We don’t call them demons anymore
When you’re raving, howling out your reality
To the pious void. In our less benighted time,
This is not an unclean spirit but a case
Of schizophrenia, a distressing medical phenomenon
Treatable with the new alchemy of neurotransmitters. You don’t
Need an exorcism. Take your meds.
Be silent and come out. And yet,
There is some verity that will not be quieted, even
With Lithium. The words
Of the rebuked disorder are
Recorded for the ears of generations.
While those in their right minds,
Impressed by the magic trick,
Miss the unplumbed secret, that this weirdo from Nazareth
Has, in fact, come to scour out uncleanness
Of every kind. These sane folks make him a star,
Yet they don’t perceive the convulsive radiance shaking
The poor madman, who knows
Holiness when he sees it, perhaps because he walks closer
To the edge of darkness than others, closer
To where the light
Smashes its way in, slashing the cushions
And tossing the drawers
Of an untidy soul, leaving a salutary,
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