I believe in the dearly beloveds,
in the temple of the power chord, and
for years in the early 80's,
that Prince was Filipino.
I believe in acting my age and not
my shoe size. In never being
a weekend lover, and in the hard work
of a voice stretched into a silk bag
filling fast with silt.
I believe in paisley and purple.
That a kerchief is manly.
That sexy is in the word and
in the way that every guitar
has its own ghosts to love.
Believe that the interval between
the chorus and the solo is holy
and that darling Nikki would happen
one day in the ethereal dance of adolescence.
Forgive me if I go astray.
Forgive me, but I believe
in Apollonia, Apollonia,
That the fastest way to heaven
was across a Graffiti covered Bridge
into the neck of a Stratocaster.
Believe in the litany of amplifier.
In the hiss of feedback.
In the bite of the lower lip. Beloveds,
I believe in eyeliner.
In androgyny and in the sylph-like tease
of an upturned collar.
I believe in frills and crop tops.
In the hard jab of a note
between shoulder blades. I believe
in smoke and the cherry red
of the moon and trying
to be quiet when the parents are home.
I believe in the gospel of summer
and in the car parked sideways.
And goddamn, I believe in the party,
and that it was meant to last.