ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Bruso found poetry early in life, before culinary arts consumed him. Thirty years later and poetry has rescued his soul as his physical abilities diminish. Perennially nascent observations fill Brian’s poetry with his particular voice ~ fresh, liberated & waiting to be felt.

Ruminating Upon Elvis Presley Blues

Thinking about Gillian Welch,

 repeating

“the day that he died, 

                                the day that he died” 

while slipping down

 a key making more

mournful the scene. 

Like dropping 

trow or anchor, 

simultaneously fallen 

under the cold sweat slick toilet. 

Rhinestones clicking 

against the pedestal 

sink, sinking from the major 

Viva to the minor Ghetto. 

Descending arpeggios 

wafting gracefully across 

Eisenhower lawns and sweet tea stands.

The love that lingered 

following his body 

being lowered to his grave, 

an American homage to all bygones. 

Goodbye suave phosphorescent 

fluorescence and the trippy

white eyelet jumpsuit,

cape included.

Bounced off stage

into an abyss of mosh pit 

discotheque ribaldry inherently 

staged as anti-Elvis.

Tabloids soon took up their position —

“Elvis is on the moon, 

Elvis hidden among Amazonian 

hip shakers, Elvis invisibly 

wandering the Cumberland 

Gap in tattered Levi’s and a faded 

flannel with a ukulele flung 

over his shoulder.”

Mojo Nixon was right, 

                                    he was everywhere.

Years after reinterment, 

Tupelo honors their “King” 

with funnel cake and impersonators. 

Keeping vivid, 

memories of Ed Sullivan’s

below waist censorship. 

Instilling their legacies, 

weaving legendary yarns of lemonade 

slushies and sweaty men 

mowing manicured palace greens.