It has been inquired of me,
why so much crazy back then?
The merry-go-round
at the speed of sound.
Was that really what you wanted to do
with your survival?
Yes, we were escaping
from a psychic excavation
of biblical proportions.
But had the plague never been,
I think we might have built
the very same cathedrals.
Limelight, Saint, Probe.
These names were no mistakes.
They were calls to prayer.
We were monks gone mad
fulfilling the vows of stained-glass friendship
to honor the Daddy, the Boy, and the Deejay,
our sacred garb t-shirts and jeans,
chaps and leather vests,
(cockrings or commando underneath.)
Do you party? Are you poz?
I'm here with friends.
Oh, I know him.
How have you been?
Let's do a bump.
Do you have the room key?
I'm going to walk around.
(Our litany not so witty
on K and ecstasy.)
I only know that at the time
it felt like we were on the verge
of an epiphany.
That if we could find that perfect high
to that perfect song
dancing with that perfectly muscled
mirror of ourselves,
a key would turn a lock,
and we would know some essential thing
we did not know,
the last piece of a puzzle
that would coalesce into a holy whole.
I still don't know
if we were praying
or confessing.
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