...I dream of Elvis

(When I don’t write poetry) I dream of Elvis

When I don't write poetry
I dream of Elvis,
old fat Elvis with grease and glasses
shaking his velvet hips
at shrieking glamour addicts
as if it really meant something,

and I wonder:

Could I really delude a universe
into flashlight floods and
an illusion of ideal,

to make them believe
I never rose with morning wood,
got zapped out on Jeopardy marathon,
masturbated in the shower
or had to, as they say,
pass Elvis
now and then?

And then burst the bubble,
urban legend style...

When I don't write poetry
I dream a lot of crazy shit.

So what will I do now?
Write on? Trigger up for another round?

Or hail to the King?