Walled in, and yet of the wall, too, towering majestically above the valley known as Hell…O the dwellingplace of Moloch, as has been most famously, as it has been most loudly, lamented by the prophet Jeremiah: this sepulcher doming the Cœnaculum within, alongside the tomb of King David, the Psalmist of Zion. Here let us sing of three rooms, communicating stonily mute, rendered dark by the cloying cloud of the drapes. A moon prior to B’s passage, twelve of them notables all take their seats around a table in this hall made of the rooms of the ultimate dindin, the Last Supper it’s known as, served upon the Seder of the first night of Passover as has been chronicled, too, in books finally forbidden, that and the site of the Holy Spirit’s visitation to the disciples seven weeks after, the day of their old Pentecost, unmarked, burnt from the calendar, its ashes forgotten. Apostles of a sort, He’s surely not among them, not gracing. Not fit to sit at table, to knock around ideas on last knees with the likes of His once could’ve been but now never future father-inlaw, Shade, no longer president of his nation, presently termed for the life of him the president of its Sanhedrin, with Congress converted. A Schade, though in losing his title he’s only gained power. What’s in a name: the new businesscards, for one, they’ll be back from the printers tomorrow.
