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      December 7, 2024Fried ElvisJacob Sunderlin

      If you’ve never been to Graceland
      you should go eat some Tennessee
      things & feel the world make its gut
      sense. Walk the jumpsuits
      of the headless bone-white mannequins
      in the horse barn.
      You see the house, its televisions
      stacked like druid mounds & you
      see the bullet hole, cobweb in the screen
      where goofy-on-reds-Elvis sat & saw
      Robert Goulet wink that he would
      fuck Anita while Elvis was off in the army—
      in the service—& see where Elvis aimed
      a pistol & fired so that you, reader,
      may know what it is to be small.
      Could you shoot at the light
      in some little box that means nothing?
      The Fried Elvis is just a sandwich,
      ridiculous big—something to keep
      in the arteries you keep in your heart.

       

      from #40 - Summer 2013

      Jacob Sunderlin

      “I grew up in Indiana watching some shirtless maniac called the Ultimate Warrior on television, screaming about sinking anchors into his bones and loading a rocket ship with the fuel of the intergalactic warrior gods. Then I went outside and played in a park illuminated by the floodlight of a corn syrup factory. I want poetry to approximate the hilarious sadness of that.”

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