THE WOODEN ROOM

You suck up the spector as you stand alone in the wooden room - wooden table, wooden chairs, wooden floor and door. It is both grave and locked cupboard, it is the demonstration of soil and deliverance. Each room is a tomb of desire and making, it is the beast of happy tomorrows, the old woman of faded yesterdays. So you stand alone, stand in silence apart from the quick breathless whispers of chants and cycles. Your fingers move in rhythm to the beat of the deliverance of tongues, they drum incessantly against your thighs as you go over and over the spells that both lock you into this stripped bare room, and deliver you to the waiting cosmos in all its tart and tightened circumstance. There is no illusion to call a halt, to roll back the times, to make is all stop. We are what we are, prometheus without any hint of deliverance, the risen with nowhere to go. So you mumble and whisper as chants and cycles, your eyes unfocused, your head nodding in inexplicable expletives.