Anonymous

no one knows who
i am, no photos
of me on a
screen, where i might
look wealthy or important
wearing a suit, standing
serious, ready to buy

or sell something, or
convince you that i
am indeed successful,
i walk, don’t drive
a tesla, or anything,
and therefore you might
not know me and

how i sometimes just
stare at trees and
how that is just
fine, good enough to
breathe and watch you
in wonder, trying so
hard to be somebody

Graceland Dropout

They sport cowboy boots and We Love Elvis t-shirts holding iPads, wearing headphones for the tour. I sang Blue Suede Shoes karaoke once, but that wasn’t enough to keep me walking around his Graceland estate with the rest of the ducks, waddling from room to room taking photos of the King’s white TV set and blue curtains.

Not sure how we got here, Memphis sweat and people twanging about how it was Grandma who liked him, not Grandpa. I wanted to love this little slice of my country, even woke up listening to Paul Simon’s tune, but ten minutes in I knew I was a goner. To say I don’t really care is an understatement, the man was a man, sang songs, acted, died of drugs and bodily neglect, his health wrecked by fame and addiction.

But the pre-tour film left all that out, as generation after generation venerates the get rich success, crash and burn failure of his jumpsuit days and private plane, and I suppose I’m the curmudgeon, sitting watching them all, waiting for the shuttle to take me back, away from America’s celebration of this glorious excess.