Convert or die

Conversion Story

One Elvis joke too many

but how could I deny

the urge

to palpate

his tender bruise

garish

as Vegas neon in a blender.

White Line Fever

in a spreading stain

upon a line dry king

size sheet hung

before a virgin forest

of painted pipe rooting

The Gratiot Drive-In

habitat for a priesthood of tethered owls

sermonizing

from open windows

tinny strangled hoots

lifting as one

raptured up

into a summer night

made flesh

in sacrament

warm Stroths and oily popcorn

willing intemperate tongues

to blasphemy.

The King

ensconced

upon a pearly throne

holy raiment shed and puddled

bearing down with regal bearing

crying out

for vengeance

for crying out loud

commanding

His servant

spill blood

in Mine name

swift vengeance wrought

from the back seat

upon the knobby throat
of a mouthy innocent

gone contrite

atonement balanced

on the thin edge

of a six inch blade

my conversion

bathed in the blinding light

of the second reel.