by David Brennan
During Gay TV’s commercial break
Ricardo’s assistant Victoria pats
away the perspiration beading
the host’s upper-lip. The stage lights
are too close, too beating. Why bother
turning on the air
if he still sweats like a cold
glass on a hot day? Ricardo
is Catholic and drinks too much
coffee. He also has an idea or two
about his faith that he likes
to keep under wraps. For instance:
who decided Jesus
was straight? Sure, the rumored
marriage with Mary Magdalene
is popular with the parishioners,
but look at the facts: who did Jesus
pack about himself? Men.
Twelve: eggs in a carton.
Twelve: sardines in a tin.
Twelve: grown men like schoolgirls
gawking at the rock star’s
rad shredding and riffs,
not to mention his dirty-hip
good looks. Wasn’t it true
he taught them all how
to love? And Christ the free radical
had to understand the
positives of pleasure, of pressure
and release, the pain principle—
could he, Ricardo, with calm rational, reduce
the Passion of Christ to metaphor
for how Jesus got his rocks off?
“And we’re on in 10, 9, 8 . . .”
Ricardo’s automatic smile
flashes in the heat of the lights.
He is the host, with his whole body
he is host and so
ministers to those who have been
denied wine and host, denied
worship with their fellow men
in the name of interpretation, in the name
of what might have been misread.
David Brennan’s work has appeared in journals such as Action Yes, Pank, H_NGM_N, Parthenon West Review, Beeswax and elsewhere. His first book of poetry, The White Visitation, is forthcoming from BlazeVOX Books. Brennan lives and teaches in Harrisonburg, VA.
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