unspoken

funny thing - expectations...

they raise so much grief and disappointment,

especially when unexpressed.

how can i meet the desire

that is never articulated?

of course i am complicit, in that

two sides are there for every unspoken word.

not having mentioned formless plans

ahead of time

brings me up against the cage of our arrangement.

i am to think of you first, only, and our guests.

paying for insensitive choices - selfish behavior -

i am only just finding voice for this need,

my desire to be autonomous, unfettered.

i haven't yet expressed it.

that too leads to your disappointment,

with my failure to come straight home

to spend time hanging out with all of you...

but where is the space for you and your sister?

for her and her husband? for us to be alone?

for us to be by ourselves?

there is no room for these wishes somehow.

we all flock like moths around the glow of the baby

and it has been so good

this time, watching, holding, talking about and

loving their child.

now the house is quiet - you out on a walk -

but i hear Henry's collar jingling

announcing your return.

my time to write is swallowed up again

in noise

in your expectant attention.

© 2009

road side stand

saw a sign that read

“EAT FRUIT FOR JOY”

signs

symbols

wonders

i realized these are the impressions

that mark me on every trip

it’s the signs I look to as

the land changes around them

overthrown by our oppressive

need for convenience

just one more strip mall please

in place of these green fields

shimmering like gold in

late afternoon sun

© 8/2000

in praise of breakfast delight

smeared fingering sweet blue stains

the pan flash hot

singed cloud of butter rising

to perfume my shirt and following me

the breakfast queen

wherever i might venture tonight

it is a quick feasting fluorescent colored

cheap quasi healthful attempt

at satiety

nourishment

nurturance

with peppered bites of brilliant fry pocked

white and yellow remains

berries frozen midseason

to keep winter’s desperation at bay

saturating vanilla scented warm unleavened cakes

well lubricated syrup savory and crumbling

around the violent tines of the fork

poorly chosen transportation for this

royal pauper mouth luxury

ready and gone in less than 12 minutes

© spring 2000

gabrielle’s birthday 1997

sitting on a rickety chair on the front porch

drinking another glass of wine

i’m wearing a sundress in january

watching the light rain

inside the conversation and music

melts together with the rich smells

of food we spent three days preparing

this is another home

and an impossibly warm dream i’m living

in this city south of the Mason-Dixon

where pansies bloom all winter

the sun shines strong bringing life to me

when i would otherwise be sleeping

through the long cold months

of dreariness in my native town

rain comes again to mix with

leisurely traffic sounds and

the beating of my own heart

recognizing this moment makes

my hairs stand on end and my stomach

is ready to feast on this great day

© 1/4/97

a list from Italy

walking the dim train passage

past shadows of sleeping passengers

as we traveled back to Arezzo

a tiny lizard on the ledge along

the street in il centro historico

in Perugia

ascending five escalators up a steep hill

in the direction of the wrong train station

the sound of tiny Italian children speaking

an African street vendor flipping me off

thinking i was photographing him

rather than the two boys dribbling a soccer ball

zuppa di fagioli con grano farro at

Il Latini in Florence

dancing at the Nag’s Head Pub in Rome

with my arm around one man

and my other hand clasped discreetly

in another man’s hand

being overwhelmed by DiChirico’s painting of

Lucrezia standing above me nude and life like

a reminder of regrets over the traps of

dissatisfaction and self criticism my sister and

i share regarding our own bodies

birds flying madly courting under the trees

in the Parco della Borghese

taking a bus to the beaches of Elba

for pocket change and spending days

lazily sunning with nothing more pressing

than whatever time we felt hungry

© 5/6/01

quiet... alone

from this place i can look out over neighbors' rooftops

to the endlessly varied blue of sky

this small alcove view brings me back

to my parents' house

to my room as a teenager and young adult

to the hours i had to think, to pine and lament, to stay up

listening to music - to be alone...

what is it about this adult life that refuses the need

for quiet time alone - each day.

i rarely seek it

find it difficult to ask for

i've made a routine of life that makes it hard even

to notice the lack of it

funny to stumble on that want

as i carve out time to consider union

maybe that is the beginning

again

the desire for autonomy

privacy

to be able to choose

to share my time with another lover

other friends

without risk of causing pain the heart of my partner

how many families face collapse for lack of quiet time apart?

