"Transplants to Redneck Country"
No longer the Zen master of rock n roll
dressed in a rhinestone jumpsuit or black leather,
he now slings hash at E’s Hideway.
The bikini-clad girls who danced
to the dreadful songs of his Hollywood movies
are nothing but a distant whiff
of sunscreen and cheap perfume.
Vegas is just a desert mirage
that faded into the cloud of dust kicked-up
behind the tailfins of a Cadillac heading east.
Into each stainless steel holder
he pushes napkins
as white as his mutton-chop sideburns.
He brushes his once raven-black hair
to the side as he refills
the salt and pepper shakers,
flashes a Buddha-like smile to Margaret,
the divorced waitress with two kids,
an alcoholic ex-husband and a face
beautiful enough to melt butter.
When he catches her looking at him
he sucks in his belly, pulls his shoulders back.
Later they'll have a good chuckle
back in the kitchen reading aloud the latest
Elvis sightings in the National Enquirer.
Sometimes at night in his double-wide
he finds himself drifting back
to his bad habits from the old times.
He fires a gun at his TV screen
waiting for the explosion
of electronics, the smell of burnt wire
and circuit boards that doesn't come,
then pulls the dart's rubber tip off the glass
and reloads. Rituals of loneliness
hold his life together. Sometimes
he catches himself humming
Fools Rush In or Heartbreak Hotel
as he daydreams of a girl like his mother
who will love him for the nothing he's become,
the nothing he wants to remain
sitting in the dark behind a pair of sunglasses.
2. Norma Jean
Her platinum hair ripples in the wind
like a field of sunflowers
children could grow happy playing in.
But she has none of her own. She'll never
have any. Not with Joe, or Jack,
or Bobby, or even Arthur Miller.
They're all gone now, dead or estranged.
She lives alone with her pain blossoming
on the windowsill like an African violet.
The emptiness of her arms stretches
across the county's tobacco and corn fields,
its mines and sawmills to gather up
those who have no one else. They stand
before her desk at the orphanage
like starving birds, frightened,
teary-eyed, yet defiant and angry
as she takes down their names,
assigns them a dorm room, a guardian.
Under each head of unruly hair,
behind every runny nose
she sees her own face
passed from house to house,
from institution to institution, blown about
like a scrap of paper. After the near overdose
in the Hollywood hills, she disappeared
from the public, the parties,
the manic insecurity of fame mongers, died
to be reborn again among these kids.
She watches them play from her office window,
strolls the grounds and corridors
to touch their faces, hold their hands,
hug their lean bodies, hear the voices
of anguish and confusion grow into a mountain
that she is finally strong enough to climb on her own.
3. James
Grease rims the half-moon of his nails.
He leans against the back wall
of Jessie's Garage smoking,
uniform collar turned up, as he studies
the dark rivers flowing
through the relief map of his palms.
No pumice can scrub them clean.
No amount of lye or bleach.
They are the tattoos of his soul,
dark satellites the young girls
must embrace before he can touch them.
After the accident, his face is not quite so handsome,
more haggard, older, but the pain
still seeps through silent glances
like a plea for someone to save him
from himself. On a mechanic's salary
he's bought a red '55 corvette,
replaced the chrome, rebuilt the engine,
refurbished the interior. He cruises
the high school parking lots, attends
all the games, hangs out the malls
and burger joints on the weekend.
He lures them with what’s left of his looks,
his hair, the rebellious cool of his walk.
Then he shows them his hands,
places his fingers on their purity
to feel clean again for a moment. Dirty water
puddles in the streets around him. Birds swoop down
to drink the brown liquid. He watches,
lights another smoke, waits for the Chrysler's
oil to drain before he can plug it,
refill the reservoir. His fingertips
leave the smudge of their kiss
on everything they touch,
even the white label circling his name.
4. Cass
Each night at The Sly Horse Saloon
she sits by the jukebox. The glow
of blue neon transforms her
into a wild-haired oracle,
a soothsayer who can read each person's fate
in the songs they pick. No palm reading,
tea leaves or tarot. Her science relies
on the way the quarter spins
into the change box, the sound of buttons
being pressed, the singer's words,
the silences between notes, the intonation
of the voices. Truck drivers,
plow-boys, small-time Casanovas
saunter over to her for amusement
as she sits cross-legged on a stool,
cigarette smoke curling from her fingers
writing their futures in the air
in an alphabet only she can read.
They buy her beer after beer
to cloud her judgment, whirl
her around the dance floor
until the room spins like a six-side top,
and still she knows everything about them:
where they were born, how they'll die,
the fantasies alive inside their hidden lives.
Leaning against the bar, they call her
the "witch of the Wurlitzer," dare
the next victim to walk over jingling
their stack of quarters into a manhood
large enough to two-step their way into her heart.
Tapping her pack of cigarettes on the table,
she waits for the next one knowing
none of them will ever pick the right song
to go home with her tonight.
5. Jimi
The eyes of the stoner, the wa-wa buzz
of heroin highs that could coax
the final notes of The Star Spangled Banner
from a flaming guitar fade now
into the gospel cries of Jesus, sweet Jesus,
save us from the devils within,
the devils that dance all around us
waving wads of dollar bills, shaking
their booties in our faces, tossing pills
down our throats with the promise
of instant ecstasy. He pounds out
a strident chord on his guitar
like an exclamation point, twists his hips
in unison with the thump of the bass drum.
A chorus of black girls in tightly
suggestive black dresses
sings out a refrain of hallelujahs.
Now called the Reverend X,
his revival tent rocks twice a night
as a crowd of hands sways toward him
like fans from the auditoriums so long ago.
But today he is God's servant.
The psychedelic clothes, the feathered boas,
the paisley headbands, the loosely combed
afro are all history. Clothed in a black suit
and black shirt, he calls the cripples and invalids
forward to testify to their faith.
He lays his hands on their foreheads,
rubs the twisted parts of their bodies
to expel the evil spirits. They writhe,
scream out, talk in tongues, collapse
to the floor in uncontrollable tremors.
His hands fly over them like two birds
loosening the invisible bindings of evil
from their souls with a magician's indirection.
Their exhausted bodies emit
a last gasp and grunt as the final
strands of wickedness are removed.
Then they stand like weak-kneed babes
newly emerged from the amniotic fluid of the Lord.
They take their first few steps with his help
then start to walk on their own,
each stride growing stronger
as the applause and amens crescendo.
Posed just right in the spotlight,
the sheen of his tightly permed hair
circles his head like a halo.
© 2005 Jim Doss
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