2010
01.17
01.17
tell the tale
without the presence of darkness or light
whose shadows and intrusions
mar the color of truth
gray-brown like the indignation
of one at odds with his self
take the tattered wordsmith from the podiums of religion
and sever the wagging tongue from the exclusive sect
that the sun might set
in the valley of the demon and rise
within the crest of the angel’s wind
sing of the beige that prevails
the muddy medley of the human soul
of the inclination to speak harm
and the instinct to heal
all one, neither colorful
nor colorless
Speak that basic brown dialect of self-knowing
the generous jive of ashes doomed to dust
I am the angel, I am the demon
all good and all evil
lies in me