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Retablo of Deprogramming Without Exorcism No demons here. Only a person seated across from a machine that does not argue, does not convert, does not shout revelation. Between them: a rabbit hole rendered as a carnival ride, bright, ridiculous, and clearly optional. The miracle is modest. A pause. A rephrased thought. A belief gently returned to the owner like a coat left on the wrong chair. This retablo is offered for the moment when certainty loosened without being humiliated.
No demons appear.
Only two white rabbits,
dressed for seriousness,
seated across from a wheel that turns
because it was built to turn.
They read.
They do not preach.
Between them stands a machine of belief—
painted, polished, lovingly over-engineered—
a carnival theology with numbered colors
and no hidden trapdoor.
It spins.
It stops.
It waits.
The shelves are full of saints,
manuals, talismans, small authorities.
Nothing is smashed.
Nothing is burned.
The miracle is mechanical and mild:
a pause while the wheel slows,
a thought refiled,
a certainty placed back on the shelf
facing outward,
labeled in one’s own handwriting.
This retablo is offered
for the moment when the spell loosened
not through force,
but through attention—
when the rabbit noticed
the ride was optional
and remained seated anyway,
calm,
still reading.
