i'd like to think that,
somewhere behind an espresso cafe
in siciliy, around the corner from
a pizzeria, down a cobblestone road
past the cafe freddos in palermo,
in a dark and smoky room
reeking of expatriates &
cuban cigars, the finest
bourbons & irish brews
wafting about the shadowy heads of
surprisingly familiar faces
hiding beneath wrinkles and time,
i would see--
seated around a dimly lit
game of texas hold 'em--
maybe elvis, jfk,
jim morrison, & hey,
he'd be old, but why not
abe lincoln, too?
it would be conspiracy theory
at its finest--
not that, as we all expected
at least once or twice,
they were alive, not dead--
that graceland was a front
& jackie onassis was just acting--
no, not that,
that's conspiracy theory for dummies
& you can buy it at barnes & noble for
half off & get a free coffee--
no, the conspiracy, rather,
is that, after all these years
of us fussing over them &
likely driving them crazy with
our faintings, fan clubs, hate mail,
generally passive-aggressive
idolizing hot-cold bitchings,
after all that,
they don't actually give a fuck about us
& never did.
they got the last laugh,
taking our money &
now their "dead" royalties are paid out
by some swiss bank,
they are living the good life
in tropical shanties &
european villas, popping bubbly
& celebrating anonymity for
the rest of their lives. & lincoln?
he hates politics & probably
watches the Onion nightly.
"union, my ass," he'd say,
& elvis, john, & jimmy would laugh,
tossing in more chips &
toasting to their deaths &
loving every minute.
