jonberger

Crazy like a fox?
Crazy like a camel?
Crazy like an ox?
Crazy strong enamel?

Crazy like a poppa.
Crazy like an auntie
Crazy off of grappa.
Crazy like Chianti.

Them crazy Christians.
Crazy old Jew.
Crazy ’bout Madonna.
Crazy for you.

This isn’t Patsy’s “Crazy,”
nor crazy like Grey.
Not “Crazy Like an Ambush.”
or any other way.

Cuz we’re all crazy now,
as someone once said,
and to quote yet another
“If you ain’t crazy, you dead.”

So go crazy like Prince sang
in that Purple Rain ad.
If you’re not going crazy,
then you’re going mad.

Wherever you go
whatever you do
I’ll be there
right there
looking for you.
I’ll follow you
the whole way down.

Wherever the path goes,
whatever further commands you give
the first word was the deepest
and that is the instruction
ever will I follow
and that instruction is You.

I will dog your steps, doge.
Where you lead, I will follow, my King.
I will follow you
like the sun follows a creepy crawly beetle
because the world is round.
I will follow you no matter
where it is that you may go.

I’m in pursuit.
Every breath you take
every move you make
I’ll be at your back
I’ll be watching
I’ll be waiting
I’ll be with you.

This is how I was made.
This is how you made me.
I am a creature dedicated to you
from the very first.
There’s nothing you could say
to sway me from my path
this involves inexplicable math
but the calculations are clear:
where you are,
so am I.

Based on recent research
(which means a cursory listen
to a five-year-old podcast)
I have discovered
that cockroaches
are worse suited to survive
a nuclear holocaust
than I had thought.
Obviously, there is little evidence
to support how they would do
in an atomic blast
as few experiments have been done
with that in mind
but it is believed
that roaches would fare poorly
in a nuclear winter.
It’s just not their kind of neighborhood.

So even though
the roaches seem to have a pretty good time of it today
I would like to
as of this moment
formally rescind my previous claims
of loyalty, fealty
and servantry to our insect overlords.
I had sworn to them
all of my scraps and morsels
come the dissolution of bipedal civilization
but now
I’m not so sure
that I should put all my eggs
in a roach basket.

I may just go back
to investing in rat futures
or consider a crocodile comeback
or possibly have a little hope for humanity.

I joke, of course.
Something’s gonna change
but I just don’t think it’s a lock
for the roaches anymore.
Prove me wrong, dudes.
The gauntlet’s thrown.

It’s the midnight of the zombies
when the parties always start
where these muted monster sheeple
turn their stumbling into art.

They go rambling though the city
losing limbs while dripping brains.
They arrive on broken soles
and via bridges, tunnels, trains.

The zombies have nothing in mind
and destruction in their touches
but you have hope to make escape
unless you’re using crutches.

The nights can be mostly unfun
with undead antagonists
as their simpleminded march
will not be stopped by clever fists

so best to ride their rampage out
until the night is done
and wait for them to all go home
and then come out. You’ve won!

One could say a metaphor’s
been hidden in here by me.
Of course, I don’t know what
you’re talking about. I’m just a plain old zombie.

Each day
when I come home
I see a dead woman’s car has moved
from one side of the street
to the other.
I am not so fanciful as to believe
that the car has developed intelligence:
I asked it; she didn’t respond.

I had earlier planned to take responsibility
for these alternate side shenanigans
until a member of the family
eventually took the car away
though it’s been weeks since the dead woman died
and I’ve heard little since.
It is easier
knowing that this last detail
has been taken out of my hands
but I can’t help but be curious
as to who is helping out
my former neighbor
in this final good deed.

My current preferred theory
is that ghost mice arrive
sometime before midnight
and collectively man the controls of the car:
twisting the key
pushing the pedal
running along the wheel
all in the purpose
of moving the car along
crossing the street
to avoid tickets on the dead woman’s estate.

I have no proof for this theory
nor do I have proof
that no neighbor has the key
or that a relative is padding upstairs,
each day dealing with her stuff
each night moving her car
every hour confusing me more.

I know nothing about this situation.
I think I may prefer it
this way.

In a sullen fit
I spent that distant summer
on no train.
This was before I had a car
when my bicycle had been mostly stolen.
Except for a couple of emergency occasions,
I took the city by foot.

This was back
when you could pretend
that the city only meant Manhattan
especially if you actually lived in Manhattan
but it still meant
that trips to Staten Island
would require a little flexibility
on those self-imposed rules.

But who needed to go to Staten Island anyway?

I lived on the Upper West
and worked in midtown
and occasionally went downtown
and boy,
were my calves cut.
Biking already helped
but this daily activity further shaped
the one part of my body
that was regularly worked.

