Hail John Elwood, in his prime, caught in rooms flesh-colored
Pinned beneath his father's roof, alone and with no money
Looking for a fix, or flesh, or rhythm in the halls
Low John Elwood, creeping off, in women's clothes and make-up
Snapping twigs and branches, bent on internet pursuits
Tapping out a destiny in pitter-patter keystrokes
Seasoned in the unkempt dust of laundry-room decay
Soft, soft, soft John Elwood, crying out in fever
Bent a back toward a screen to fill the world with lights
Consuming stuff in subtle ways, a pizza clown in candor
Shiny, shiny Elwood, John, the man of lowly passions
Holding open doors for joy of disembodied jerseys
Strutting through the dog-food walk, geometry of angels