Dear Elvis,
You don't know how many times I've dreamt and wished that you were my lover -- or father. But you died without a trace of myself ever touching your life.

I could have saved you, Elvis. We could have found happiness together at Graceland.

I know that I could have put your broken self back together. It's as if you could have discovered that sex and religion could be brought together in your feelings for me. The hurt you carried every day, the passion that dried up with the years, I could have restored. All those women sapped your spirit and gave you nothing but the simulation of passion. I know the secrets of the Southern night. I worship you. My sleep is filled with longing for you. I try to make a go of daily life but all else fades before this consuming image of yourself always present in my mind.

This image guides me to the places I want to be. I lay here now thinking, agonizing -- in other words -- masturbating over the impossibility of ever being your slave.


Sometimes I feel I've been hypnotized, that I can no longer bear existence without you. Other men in their fleshly selves could never measure up to your perfection. When making love to you in the later years, I still could sense your throbbing manliness. You really touched the woman in me. I no longer know the difference between fact and fantasy. My poisoned spirit cries out for relief, for just one caress to remind me that you really were a man and not a god.

If God listened to my prayers, you'd be lying by my side now. No matter who I'm with, it's always you.

Elvis, I have a confession to make. I'm carrying your child. The last Elvis imitator I
fucked was carrying your sacred seed. Please send money. Enclosed are the photographs of myself and the earthly messenger you sent.

Love sick for you baby.

Joni Mabe