Last night, Elvis went to chelsea. He saw the wares at Oliver Krut, a few shops on 27th, Shonibare at James Cohen, and Paula Rego at Marlborough. He also saw a nice sunset:
Then Elvis went to a dessert party in Brooklyn, which turned into a poetry reading with bananas foster ice cream sandwiches. Somebody read some Berryman; another, Auden’s rim-job poem, and Elvis read them Roethke. At some point, a couple fresh young things gathered in the corner and lifted up their shirts; Elvis went to see what they were doing. Fabric tucked under their chin, they compared scars, running doubt-filled fingers over red creases.
Elvis took the G train home alone.
Miss Emma’s been drawing Elvis, painting Elvis, bothering Elvis with all sorts of picture. She’s done persuaded him to put them on the interweb. An Elvis a day…
Miss Emma says Day One is not very good, but Elvis doesn’t mind none. Practice, Miss Emma, practice…
