I was running fast in I -61,
maybe three hours outside
of Memphis,
making good time and driving smooth,
on course for the Elvis Presley
souvenir shopping mall and pharmacy.
Even though it was only a 51 Hudson,
it was running like a dream,
and about the only thing that
stopped it being a perfect day
was I couldn't get anything on the radio
but Bobby Rydell Howard Stern or Oral Roberts,
who was threatened to strike me dead
if I didn't send him money.
All in all, though, I was
feeling pretty good,
which made it come as
something of a major surprise
that I never made it to Memphis.
It was probably my own fault.
I should never have taken
those pills
that were offered to me in the men's room
by a Mexican in a lime green
matador suit
that not even Prince
would have the gold to wear.
I was in this Denny's along the way.
I'd only pulled in for a cup of coffee
and a pack of cigarettes
and some Jim Thompson fantasy
about the waitress.
Never stopped a place
that only serves non -alcoholic beer.
Moosey, Den, Moosey, Den, Jack.
Now, Mexican wanted five
bucks a pop
for these suckers.
Maybe I shouldn't have taken ten,
but I was in the mood for
conspicuous consumption,
and the ghost of Elvis was
at my shoulder.
I should have suspected
that something was up
when the Mexican made a secret
hand signal and vanished.
Carlos Castaneda comes
in all shapes and sizes.
Even then, though, there in the men's room,
I never thought that I wouldn't
make it to Memphis.
I guess it already started
with the flickerings
at the corners of my eyes
that I dismissed at the time
as being a result of not having slept
for 48 hours straight.
The bats came later.
At first they were content to loiter
in the periphery of my vision,
but after a while they got real bold
and started flying alongside
the car in formation,
like they were on their way to bomb Dresden.
It really got bad
when I was going down this
slight incline.
There wasn't another car in sight.
Then I ran into this waist -deep,
hammer horror
Edgar Allan Poe missed.
And I began to realize
that I wasn't going to
make it to Memphis.
Now, after I hit the mist,
all I can get on the radio
is this angelic choir,
an d the signs are written in Hittite,
and at any moment Rod Serling is going to come
marching through the windshield
and offer me for your consideration.
Oh, God, oh, Graceland,
am I in a lot of trouble.
I have lost all sense of motion
and my hands are turning blue.
And there's definitely something wrong
with space and time.
And the Hudson has started to glow.
Oh shit! Here comes the monolith!
What did I do to finish up here?
Some post -Einstein zombie
flying Dutchman in a wormhole
I can't get out of
because in here there's
no concept of out.
Life's a bitch and then you're infinite
and I never made it to Memphis.
I never made it to Memphis.
You hear me?
I never made it to Memphis.
I never made it to Memphis.
I never made it to Memphis.
We I'm sorry,
I'm sorry. sorry. sorry.
Because... ...tell you what,
that's what you were meant to be.
Tijuana Bible 
