To Janis Joplin
by Leigh Ann Couch
You bit and crawled, caterwauled to wild applause
with doo-wop boys backing you up. First-girl ferocious,
throttled by music and Son House, you were his
bottle-neck demon. Your voice had a body, blood
in its teeth, a tight-lipped father, a sad-eyed mother,
and never got enough love for the fucking,
so it backed over the men who needed some
tire-marks across their chests.
In a ring of fire I dream you, daughter-eyes crazed
with light, that mangle of hair, you lay hands
on yourself to be transformed—my exploding
angel of fame, sex, excess, no longer
middle-class white girl, just voice
clawing its blind way out our throats.
To Dean Martin
by Pauline Rodwell
You sat and crooned, couched before cameras
with GoldDigger gals at your side. Bad boy beautiful,
juiced up from studio applause, you were my
tuxedo hero. Your style was so smooth, easy
like Grant, a Greg-arious director, a straight-man pianist,
and always attentive to the ladies,
making them look gorgeous while you
looked more so in your golf tan and golden hair.
In a marathon of reruns I watch you, crazy but cool
in skits, those ridiculous roles, your unrehearsed foibles
that bring peels of laughter—my savior from boredom,
that debonair flair, those mellow vocals, the Italian
boxer with big hands, your soothing, sexy, sound seeps
into my psyche sending all other archetypes away.
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