The Crucible of Belief
April 10, 2008
The Criminal
April 11, 2008

Concerning that horrid state of God’s affairs
Which we of gaydom live on unawares:

At cap of nightfall, drinks upon the bar
That swift were poured, and swiftly mar
The great good state of sense we once employed
And all the luxury of intellect enjoyed.
Though as the many drunkards dance
And shy ones give their chivalry a chance
There stays a solemn few about the post
That linger silent as a thoughtful host.
They pause and thoughtful comment on the rest:
“Sex, seduction, and the drink are best.”
Oh, we hear them mutter nothings in the dark
Where absent-minded misfits mark
Their careful seed upon the cakèd wall
Before their ill-timed stench and noisome fall.
Enrapt among the dizzied fires of the light
Our friends are sick with dance by night
Until, at last, when sun has given moon a while,
And out of every bar and club they file,
There shines the brilliant rays of day
Wherefrom responsibility makes way
And back to certain duties, jobs, and tasks
And do away with vodka, condoms, masks.
Here ends the celebration of no cause
And indulgent assignation without pause.

But there are some uncertain saints beside
The ringing, boisterous barbackside.
Who troll through abhorrence despite the hate
Who make their way past drinks that soon sedate
To vintage minds, and stable hearts retire
And leave behind all gaydom’s mire.
They have a heart for all men in their way,
Of different breeds who different play,
But yet the true love finds them wanting still—
Boys who carry on with flaunting fill
No bit of purpose in their growing lives,
Nor give them reason to endure it otherwise.
And so they find a mate who aptly pairs
With generosity and earnest cares
That so involves the world and all beyond
That never would with hearts abscond.
And you that rest in livery of neon pink and mauve,
So still you dance, and drink, and absent love.
Though you know little if you stagnate by a bar
And swirl your gruesome jokes that only jar.
How sad for you, that worlds are built with rhythm
And skin-tight shirts, and solipsism.
You will never know the glow of Christmas cheer
With loved one’s whispers that so soft endear
Your own affection to his kindly smile
As cookies bake and fires burn awhile.

Oh what have we become, this generation?
That shirks the comfort of true love for quick sensation?
Where is the fire in our hearts, the burning need
That guides us to another that on us will feed?
I pray we find it soon, each heart and mind to each
And outside the closet of the dance clubs reach.

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