poem of the day 04.18.12

hunka-hunka

all of these little shakespeare’s out there
pissing out poems
and i’m stuck on another dead morning
listening to the radio
with nothing in my head
but the cost of food and comic books
i stare at the wall
at pictures of elvis presley
the icon of an era that is starting to become
dead and gone
and i think elvis never wrote any of his songs
he never had to sit there in the morning
with a headache
or a pinched nerve in his neck
plant his ass on a cheap, hardwood chair
and really try to figure out the subtle cadence
of love me tender
or what it meant to be a hunka-hunka anything
well, i feel like a hunka-hunka shit this morning
a morning where art is no pleasure
where it is no amazing pulse sensing through me
mornings like this
the very act of finding the word feels like work
like another goddamned job that i awaken to
there is no one in this room
to love me tender right now
there is not sympathy for the poor fool
who cannot write
who cannot create at his own command
hell, i wish that i were elvis this morning
have someone else sit in this four-walled cell
and do all the grudge work
sweat out line after line
while all i did was put on a gold suit
curl my lips and swivel my hips
make the good girls scream
and wet their little panties
like they used to do on television
every time that bastard from tupelo
showed up
to sing someone else’s songs
making them all believe that they
were his
and his alone.