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,

        and 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.