this is every musician's dream, to stand in front of an audience and not have to prove your credentials.

I speak of a clinical depression that is the background of your entire life, a background of anguish and anxiety, a sense that nothing goes well, that pleasure is unavailable and all your strategies collapse.

Ring the bells that still can ring.

And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.

Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove Dance me to the end of love.

I want history to jump on Canada's spine with sharp skates.

You who wish to conquer pain, you must learn what makes one kind.