Gray Area


Gray Area

Who was the tepid thief that arrived in your early morning sleep to make your house
his home? Was it the same cold criminal that placed you in the throes of a black
and white world – a translucent body disrupting a presence of peaceful darkness?
Does this explain what happened to you? Did a sycophant sheriff put you behind
bars after stealing your restfulness? Were you searching for what you lost in a
prison cell – a poem dictated to the real color black that underlaid the truth running
counter to the rules of how things are supposed to be? Tell me who you were

that night when the white hands of a white thief hustled with your white heart into
a bright division that created a second kind of blackness (plus its opposite). Tell me
anything of the evening, anything of the particulars, and watch me respond the same.
Do you remember the story you told of a headless red rose on a black and yellow
highway? Its wilted green stem covered in black soot strung out on a charcoal
median splashing with rain. You talked of a green colored leaf, potholes of black
water, and the purple of a perfect black sky. You called this the science of rainbows,

thinking a spectrum was different from the black and white quest for the answers
to your black and white questions. Didn’t you know I was with you when you saw
the roadkill flower separated from its root? Didn’t you know that was me already
living as your heart? I never told you the rose was a stark white daisy marked with
the blood of your false separation. I never told you that the opposite of black is the
thief who stole your home. Nobody can alter the colorless space in which you
appeared. This is something you will find in your house as you exit the gray area.