Justin Hamm
Originally from the flatlands of central Illinois, Justin Hamm now lives in Missouri. He earned his MFA
from Southern Illinois University Carbondale, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous
publications, including Cream City Review, New York Quarterly, Spoon River Poetry Review, Red Rock
Review, and The Brooklyn Review. Recent work has also been featured on the Indiefeed: Performance
Poetry channel and nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Justin has just completed his first collection of
poems, "Illinois, My Apologies", for which he’s now seeking a publisher.
from Southern Illinois University Carbondale, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous
publications, including Cream City Review, New York Quarterly, Spoon River Poetry Review, Red Rock
Review, and The Brooklyn Review. Recent work has also been featured on the Indiefeed: Performance
Poetry channel and nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Justin has just completed his first collection of
poems, "Illinois, My Apologies", for which he’s now seeking a publisher.
Uncle Fat Elvis
Just look at him: Petro-black hair gleaming, pork chops thick and wide and meaty-meaty,
a thin wife tucked away in the trailer park, a fat wife uptown in public housing.
Waddleswaggers through each day, always hustling up a fresher method for fitting his
blimpy crookfingers into somebody else’s pockets.
Tuesday: sells a stolen car stereo that doesn’t even work to a confused senior citizen
who doesn’t own a car.
Friday: fakes a diabetic episode and gets four free cheeseburgers and a thirty-two ounce
orange soda from the drive-thru at McDonald’s.
Sunday: pretends himself a handyman and agrees to build a small deck for the baker,
treats the materials deposit with all the looseness of lottery money.
Hasn’t bathed in thirteen days, and hadn’t in seventeen before that. But never forgets to
run a comb through every lock of greasecaked hair.
Considers himself philosophically astute for pondering the time commitment
a third wife might require.
Can be heard whistling a mildly pleasing rendition of “In the Ghetto” while fingering
his fake gold chain
and staring at fifteen-year-old girls who walk the streets of the aluminum village
with cigarettes dangling from their lips.
Uncle Fat Elvis is not a nice man by any measure, but occasionally he lets loose fullscale
a “Love Me Tender,” a “Hound Dog,”
or a “Blue Christmas” into the six-dollar recorder kept always in the console of his
fugitive-style van—and against all odds the sound really is quite lovely.
Which is why in the quiet hours of night, his woman of choice sheltered by sleep, he can
say to himself, ‘King, you’s the king.You is truly the one king on earth.’
And the bed creaks meekly beneath his girth. And the snowy television hisses its assent.
Just look at him: Petro-black hair gleaming, pork chops thick and wide and meaty-meaty,
a thin wife tucked away in the trailer park, a fat wife uptown in public housing.
Waddleswaggers through each day, always hustling up a fresher method for fitting his
blimpy crookfingers into somebody else’s pockets.
Tuesday: sells a stolen car stereo that doesn’t even work to a confused senior citizen
who doesn’t own a car.
Friday: fakes a diabetic episode and gets four free cheeseburgers and a thirty-two ounce
orange soda from the drive-thru at McDonald’s.
Sunday: pretends himself a handyman and agrees to build a small deck for the baker,
treats the materials deposit with all the looseness of lottery money.
Hasn’t bathed in thirteen days, and hadn’t in seventeen before that. But never forgets to
run a comb through every lock of greasecaked hair.
Considers himself philosophically astute for pondering the time commitment
a third wife might require.
Can be heard whistling a mildly pleasing rendition of “In the Ghetto” while fingering
his fake gold chain
and staring at fifteen-year-old girls who walk the streets of the aluminum village
with cigarettes dangling from their lips.
Uncle Fat Elvis is not a nice man by any measure, but occasionally he lets loose fullscale
a “Love Me Tender,” a “Hound Dog,”
or a “Blue Christmas” into the six-dollar recorder kept always in the console of his
fugitive-style van—and against all odds the sound really is quite lovely.
Which is why in the quiet hours of night, his woman of choice sheltered by sleep, he can
say to himself, ‘King, you’s the king.You is truly the one king on earth.’
And the bed creaks meekly beneath his girth. And the snowy television hisses its assent.
