 Jeff Wysel is a retired technical writer for a large insurance company. He resides in Cincinnati, Ohio with his significant other Caren along with two of the world’s nastiest West Highland terriers. Besides writing poetry and short fiction, he created and maintains the totally fictitious New Hudson Exit website (www.newhudsonexit.org). He is a lifelong resident of the Midwest and graduated from The Ohio State University. The Third Recollection Of Vester Presley On His Nephew Elvis A Half A Pound Of Bacon He is a puppet shoved across the stage on trembling hands and drunken legs another day ends the same old way lost in time and slick clichés. The wheeling, churning, the tumbling down slow as dawn begins to glow with Mary’s bacon, grits and buttered rolls he sits and listens to the radio buck owens strums and softly sings then coffee, pie and Dexedrine. Ginger smells of alcohol Vester sloughs and shakes Vernon drinks his Geritol Mary shapes the bread to bake Piddle twaddle with Ginger as she floats about the room songs he sung are restless memories weary strangers that make him ache for coffee, smokes and Dexedrine. Tampa 1955 Their screams rise and wave her heels clack hard against the steel floor between blue lights and ceaseless roars she hears her voice inside her head a ghostly lilting above it all click clack goes the beat tippity tap rhymes her feet. At Homer Hesterly he swooned and dipped through hungry hands that weep and pray against your breasts his lips slip and moan his eyes ignite the ancient lies buried deep between your thighs and light fires that set ablaze his arms and cock and legs diving low he swings and sways touch me touch me kiss my lips the winds blow the fire to the stars wet gasping for breath kiss Nixon Unending Am I too old to see the stars? I sit and listen and listen hard but only noise do I ever hear smashing drums, screeching guitars in songs whose words I can never understand Yet beyond the awful noise some power glows A dirty mensch if there ever was one I smell his scent foul and strong the kind that makes girls shiver and shake (not Pat) Not right! Not right! But still – if you could bottle his stuff I would be king yea girls for sure all slick and ripe but huge coliseums that explode and sing Dick! Dick! I would be king! For him, there is only music black blues, white blues and Stringbean Tom he loves it all songs sing in his head all day long in his sleep rhyming his dreams dancing in the dawn When he feels the beat lightening flows from fingers to feet spirit flying through the sky past angels, gods exploding then he sings into the stars. Chet Huntley Died From Cigarettes The old pictures hardly hide the hollow sadness of her eyes never here, looking down or through some distant crowd she mourns Vernon, when he is there, looks confused, a Tupelo duster wandering around Patterson Avenue in a seersucker suit smiling like a goon the camera clicks and flashes Vernon caught eyes wide in surprise Gladys tired, preoccupied Obituary Vester Presley Uncle of Elvis Presley known as “Uncle Vester”. He was the longtime guard at the gates of Graceland. Vester created three recollections on Elvis Presley The First Recollection 1959 The Second Recollection (lost) 1965 The Third Recollection 1982 Birthdate: September 11, 1914 Birthplace: Fulton, Itawamba County, Mississippi, United States Parents Jesse D. McDowell Presley (1896 – 1973) Minnie Mae Presley (1890 – 1980) Spouse Clettes Smith Presley (1919-1994) Siblings Vernon Elvis Presley (1916 – 1979) Delta Mae Presley Biggs (1919-1993) Gladys Erlene Presley Dowling (1923 – 1985) (Rev) Nashval Lorene Presley Pritchett (1925 – 1994) Death: Died January 17, 1997 in Shelby County, Tennessee, United States Cause of death: heart failure Burial Forest Hill Cemetery Midtown Memphis, Shelby County, Tennessee, United States The Lovely Girl In The Back Of The Room A lovely girl in the back of the room head down, rooted in her book swelled and drew within her breast his eyes leaving the room empty of sight naked - where does he hide? Found out he wraps his arms around her shoulders and stares into eyes that are a jumble of stars and black holes she turns transformed and in a swoosh, flits away leaving only a mossy scent back to her book in the back of the room. Lungotevera The Tiber holds its Prati close dreamy in the evening olives, sun seeds and cheap Italian alcohol scent the air children run and dodge between squat bumpers signing secret loves and dour prayers against pale concrete walls and water rippling mirrors black habits shuffle between soccer balls sloughing piety against the ground nose snug, purloined, scarlet slash against the river’s edge. The day renews, the Prati preens and shines as sunrise cleans the air and lights the path between my feet down down the stone walls down where the creaky river lumbers in morning’s nascent warmth. It is six am the black trail hugs the river jutting in and out between mooring ropes and twine. High above, the Lungotevere rumbles streams of cars plod through a tedious steeplechase of worn pendulums [asphalt] and tired trees hard fractious sounds reflected by the street back into the sky; here, though, below the steep stone walls soft morning light widens the path, the quiet broken only by footsteps in 3/4 time a counterpoint to the river’s rumbling rhyme north towards the black runes the path winds lazy nostalgia pervades through mud and leaves. Rome is old, an ageless lady far from grace her skin so richly oiled glistens in the sun my reflection hides behind her eyes hides there too the decay and misery cracked against ancient stones, the smell of listless hope and stale passion mix in morning’s rising heat a crumbled altar of ruins on top of ruins on top of ruins Jogging upstream past sharp shards of marble black history punching through the trees. The Tiber lifts and lopes indifferent to the blood and dragged chattels that tumble down the broad shoulders above its path. The river turns and scrapes past mounds of concrete and tumbling cars under boats and metal drums a fierce ruler of the earth. Dreams and memories carry the stream through fog and history, mocking men, mocking their rage and paltry loves. It eyes the sky above to the clouds rebirthed from a sun beyond the power of men’s gods.
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