| Poem of the Week |
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Elvis in Hell On days when he is not condemned to shake off death and rise again before the startled, rear-view gaze of the white-line-wired big-rigger high-balling through Peoria, or reflected in the window-shopping reverie of a Tulsa football widow, he's imprisoned in a velvet painting in El Paso, a plaster statuette in Nashville, a T-shirt on the rack. Cursed with harpy impersonators in spangled V-neck and bells, drawling old songs, sweet youthful notes that scald his soul like splattered bacon grease. But sundown brings real agony when night lights up the Strip: no headliner, he, just the warm-up for the Big Marquee Himself, the Boss of Mephistopheles, who sets 'em howling with lines like: "Take my dignity . . . Please!" |
| by Michael Waterson |