Oz Meets Elvis

fringe seemed to be
blowing in the wind,
songs were just drops of water
from cyclones criss-crossing the plains,
hopping frogs dropping from the sky.

painted ladies tumbled out of tumbrels
and the Wizard wore his black hat
over one eye, his long gray locks
fishtailing as he moved.

guitars arrived, then musicians,
most heading low into the wind,
put off by bimbos, an entire flock,
blown in from Vegas.

the dark-haired slickness of the stranger’s
hair fooled the Wizard
at first, his nimble eyes
fastening on spandex jumpsuits
and pomaded follicles.

an eerie light, greenish and cold,
moved along the plains, and one man
stood under it, his sneer almost like
a smile, but colder, his black hair
reflecting the Apocalypse.

they shook hands and bowed, the Wizard
and the King, working magic under skies
rife with whirling tombs, dodging poisonous snakes
raking the fields.