Stories

Last night a group of us told (in ten minutes or less) our spiritual, religious, faith, journeys of truth. Stories revealed shadows of humanity, doubt, misgivings and missed directions. This morning, as I read and wrote, the neighbor man, a confirmed schizophrenic, was shouting his story to nobody in particular. Some how parts of what he said, what I could hear, what I understood, pieces of his "rantings" made sense to me:

"We're gonna keep going down a dead-end street. We have power to do it all over again, make it right. What are you doing? I know a fucking hoax when I hear it. Well it's about time. No, I'm staying. What are you doing? Too good for Words (Works?) You're gonna have to find some better lingo when you start giving out the um, the uh explanation of feelings. And the fucking story goes on and on and on. I wanna kick your shadow."

Confessions

Don't kick my shadow
such a shady story
in the bright light of day
elongated like an El Greco painting
pained in purple gray
or stumped into secrecy
my shadow
is as much a part of me
as the detail you see
in the face
facing you
in all honesty