know_by_heart raze jesus was an accordionist, you know. he worked the club circuit down in soho. he played with whatever rhythm section would tolerate his tantrums for a week or two. when no one would have him, he played alone. you could call out any tango, polka, or saltarello, and if he was in the mood he'd turn your sweat to cabernet. when some sad suitor turned up to break a bottle over the back of his head, he'd drink whatever didn't make him blind. he never talked about the stye that welded his bluest eye shut. they called him the soul of cooper square. he used to haunt st. mark's place until he lost his taste for sleight of hand. he slept in the basement of a bank that became a church nineteen hundred years after he died and learned to live again. he never lost a fight he didn't mean to win. every time he made love he forgot who he was. he always went to bed hungry. but when he wept beneath the thin comfort of his cotton sheets and let his fingers tap the stained keys of his secondhand weltmeister, christ, he was purified. 220331 what's it to you? who go blather from