GRACELAND
by Chris Gregory

Through the dim graveyard mist
the long grey cadillacs purr by,
their windows blacked out,
grey hoods rolled up.
Inside, immaculate suits,
Hooded eyes behind shades,

A thick Havana haze.

And in the crack house, down on Lonely Street,
In the Ghetto where the Devil's in disguise,
An off duty hooker prostrates herself
Before the frozen
Image of The King...
The sneer,
The upturned eyebrow,
Guitar slung low,
Hips in sideways sway,

Head tilted back,
Hair shining in sleek black light,
Mouthing the words:

"LOVE ME TENDER..."

The word is out:
The King is risen

Arrangements have been made:

The rights have gone exclusively
To Coca-Cola. A syndicated worldwide network TV deal
Has been clinched.
Already, the armies of mechanical diggers
Are approaching, ready to rock, ready to roll
Into mountains of crushed cans
and styrofoam cartons,
each one emblazoned with the sacred logo
across the face of The Risen One.

Tonight, in Disneyland
He will walk again,
Bathed in artificial light,
Laser beams and fireworks
Flanked by
Mickey Mouse, Michael Jackson, Madonna
And God...