I Call Bullshit Upon the Throat of My Art

Palm to neck – tactile hypocrisy. My Adam’s apple,
weren’t my lips once sweet for Jesus? Crucifixion
was puberty lapping holy water in adulthood’s
church, blessed be hope. To remake myself
is a perpetual game of jacks and marbles
rolled by someone older. Rejecting rules,
I say I’ll get better.

James Croal Jackson (he/him) has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems in Columbia Journal, Rattle, and Reservoir. He edits The Mantle Poetry. Currently, he works in the film industry in Pittsburgh, PA. His website: https://jimjakk.com.

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1 Response to I Call Bullshit Upon the Throat of My Art

  1. Pingback: I Call Bullshit Upon the Throat of My Art | James Croal Jackson

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