Some Kind of Crazy

It doesn't matter if you can't see
Steve's 1985 Corvette: Turquoise-colored,
Plush purple seats, gold-trimmed
Rims that make little stars in your eyes

As if the sun is kneeling at
The edge of sanity. Like a Baptist
Preacher stroking the dark underside
Of God's wet tongue, he can make you

Believe. It's there; his scuffed wing-
Tips--ragged, frayed, shuffling
Concrete--could be ten-inch Firestone
Wheels, his vocal chords fake

An eight cylinder engine that wags
Like a dog's tail as he shifts gears. Imagine
Steve, moonstruck, cool, turning right
Onto Ridge Avenue, arms forming

Arcs, his hands a set of stiff C's
Overthrowing each other's rule,
His lithe body and head snap back
Pushing a stick shift into fourth

Whizzing past Uncle Sam's Pawn
Shop, past Chung Phat's Stop & Go.
Only he knows his destination,
His limits. Can you see him? Imagine

Steve, moonstruck, cool, parallel
Parking between a Pacer and a Pinto--
Obviously the most hip--backing up,
Head over right shoulder, one hand

Spinning as if polishing a dream;
And there's Tina, wanting to know
What makes a man tick, wanting
A one-way trip to the stars.

We, the faithful, never call
Him crazy, crackbrained, just a little
Touched. It's all he ever wants:
A car, a girl, a community of believers.

Major L. Jackson is a graduate of the creative writing program at the University of Oregon. His poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Boulevard, Obsidian II, and Painted Bride Quarterly. He is the recipient of scholarships and fellowships from Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, MacDowell Artist Colony, and Pew Fellowships in the Arts. Currently, he serves as Assistant Professor of English at Xavier University of Louisiana.

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