The Day The Music Died And They Were Singing

Photo by Elan Mudrow
Photo by Elan Mudrow

This town’s Elvis cannot strum a note

Even while the doughnut king

Leaves him plenty of strokes

Many go looking for the him

During the nighttime shanghai

But these ghost-like hijacks

Excite only hipsters and bruisers—and

Cute, off-hour baristas

Wearing their best lattes

To catch the ship of myth

 

Once back on the forgotten strip

Alcoholics look like pimps

The 99 cent lady scratches

Lottery tickets, chewing on mints

Yells from the gutter kids

Who pee in the laughing daylight

Children of insults and rip-offs

Sell newspapers to news crews

Keeping everything, perfectly askew

 

A crooked smile from the bookstore girl

Her windows all bashed in

She sells calendars losing value

While months become years

The trattoria boils millions in noodles

Hiring the purgatory of the aware,

Waitresses with yoga mats

Cheating Chi for tips

Amongst the deep-fried air

 

The mayor rolls out plans

Sketches of New Pantheon

City council sucks sugar tits

Shipped within a day from Amazon

While food carts form shanty towns

For the visiting team’s hangover

The mascot forgot the locker combination

He can’t pull his head off or unzip

Sitting in the Inferno, throws a fit

Gulping down painkillers for kicks

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15 Comments on “The Day The Music Died And They Were Singing

  1. While wind drives the rust sideways and we sing a song of inner city everywhere or the wasteland of the franchised burbs in Bob Dylan’s grayer than a winter sky gambler’s chapeau.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I’ve been dying to say that line to somebody. Truth is, I think this is one of your best poems, Elan. It’s got all the good stuff.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I don’t know where you got that name. Well, what’s to get? My real name is Jillian Wopping. 30 years ago I was known (in one of my music/comedy personae) as Count Spacie. When I see friends I knew from that era they call me “Count.” Is something freaky going on here? You mean schprockets, right?

    Liked by 1 person

  4. This poem keeps on giving. Read it three more times. Most of the time I say that poets are crucial but poems are…just poems. There are some poems that reach that crucial threshold. More than just poems. You’re very gifted, Sir Mudra.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I don’t know where you got that name. Most of the time I say that poets are crucial but poems are…just poems.

    Like

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