Recession Reverend
BY KJ I MAY 4, 2009
Passing his hand over the masses from his height to hush them, he stood firm
beneath a stone that will never roll away. A rock that will never move under
a miraculous glow leaving a reformed whore to say: "Jesus." The man of the
collar projected his sermons lavishly to the huddled masses that reached up
to him with hands blooming with blisters & puckered their lips for blessed
rains & burnished idols of tiny gold things they worship, in hope that he
might lend them more symbolic clout. In unison the teeming grassland of
filthy fingers below him seemed to murmur in a droning tone the one evident
mantra that they all showed in their empty cups: "Save us. Save us. Save
us." He held up his hands & opened them so that they might see the Truth. He
wanted them to know he had nothing and had nothing to hide. Then he gave a
sermon on the suffering of Job full of pretty, pink words so that even a
flirtatious sophist would lament the momentary death of Reason at the
furtive hand of Aesthetics. When he finished the sermon he had them take
meditation. Crows overhead scrambled through the air for perches & tucked
their heads into their wings in reverence, or maybe they were tired. At the
end of the pause he had them pray. A litany of empty wishes left their
bandaged, dirt-laden heads. Perhaps their wishes went down, up, or sideways.
Even a lost god on the cross would have changed his mind about man knowing
not what he does upon hearing such pithy, grim needs manifest in the
collective conscience of an arthritic rabble aching for a flood to come
nourish their land or clean them from the skin of the earth. Then the
prophet said: Amen. They said nothing, & leaned on each other wanting more.
He promised them more fleshy gospel on the Sabbath. Before he took leave of
them he reached into his robe & produced a brown, divine, bulbous loaf of
bread & cast it down to them. They could not afford the cost of sharing.
They fought.
On the following Sabbath the minister returned to them to give a sermon on
turning the other cheek. They remained below him agog & agape at his insight
into their greedy condition. After prayer he threw no bread. Some followers
wept in secret to their tiny, gold trifles. At night the prophet thought to
himself of their foolishness & drank the blood of the Lamb. In the morning
he awoke, & while grooming his coiffure he found a growth on his scalp. He
ignored it & gave a jeremiad about the book of Revelation to the hoi polloi
who came to him bearing cups because a famine struck the land & he wanted
them to look to their own sinful ways. At the end he threw no bread. His
message was not received. The masses looked at their empty cups with
desiccated, wiry, sour faces, & made round, black holes of confusion with
their mouths. They knew he ate better. He asked them to pray. While all
stood silent with the prophet one of their number let his frustration ring
out the truth they all felt in their hollow stomachs: He hurled his wooden
cup at the prophet, & the cup struck him in the rib. A woman threw a cup out
of frustration for the child she buried in the sand that night. The cup
struck the prophet on the crown of his head. Soon cupboards of cups
clattered at the feet of the prophet as the desperate people whipped cup
after cup at him until the prophet's cup ran over with cups. Then in unison
they all focused their eyes on the vicar & puffed out a tired: Amen. The
prophet went home & felt the growth on his head. It had grown larger. He
took communion over & over & over again. He righted himself & gathered the
bread from the store in his house & threw it out into the street & shouted
to the dark: "Take & Eat." Then he sat down to take one final sacrament. His
face turned pink with the blood of the Lamb. While he drank, a small boy who
still cared for him came & told him that a rumor had started amongst the
followers about his tumor. He told the child to go in peace with fewer
letters. Then he lied on the floor of his dining room singing hymns till he
fell asleep. Ho-ly. Ho-ly. Halleluja...zzz.
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