| Author | Message | ||
| Jim Doss
Senior Member Username: jimdoss Post Number: 1956 Registered: 12-2003 |
Transplants to Redneck Country 1. Elvis 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. (Message edited by jimdoss on February 20, 2006) (Message edited by jimdoss on February 22, 2006) My books are available at http://www.lulu.com/jimdoss. Co-Editor Loch Raven Review: http://www.lochravenreview.net. Read the latest Trakl translations at http://www.literaturnische.de/Trakl/english/index-trakl-e.htm. | ||
| Morgan Lafay
Advanced Member Username: morganlafay Post Number: 1513 Registered: 08-2005 |
Too damn good; too damn cool!!! Love it! I'm not sure about the rest, but I do believe Elvis is in Shady Grove, Arkansas. | ||
| elijah burke
Member Username: spiltextmob Post Number: 86 Registered: 08-2005 |
Wonderful! Yeah, Elvis is in Arkansas and Mama Cass here in Georgia. "The meek will inherit the earth. The meek don't want it." -The Rules of Attraction Bret Easton Ellis | ||
| Zephyr
Senior Member Username: zephyr Post Number: 3872 Registered: 07-2003 |
I'm sure a lot of work went into this but you make it look effortless,held my interest right through, well done Jim | ||
| M. Kathryn Black
Senior Member Username: kathryn Post Number: 3047 Registered: 09-2002 |
Jim, I enjoyed this ambitious effort, and liked the poems about Elvis and James the best though they weren't my favorites when alive. That would have been Jimi hands down. Best, Kathryn | ||
| Kathy Paupore
Senior Member Username: kathy Post Number: 3025 Registered: 12-2003 |
Jim, wow! Well-written, you pulled me right in and had me til the end. Know all of them but Norma Jean, I've probably heard of her but I'm just not connecting.  K | ||
| Jim Doss
Senior Member Username: jimdoss Post Number: 1964 Registered: 12-2003 |
All, Thanks so much for taking the time to read through this very long piece and commenting. Kathy, Norma Jean Baker is Marilyn Monroe's real name. Jim My books are available at http://www.lulu.com/jimdoss. Co-Editor Loch Raven Review: http://www.lochravenreview.net. Read the latest Trakl translations at http://www.literaturnische.de/Trakl/english/index-trakl-e.htm. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Senior Member Username: garyb Post Number: 6808 Registered: 07-2001 |
Jim, well written, find a publisher. Though Elvis is too old to be slinging hash... He and Norma Jean likely drooling in a nursing home, unable to get it on... Smiles. Gary A River Transformed The Dawg House December Fireweed | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 6663 Registered: 11-1998 |
Well, I was wondering what happened to all these folks, Jim. Now I know. *smile* The portraits were good not only because they were so famous, but because you extrapolated from their characteristics while alive to come up with believable visions of what they might be doing now. I could easily see each of them in the kinds of lives you projected. Although they were all well constructed, I enjoyed Mama Cass the best. There is not too much written about her anymore, and your idea of her as a soothsayer who reads people's futures from what they select on the jukebox was particularly inspired. Yep, I could definitely see her doing this. | ||
| Anastacia Donovan
Valued Member Username: sulis Post Number: 249 Registered: 03-2002 |
A great piece of poetry! Ana | ||
| Bren
Advanced Member Username: bren Post Number: 1264 Registered: 12-2001 |
An ambitious effort no doubt about it, it's amazing how much of you shines through. "to touch their faces, hold their hands, hung their lean bodies," I'm thinking "hung their lean bodies" is a bit odd.  Bren PenShells | ||
| michael julius sottak
Advanced Member Username: julius Post Number: 2233 Registered: 12-2003 |
absolutely loved this Dr. Jimmmy.... might i suggest adding in Jim Morrison,,,,,hehe i suspect you are already on that...brilliant write! (i'm down in Key West with my daughters walking by the orignal Sloppy Joes and the singer is half in the doorway, half out... the place is packed... and he looks at me and my daughters and stops singing...shouts over the mike "those are the best damn t-shirts i've seen all day!".... my daughters had bought them.... Pink Floyd, Jimi, and Marley.......hell, i had to go in for a beer! ) oh yeah, Janice too........... funny this poem... i often wonder what they could have done too... especially Jimmy Morrison.... went to his tomb in Paris... wild shit... full bottles of booze left in memorium ... and roachs all over the ground... hehehe....goddammit amen! "it's better to burn out than to fade away" (Message edited by julius on February 22, 2006) | ||
| Jim Doss
Senior Member Username: jimdoss Post Number: 1970 Registered: 12-2003 |
Gary, Thanks for reading and commenting..... a publisher, maybe one of these days. M, Glad you enjoyed this bit of fantasy. Ana, Thanks. Bren, That's a typo. Thanks for catching it. I have corrected. Dr. J., This ain't no Pete Townsend..... but I had fun writing it. I thought doing 5 would be overwhelming.... but who knows, there could be one or two more coming. Drink one to the ghost of Hemmingway for me. Jim My books are available at http://www.lulu.com/jimdoss. Co-Editor Loch Raven Review: http://www.lochravenreview.net. Read the latest Trakl translations at http://www.literaturnische.de/Trakl/english/index-trakl-e.htm. | ||
| michael julius sottak
Advanced Member Username: julius Post Number: 2238 Registered: 12-2003 |
A toast Papa....Dr. Jimmy & Mr. Jim... hehe.... really tho... thought you could do a whole series on this theme... my even a book? | ||
| native dancer
Advanced Member Username: nativedancer Post Number: 395 Registered: 12-2004 |
don't know how i missed this one. it's really original and true and knows its stuff and just gets on off down the road like nobody's business. redneck heaven. i be damn. jim | ||
| Christopher T George
Senior Member Username: chrisgeorge Post Number: 4275 Registered: 12-2004 |
Hi Jim I have not read your poem until this moment but find it to be a wonderful work, like a many sided jewel, full of insight about the lost icons and about the America in which they lived. Excellent work, Jim. All the best Chris Editor, Desert Moon Review http://www.desertmoonreview.com/ Co-Editor, Loch Raven Review http://www.lochravenreview.net/ http://christophertgeorge.blogspot.com/ | ||
| Jim Doss
Senior Member Username: jimdoss Post Number: 1977 Registered: 12-2003 |
Dr. J, I'm thinking about adding Jim and Janis to this. I have the angle to use on Jim. Haven't figured out the angle on Janis yet though. Jim and Chris, Thanks for reading and commenting. Jim My books are available at http://www.lulu.com/jimdoss. Co-Editor Loch Raven Review: http://www.lochravenreview.net. Read the latest Trakl translations at http://www.literaturnische.de/Trakl/english/index-trakl-e.htm. |