for no access to private enjoyment of the home...

how can i miss you if you never leave?

the room is quiet

i take a deep breath

gather up my pen and notebook and water glass

make my way downstairs

to rejoin you and our family for dinner

© 2009

on hold

i push forward

impatiently

and the universe puts my call on hold

this is the reminder message tonight

the voice warm, familiar but firm

explaining the word over again

wait

the moon is waning as my frenzy

slips away with the shower water

each breath trying to bring me

to stillness before sleep

i have worked so hard to effect the stable balance

of energies within me

to project male and female in equitable measure

now the moon delights in smashing me - sailor - on the rocks

as i strain to follow the siren call of my womb

howling its potential from empty cliffs

i thought tonight of asking an acquaintance to make a retreat with me

to take me in as a friend

speak with me about thoughts

like the way our virtual lives rob us

of time to think on things deeply

i want to share stories as jumping off points

to talk all night and then walk together without talking

or walk alone and digest what's been shared

i want more than almost anything to

share a space like lovers

could we agree to raise energy together but not to act on it?

but, to be touched again... i keen for it

to be regarded as a lover

drunk in through eyes and fingertips

longing is the narcissistic wish

is love to provide an answer?

would they share that space?

how do i ask for this?

i asked you, please fuck me tonight, by text message

you didn't see the message

my attempt at initiating falls short

uninspired

a call from a place in me i am unprepared to face

unwilling to linger in

what is that place - where my biology sounds the alarm

to join with another... NOW!

irrational desire to commune

to be taken

to take in

hands mouth cock cunt

i miss this

i am soft edges overspilling my container

gather me up and regard me with a loving gaze

trace maps on my skin

the highways of my veins

visible under moon glow and warm red layers

my dog Henry is 7 now

he has seen years of my anger

sadness laughter loving

he stretches out further on the couch

i haven't walked him in days

abandoning responsibility and possibility

to distraction

frantic scrambling to force some new found

puzzle piece into the picture

one that keeps shifting, changing

but has it really?

is it any less of a question mark?

do i have fewer answers before me?

the priorities are there

just below the surface

waiting to be scratched and noticed

i am shedding

my deepest worries bubble up to the skin

form pustules

try to escape

to heal

Henry can't get comfortable

i wonder if you have been able to sleep yet

the light on my page might reach around the corner

under the door, as the sound of my stumbling did

the sounds of my pen and turning pages should not

i am not banging away on keys this time

© 2009

how many months

how many months of silence
cord around my voice
it creaks and pitches as
opening becomes familiar again

what might have been the impetus,
when for so long i was
dry and failing
not daring to burst out in
song or onto the page

i want to join a burlesque troupe
a chance to return to
the "illegitimate" stage after
this long hiatus makes me giddy

i will pour forth
and beg the waves
to keep coming

© 4/15/04

bedtime stories for noodle

Once upon a time there was a deeply gnarled tree in a remote wood.
The tree bore a strange resemblance to two knob kneed women finishing a
bicycle race, and the leaves shone and shimmered like no other in the wood,
or in the valley nearby. Because of this almost luminescent, dancing quality,
they were a curiosity to all local inhabitants save one... the person who lived in the strange old tree.

Let us first note that this person, if they could be called such, remained as much a curiosity as their
home - which was built inside, beneath and about the wondrous tree. If you were to stare into the
wizened face or observe the movements of this age old forest dweller, it would be impossible by
most accounts to guess age or sex or even understand their height and girth.

The fine folks of this region could not remember a time when the being had not been a part of this place,
and they all knew him as Mr. Bumblebeard. They referred to him this way because s/he wore no clothes,
and wrapped only in a long and tangled beard, which seemed to grow each day and catch more useful
things in its brambling length. The Mr. was attached as an attempt at civilizing this fey spirit of ambiguous
origin and body.

In the evenings the locals gave the tree a wide berth, because the leaves would quake and shiver, and
eerie music would drift out on the breeze from somewhere in the depths of the house. The sounds were like
a harpsichord played under water, and deep throbbing bass rumblings. Some nights a quiet, dark voice -
like a young woman's - sang queerly and uttered noises which seemed at once forbidding and magnetic.
The songs carried a long way out, even to the valley nearby, and spread gooseflesh over the skin of all those
who heard them. (to be continued...)

