Elvis Apocrypha
By William Stobb

Unauthorized Tennessee belly-wipe. Elvis nods. He don’t believe. Exploding in flame, a rocket pack splits the Volunteer sky. I = Not-I had Adrian in horse face, and the unclean smell of taking her from behind made the King long for the orgasm of a squirrel. Suddenly, one hot night in Memphis, Elvis sensed my wiki and came to me with the full range of his attentions—light-circling finger, growl of hot Tiger behind my ear, precise penetration tease, until I cried from Jupiter’s moon for his next gesture. He directed me to swan pose and a thousand years in this second I spray nebula foxtrot. My gush appears as light on water for a hundred galaxies. The emerging cousin of Priscilla plans to live until I stop having this orgasm. I stroke below the waters and stay awake for the crew of Good Morning America.

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William Stobb is the author of five poetry collections, including the National Poetry Series selection, Nervous Systems (Penguin 2007). He works on the editorial staff of Conduit, and co-authored the stage play, Predator: The Musical, which sold out four Chicago runs in 2011 and 2012 and is still available for production.

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