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Carter Burke

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Elvis, Baby
by Carter Burke

Monday, July 21, 2008
Rated "PG" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Carter Burke
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           >> View all 13

The connection between the King and Sin City. Viva Las Vegas.



Back to my adopted wonderland,

home of the Gold Coast,

the Barbary Coast

and the roller … coaster.


Paradise awaits.

All we can eat to our hearts’ content

to stumble drunkenly,

unmolested by the constabulary.


See a show,

drop some coin,

graze down the strip,

ride the monorail.


“Resistence is Futile.

You will be assimilated.”

Dine at Quark’s and

tussle with a Klingon.


Viva Las Vegas!









They trod, stumble, and amble

with wanton disregard down the strip

only where I wish to walk.


Obstructing free movement,

lost in thought and

bewildered amazement.


One foot in front of the other.

“Walk, damn you and

watch the blue suede.”


Heat bears down

on tender minds.

Is it any wonder


they have become




We meet in a vintage theater

of historical insignificance,

the aging casino

long past its prime.


Tonight Elvis comes

alive once more

in a shimmering blazer,

black leather and a white, stylized jumpsuit.


The glory is revived for fans

that remain faithful

to the message, long after

the true King has passed.


Hips shake, the voice trembles

and the audience cheers

for an imposter with the best

of intentions.


The King is dead.

Long live the King.



On the Strip another king resides

far removed from time and mythology,

carried on the wings of swallows, african or european?


It’s Spamalot where they like to

push the pram alot

and sing and dance alot.


Propelled by coconut hulls and laughter

French taunting and disaster,

Arthur, King of Britains.


“It’s just a flesh wound”

“Bring out chor dead.”

“I fart in your general direction.”


They seek the grail,

but it’s just a cup

about so wide and yay high.


Have you seen it?

Anybody want a peanut?









Thus impeded and violated,

unable to move forward nor back

through the checkpoint mandated by the state

for the protection of all

fruit and fruit-bearing vegetation.


I realize now, too late

that Candians eat fruit,

the kind forbidden to pass through

this gateway into the

Golden People’s republic.


Others swarm by merrily

waved onward by inattentive attendants

to continue their homeward journeys

while I sit behind friendly foreigners

unwittingly obstructed by their appetite

for golden delicious.


Perhaps next time

fried peanut butter and banana.

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Reviewed by m j hollingshead 7/22/2008
well done

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