Ricky Never Tells His Parents He Loves the Gay Bar

Imagine Ricky
at  small oval table
in darkened corner, sipping
Rolling Rock, remembering
tent revivals, altar calls, father speaking
in tongues, mother overcome with spirit
on sawdust covered ground
as if struck down by large hand,
shouts and cries of forgiveness, serpents
the old men held above their heads, clinging
to their hands, coiling their arms with cool flesh.

Imagine Ricky, house music thumping allegro
dance floor writhing in sweat and sex
He scans the disco, remembering sermons
of Sodom and Gomorrah, watching
collapse of civilization before him
to a blistering techno beat
two young bodies bound together
surrendering to hungry mouths
and roaming hands.  One kneels
as young blond before him
with forked-tongue at salt of bare chest.

Imagine Ricky in awe of brazen wickedness
half-clad bronze bodies thrash and flail
To fiendish rhythm, lips find lips, tongues
find tongues. 
within Ricky stirs, uncoiling
itself, baring
its head.

Imagine Ricky, eyes closed dancing
while cities burn
his body, a cloud of ash, falling.

-Ken  Harmon