Night of the Living Torsos!

Tonight, they crack off of marble

pedestals, rubble without cause

or compassion, they riiiiipppppp

down the entire length of a page

from your anatomy textbook, or

worse yet from Abercrombie wall

hangings and catalogues, leaving

behind jagged shadows, thick white

brows of the silent front porch watcher,

they rotate down the street, back and

forth, inadvertent sashay born of a lack:

no arms, legs, heads, eyes, but perhaps

the rakish wiggle is deserved, yes, this

is a night for ostentation, this is the night

the torsos will have their revenge, claw

their way out of obscurity with nothing

but idealized abs and radar blip nipples,

yes, swallow the human heart whole, ribs

like teeth that close together, mesh, swallow.

ETA: Elvis Tribute Artist

The calling comes to you first

in a dream of sweeping fields

of gold lamé and aggressive

sexual simile. True, you are

lonesome tonight, every night,

but freedom echoes through

the lost years. Define yourself

with the light that dances off

your sequin disguise, become

the smooth, fresh skin until

the syllables of your name rot

and fall away. The Elvii ride at

midnight, and you’re either with

them or you watch them pass.