Saturday, March 22, 2008

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Saturday, March 22, 2008. We sit behind the left hand of God, leaned back, shoved in a corner. Keep your eyelids clinched. This is your morning wake-up call.

(Room loaded with empty pews. short cropped carpet vacuumed into a pattern. Lightly lit pulpit.)
This is the wood that ships were built with; the wood cut by English tradesmen, crafted by Italian designers in coastal villages overlooking the Mediterranean and the edge of the earth. This is the work of skilled workers, locked in days before, not a sound not a praise. Each sings a thread of worship in their heads. A pain they can't shake as they return to their little cathedrals in devotion to pianists and organists, full robed choirs, angelic's - the things exaltation's are made of. They couldn't stare at their choirs or down at the turn-to-hymn-335's, eyes turned to heaven or to the back of eyelids in rejoicing. The light won't shine bright in the morning, no one to listen to the tune of those creaking outside, stuck in life and not claiming to be out. Another line stretches and strains to be noticed, a flick of a switch, the tip of a lever. Polishing plates with cushions for coins from the hands of children dressed for the occasion. Missing belts bought on the way and breakfast brought in the morning. Good morning, this is morning. Wake up.

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