The Elvis I knew well was spirtual
The Elvis I knew well was spiritual.
The books he’d read on mystics, yoga, Jung
and Jesus, Buddha—long before your digital
technology kicked in and Mao Tse Tung
became an icon you could click—he tried
to buy enlightenment. He thought a check
might do the trick: big bucks, love-tendered, wide
and blank. No deal. No ouija board, no deck
of tarot cards could trump his fate. His star
beamed underneath (or far beyond) the God
he knew as blackness, gospel, blues. As far
as light-years went, Elvis could ride and nod.
He couldn’t get high on glory, glamour, fame.
Blissless, he drugged you with his moves, his name.