Voices on the Wind Voices on Relaxation
no escaping Elvis by Mark Vogel for Halloween my cousin wears the shiny shirt with puffy sleeves and absurd cape his mother threatens to take to the Salvation Army. Other caricatured minions wear his outfits as ridiculous costumes everyone can recognize— pretending childish and wholesome Uncle Elvis will soon strut in from a gentler time when one singer could cover it all. Once upon a summer time hardly anyone escaped Elvis happiness lurking in tight pants at the State Fair with glossy hair askew. Just back from the White House, he took the stage at the local high school—twisting and smiling, beaming fresh and eager. Seemingly forever a florid and fat Elvis has remained a digital habit crooning mall Christmas cheer in frosted December. Nothing disappears, and in fresh spring in enhanced movie colors he still makes Ann Margaret wholesome, his voice cleansing desire. In talent show rituals as primitive magic a nine year old shakes her hips, singing: You ain’t nothing but a hound dog. Across continents in wet and dry, archeologists unearth evidence of the shaggy young king. In Thailand, and Liverpool and Rome, and in Cairo and Olive Branch, Illinois, absurd newcomers emerge tainted with nostalgia, dancing Memphis hinterland swagger waking slow motion electric love. From the moving clouds leak intimate Tupelo hymns tamed and rich—no longer raw and dangerous. Just essential.