When I don't write poetry
I dream of Elvis
old fat Elvis with grease and glasses
shaking his velvet hips
at shrieking glamour addicts
as if it really meant something
and I wonder:
Could I really delude a universe
into flashlight floods and
an illusion of ideal
to make them believe
I never rose with bedhead
got zapped out on a Deal Or No Deal marathon
masturbated in the shower
or had to, as they say
pass Elvis
now and then?
And then burst the bubble
urban legend style...
When I don't write poetry
I dream a lot of crazy shit.
So what will I do now?
Write on? Trigger up for another round?
Or hail to the King?
~M~
