It seems I've found a new place to dwell.
All day I fire my .38 into a television the size of god.
Being risen, my kung-fu jumpsuit is brilliant.
Even the angels must look awayand Christ
can be seen, at a distance, fingering his ancient rags.
I believe this'll be the swingingest eternity ever.
But some nights one improper shimmy of the hips
and the jungle room gets turned to desert
and all the Harem Scarem girls are salt.Then, centuries
of sleep, teeth floating around the head like thorns.
These sideburns descend all the way into hell.
This happened when Lucifer cried Rapunsel
and climbed from the pit with his entourage:
the minor demons wailing rockabilly, the debutantes
in their burnt corsages, the sausage grinder and his monkey.
I am not an official product of the Elvis Presley Estate,
but my heart still sings in its colonnades of fat,
the bones in my hands are still packed with suns,
still there are long nights when my face falls off like a sheet
and the wind leaving my body says Graceland, Graceland.
The king don't leave a clambake 'til it's done.
The girls like to get recumbent under my swaying grass skirts,
while I play both ukuleles at once.
The first just to make the stars burn,
while the other one says to the sea: c'mon, shake your ass.