Some Kind of Crazy
- 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 [End Page 57]
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 Jackson, an accountant and arts administrator, is doing graduate work in creative writing at the University of Oregon. He was awarded a 1995 Pew Fellowship in the Arts and was named the 1994 MacDowell Poetry Fellow. A member of the Dark Room Collective, he has held residencies at Cave Canem, the MacDowell Artist Colony, and the Third Avenue Performance Space.
