jens said is was the opposite of hallelujah, the way it could go right through ya, and perhaps I should tell you my version of fidelity, which are the words, still there, scribbled on the wrists with smeared concert stamps, ink years mixed in with the collapsed glass and other songs we sing in everyday showers, early murmurs of animals on hayes street in an age of make believe. or where they land on your person.

mohammed moved the mountain for all these kids with what they’ve got that they want to have. in that scenario, in that promise, we are beasts.

oh lover. oh newland and ellen. oh paul simon singing kodachrome into our transistors.
oh intermediate perennial town, river of the sudden street smile emptying out in the moving of any mouth when it moves to know, when we never did the good work that we have surely been on our way to do. the casual reaching for a glass. the air moving south with gypsies and truckers and the one your were looking for. still, I look at the marquee every friday. I look at strangers, picturing them in the cotton headbands of tennis players from the 1970’s, girls and boys, it didn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, they had beautiful shoulder blades, their sails wide open.