In Memphis

In Memphis, where the gypsies come to hide their dead in earth
and I too seeking burial for past mistakes learned the blues
hoping to hide my sense of misdirection like Elvis
there along Madison Avenue two blocks from the Western Steakhouse

and fell in love only to marry for another reason
learning to obfuscate and blur the truth with cold beer
shooting the shit with Wonderful Wanda
and a myriad of characters that also knew the darkness

there at Green’s Lounge sitting in with aging bluesmen
also worried about the metal detector at the door
who knew the next generation wasn’t going to help them die
where I learned to like the sound of my own voice

regardless of the words it spoke
and all the endless hours of mindless drudge
that some smart words about politics or drug culture
could erase in the echo of a microphone

where I stopped doing Elvis impersonations
because they got to be too real.

18 AUG 2003

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