April 1, 1980
Stoned again
They have terms for fools like me
who huddle under dim light bulbs in dark rock clubs, jotting down words we hope
someone, someday might want to read
The back
beat of the drum kit reverberates as much through me as through the walls or
floor, setting something in motion inside me I can’t put a stop to.
And this
isn’t really a rock club like the clubs we usually play in, but a public
performance space in a religious college for girls, who hope some day to become
nuns, but aren’t acting like nuns tonight, needing to get in now what they
won’t get later, ladies of faith who have no faith that their marriage to
Christ will be enough, stripping off their habits for this night as an offering
for later nights when they might wish they had – and we lucky enough to have
arrived in their hour of need, looking better in their eyes than we actually
look, taking what we want while we can get it before the chastity belt snaps
shut and we lose the opportunity for ever.
And as always, I need to document
these close encounters, seeking some other meaning from this other than what
they obviously mean, looking as The Eagles point out, for love in all the wrong
places and getting my invite to a deeper circle of hell reserved for those who
cuckold Christ and mess with his celestial virgins – and I wonder at the end of
this, if what we get now is worth eternal damnation, and if these future nuns
think about it as I do, and do they even care.
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