I know for sure Elvis is gone. I visited his grave once. That happened in the yard at Graceland Mansion in Tennessee where I sensed only his symbolic reality with no animating presence. Beside me three fellow tourists lined up in a different attitude, folded their hands and bowed their heads, behaving as if they had arrived at the altar of a shrine. They seemed in contact with the flesh and blood of Elvis Presley transmogrified. I expected them to kneel in prayer at any moment and worship Him. Elvis achieved more than celebrity during his lifetime, that is true; his swivel-hips and white jumpsuit became American iconography. He is a dead man — yet continually resurrects — colonizing in viral fashion the personalities of living humans. I met and photographed this particular embodiment (bloated face, gold accessories and all the rest) on a city street in our southern United States.