Elvis is in rehearsal for his last show,
polishing the toilet seat
for an audience of one;
the king can see that final curtain
rising through the mist
of his deep fried fame,
singing songs to himself
no one will purchase,
gummy through the cobwebs
of pharmaceutical sadness.
--
My father is in rehearsal for his last sale,
dampening the sofa cushions
for an audience of us;
my dad can see that final customer,
yellow through the mist
of cirrhosis fever,
speaking words to himself
no one will fathom
as they drown into a jigger
of bourbon madness.
--
The king and my pops
never made it to September,
dissolving into nothing
in the flush of the Summer of Sam.
It is interesting how you manage to communicate such complicated subject matters in the most simple form. You show real class and creativity in your work.
ReplyDeleteI seldom find stuff this good. Abstract art, especially poetry, prose, and prose poetry are often very difficult to come by. I am always delighted to stumble upon great stuff.
I Salute U and keep them coming.