When people came
from out of town
I would usually meet them
at Penn Station
or Grand Central and then
we’d slowly walk the streets
that I was growing to know
increasingly well.

By the time I went back to school
I was ready for wheels again.
I got a new bike
and was willing to be driving
just about everywhere.
I was stricter once
when I was young
and my calves were cut.

Thank you for a most memorable evening.
I very much appreciated that performance.
It gave me a great deal to think about
and I’m sure that all of us who stayed
will be talking about it
for a long time to come.

The makeup and costumes were very creative
and everybody’s deliveries were incredibly well-done,
considering all the difficulties I imagine you had
with the production.
Really, quite impressive,
probably.

No,
I doubt anyone will blame the actors
for the racist overtones
– but really, that’s all they were:
overtones. Nothing was said outright –
Oh, rewrites. Huh.
Still not your fault, though.

I don’t think everyone could see the vomit
or noticed the change of actors
halfway through.
Those were different characters?
No, don’t explain.
I’m sure it’ll make sense if I
think about it
some more.

Anyway
you looked like
you were having a blast up there.
So comfortable
and isn’t that the important thing?

Merciful Minerva! I swear
the next time I clean my house
I am gonna find your number
and your birthday
and when that date rolls around
I’m gonna be ready
with the biggest cake I can afford
provided I put that info down
in the same note
where I took your number
and I’m gonna bring it to your address
which, you know,
I hope I’m privy to,
or maybe your office and,
assuming you don’t have other plans,
I’ll take you out to a really big steak lunch.

Unless you’re vegan.
Then, maybe we could go out for… carrots?
After that
we can go dancing
or to a show
or for a donut cruise,
if that’s what the kids are calling it,
and if vegans can eat donuts,
or go on cruises
– assuming you actually are vegan
in the first place.
The point is,
the afternoon of your birthday,
whenever it may be,
is yours to do with as you wish
with me as your willing servant,
if we can convince your boss
to let you take it.
I will use all my considerable powers
to make you happy.

Anyhow, looking forward to seeing you
once I find you again
once I tidy up a bit
once I get the chance
to figure out
just where my broom is.

The boy seemed a little down.
He looked up from his book
when I asked and said,
Bobby and them are calling me a baby
only because I don’t want to go to the cave.
Off Gayle Way?
That one.

Bobby says
that anybody who gets to a certain age
who won’t go into the cave
is a coward
afraid of his own shadow
not that you can see your own shadow in there.
It’s too dark and cold
and you don’t know what’s going on.
I don’t know why anybody
would want to spend any time
in a cave anyway.
What’s there to do in there?

They say you’re not grown up
until you’re willing to go into the cave
but I don’t see any point
and I don’t see any point
in talking to Bobby anymore,
anyhow.

No reason you need to listen
to anybody trying to talk you
into doing anything
you don’t want to do, I said.
The cave doesn’t mean anything to you
why go?

That’s what I said!
And if you ever find an interest
in stalctytes
or stalagmites
or hunting for fossils or gold
or any other kinds of treasures
and you want to go out Gayle Way,
that’s not Bobby or anyone’s business anyway.

He looked at me
like I didn’t know what I was talking about
and returned to his book.
He didn’t seem down anymore.
Mission accomplished?

She was fiddling with her notebook
and I, a big strong writer passing by,
offered all of my manly assistance.
She said she could figure it out on her own
but after I showed her some of my publications,
she let me take a seat
and approach the literary problem before her.
“Nothing good rhymes with cadenza,”
She said.
It was a problem indeed
but I didn’t know the meaning of the word defeat
or the word cadenza.

“It’s a solo in musical movement,” she explained,
“Usually improvised.”
“Of course,” I replied. “and you need it for -”
“My song needs a reference
to one of the traditional music terms
still rattling in my brain after too many years
of too much training.”
“Something you’re trying to get rid of…”
“Yeah,” she said, “like, maybe
‘Stick all those damned cadenzas
all up in your credenza’.”
She started writing
after licking the tip of her pen.
Who does that?

“I guess,” I said, “If you like that.
But is it really universal?”
She finished her thought on the page
and turned to me.
“I kind of like my my metaphors
to be selective.
I wouldn’t want my ideas to be too populist
then go viral, like influenza.
Oh, damn!”
She sped back to her notebook.

“Yeah, good job,” said I,
“but if it doesn’t work out,
you could always try to sell the song
second hand to some Boston fencer.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“A fence? From Massachusetts?
With the accent? A Boston fencah?”
She turned back to her book.
I don’t know if she noticed
when I eventually left.