By Roger Cowin
Call me Judas, a noose for a necktie,
dangling from my tree of woe,
I have wandered alone in the wilderness.
forty years and forty months.
son of the dead millennium.
I have offered prayers with forked tongue,
cast the first stone and took delight
spitting in my neighbor’s eye.
I have been the seducer
and the seduced,
beguiled and betrayed.
I am the perfection of imperfection,
and know what it is to be despised.
But when I climb down
from my suicide tree,
I will carry its burden no more.
Then what shall I do? What shall I become?
I have looked into an insect’s eye,
seen the multifarious faces of God,
and all the stars surround me
as I surround and encompass them.
I am no mere meat puppet
staggering along a crooked road,
but one inoculated with the singular
anima of creation,
the caretaker of my own fate.
Call me Judas, for I have earned the name,
but know that I am also
Lazarus, newly risen.