Michael Malone - Weebly

places. He had always intelligently avoided them. Yet
here he was, absurdly falling in love with not only a
Christian but a priest (and if the truth be known, he
would have to say, a mediocre musician, ignorant as a
babe of the world of the arts, really not terribly bright,
and almost totally devoid of erotic technique); here he
sat, in love with such an idiot (not to mention its being
homosexual, and a damn waste of time and shame to
have to hide it, and still probably—if the country
continued to slide back down into the pit of conformity
it had briefly pulled its head above in the last decade—
probably lose his job); here he sat, in love with this
man. Here he sat, badgered by music, importuned by
an optical illusion, stained through glass, of haloes
goldening the heads of his urchins. Music swells, sinner
falls to his knees, he'd seen it in a hundred movies called
The Robe. A shoddy gimmick.
And high above the choir screen, over their heads,
the huge gilded crucifix; Christ in careful realism, larger
than life, carved and hung there. My God! thought Saar,
as he felt his friend Mr. Hyde puff up in his breast. Why
not gild the gas chamber then? Why not paste precious