© 2009

dream

I woke shaken
to the rumbling hot of the furnace
in its first morning pass
pieces of the dream slipping away
like the slinky evening gown I’d worn
strange juxtaposed with the giant army backpack I carried with me

we come to an intersection
me in the back of a van
no seats
two faceless strangers up front driving
all the boxes of my things
a chaos of belongings shuffling around
as the vehicle came to a stop at a T
strange city outside
surrounded by boxes and me searching endlessly
through the pack I carried

I found wadded up bills
discarded carelessly in corners
surfacing where first there was only spare change
yet the key
the stupid hotel key card
ticket to my re-entry to loved ones in unfamiliar territory
it would not appear

before that ride, I’d plopped down on a big round seat
in a field outside an arena
digging through that bag for maps to find my way back
realizing over and again that more things surfaced
as I dug through the contents
these important pieces that I had thrown in here in a jumble
in my haste to carry it all onward

a young girl took interest in my digging
but what began innocently
her curious questions and sidling up beside me
ended with her father accosting me
and me punching him in the face
I somersaulted backwards off the seat
away from the mounting confrontation

in the beginning my mother was there
we were sharing a hotel room
friends gathered in this place for some big event
we partied before the opening
I saw some of our group go off with full access back stage passes
they gave me beer
I left it behind each time I sat
pausing to dig through the contents of the bag

it seems I am separated from the people I care for most
by my carelessness with important things
and by my overwhelming disorganization

© 2008

antiguamente, tuya

you still appear in my dreams
unbidden
our interactions startle me
it's always surprising to see
a picture I took of you on some websites
recuerdo tomar esta fotografía
aunque ahora sí aparecen como un fantasma
de alguien a quien nunca conocí
es tan extraño
todas las líneas se cortan
pero usted permanece en el éter
I can't figure out where to put that...
quizás no es importante después de tanto daño
I digress
my translations can't save this from being awkward
antiguamente,
tuya

© e.e.stanley 6.23.08

Polaroid and Negative

with instant gratification
my face gleams seductive
in a frame of darkness
yet with patient waiting
i have made my being
dissolve into paper light
these views are desirable
bends in perception
the illusion of reality captured
an image frozen quietly
or quick and careless
i am pretending to be a vision of myself
modifying the creation of my memory
i become an apparition
moving like smoke in the street
in every kind of light only
solidifying when the shutter clicks
trying not to see myself
reflected in window glass

© e.e.stanley 8.10.01

a present

the most adult approximation
of childish content
a joy that brings simple tears
our decision small and easy
like baby girl fast friends
flashing our bellies at one another
we agree today foward
to share our juice
i am amazed

© e.e.stanley 9/21/01

magnet poem, untitled

my bed beneath a new boy
from some drunk courage dream
about a thousand red warning lights
still he and i rush to perform
less from passion than the struggle
and pulse of every urge to
be out of and yet near the body

© e.e.stanley

magnet poem, untitled

since my girl gone
tell me who is i to dance with
were she and i never together
only a moment’s white noise
something fragile barely there
stormy under the blood of language
work strong and black hot it
rips through us as if
these nights recalling our sad
rust love could long be over
but wait
is there not
place for my devotion
after the screaming stops will
we ache for one easy summer

© e.e.stanley

magnet poem, for seth

feast on my whispers
you smell body bright
use my legs dancing
work our skin like garments of light
in the sleep pulse symphony
of together music at night

The battle for the heart's content

My lover left for I was too much
And though I tried to phrase it well
Some gentlemen need excuse and such
When faced with truths the heart must tell

Words unspoken at throat’s full brim
Creep back and round envisioned in dream
And bring to night’s long hours some grim
Or lustful fancy and fevered gleam

Thus spoken and my heart did split
And showed a weakening of its fire
Look not to drown in such a pit
Nor lose thy breath beneath the mire
Of words so woeful they do sit
On the heap and kindle of one’s pyre
But find the means to keep it lit
And never allow that light may tire

© e.e.stanley 5/2000