalt, and hiding
under the sheet you wouldn’t show me
your face anymore, said everything
turns to wine in time, but in this city there
are thousands of dry fish waiting for rain,
and you can be a kind of Jesus, you can
redeem your soul for bread.

James Croal Jackson’s poems have appeared in magazines including The Bitter Oleander, Lines+Stars, and Rust+Moth. He is the winner of the 2016 William Redding Memorial Poetry Contest via The Poetry Forum. He lives in Columbus, Ohio. Visit him at

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1 Response to Mean Machine

  1. Pingback: Mean Machine | James Croal Jackson

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