Elvis can’t strum a note. 
Still, many look for him  
During a nighttime shanghai. 
But these ghost-like hijacks  
Excite only hipsters and bruisers 
And cute, off-hour barista users 
Wearing their best lattes  
To catch the ships of myth. 
  
Back on landlubber strip 
Alcoholics look like pimps. 
The 99 cent lady scratches 
Lottery tickets, chewing on mints. 
She yells at the gutter kids 
Who pee on sidewalk cracks. 
Children of insults and rip-offs  
Selling newspapers to news crews 
Their mouths askew with twisted views 
 
Crooked grin from the bookstore girl. 
Her windows bashed in for no reason. 
Sells last year’s calendars & rusty rock pins. 
The trattoria boils millions in noodles 
Hiring from art school purgatory 
Haloed waitresses with yoga mats 
Channeling their inner schmooze  
Living off deep-fried borrowed blues. 
  
The mayor rolls out sorted plans 
Sketches of the new Pantheon. 
City council sucks sugar tits 
From kiss-your-ass developments. 
While food carts form shanty towns 
For the visiting team’s hangovers. 
Their mascot yanking on his head 
Stuck  
In a permanent state of cheer. 
 
The old urchins on their last barnacle 
Live back in the glory days 
Of cheap chiva, bad Bud, & noses caked with coke 
Taking bus rides to fake desperation 
Basking in their burn out, dabbling in 
Dysfunction. (A national holiday) 
Celebrated with bogged down Bloody Marys 
And get-well cards with handwritten 
Apologies for nothing... that’s gone wrong.