the most important person in the house

our choices now come at a rapid fire clip
scrolling through endless libraries of chaff to find the wheat
and this prompts a million tiny decisions
no wonder we are soul-fatgiued
show our taste - our choices
arrange the stream into a particular shape
(not our shape)
the pieces that fit the template
(not our pieces.
we didn't make those)
no creation in this house of cards
the walnut shell game
guess which one hides the good thing
the pea, if chosen, which makes you wiser, more discriminating, better dressed, more interesting intellectual pretty happy funny disaffected
all this is happening under the careful watch of marketing minds
more brains or one brain doesn't really make much difference
look who's telling you they're the most important person in the house
so when i judge myself harshly
fail to use my tools of madness in unexpectedly authentic ways
who says whether i walk the plank
who cares when i have already chosen the long drink of the sea

© e. e. stanley 6/22/12

heart leaf philodendron

sobs slowly subsiding i looked up from my nest to note
the newest leaves of our philodendron catching quiet western light

even in this cramped room they continue to push up unfurl shining
verdant until they join the others less tender that stretch far
from the terracotta base supported on long elegant stems
reaching but still connected
even those leaves that have long since faded
hand down rough kneed scars at intervals

i thought of our hearts branching connected memory
of them growing still close at hand we are all wedded
at the roots even as we split crack wither fall away
it takes the dying leaves a long time to let go
i often help them along pruning out the old and fragile
how is it i cannot do the same with memories of lovers
why should i keep returning to what i have undeniably lost
walking the cities the endless buildings in my dreams only to find
myself at the same closed door over and again
catching old ghosts beside me as leaves on a near branch
stitching together memories snippets fragments of a face
a few handwritten words tucked into a book a whisper of smell

today it broke me open to realize i have yet to give thanks
to bathe luxuriate find release in the grace of gratitude
how lucky am i to have loved those splendid creatures
we are all rising from the dirt spreading open and falling away
even when it is truly finished there is no real separation
if this is not true i must concede that i have gone mad
that eleven times the length of our love should pass but i still yearn and dream of her
or the length of all our knowing has gone on again and i just miss him

20/2/12+27/3/12 © e. e. stanley

train to vancouver

drizzle grey spring green punctuated by
scotch broom and the train whistle
we pass mountains of blackberry
over the swollen columbia river


i started crying when i realized a decade has passed
since today
when you and i rode trains in italy
walked miles of cobblestones the night of your birthday
tomorrow you are 10 years older
one third of your life completed since our last adventures


i miss you deeply
this train rolling and bringing forth memories of your face
round with too much pasta
glowing with enjoyment
sharing the country you'd been discovering 
for six months prior to our arrival


© e. e. stanley 5/31/2011, for b.a.s.

babies. a consolation prize

again we come back to the body
the pungent scent of daphne sneaking out like some coda to this evening
from between pages where i pressed it weeks ago
tonight it is my body that i'm called to consider
my habitation my identity the cultural markers which reinforce and
confound my own experience of that strange sack of ectoplasm
drag for our spirit
(note to self - re-read Vonnegut story about being amphibious)

the waiter tonight gave us all babies
a consolation prize for having come up empty handed after the king cake massacre
as we savored bits of hazelnut toffee and chicory ice cream
we talked about breast and babies and careers and straight couples
i thought about what it is to me to be a woman
mother
though that road may be un-passable someday i tried to follow it
not just as a function of my sense of womanhood but as a desired state of being
now - three years after my divorce from the man and lover i married 
solely for the premise of creating a family together someday
nearly four years into a partnership with house and dog and life insurance
with a person committed to remaining child free -
i see that window may not be open when i finally find myself
ready to climb through

then i thought... breasts.
a functional attribute of mothering
while i am grateful for the unlikelihood that i should have to face breast cancer -
not one of the cancer threats, it seems, for my people -
i imagine what the implications of that might be
would i choose radical double mastectomy?
reconstruct with plastic bags of ocean sloshing on my chest?
my relationship to my breasts remains contentious
i would love them more if they were detachable
when dallas said "nice tits", as i changed between numbers at a performance, i told him that 
"would that they were detachable..."
"why?" he asked in disbelief 
and my reply, without much consideration - "they don't always go with the outfit."
so what would i be without them
more my father's daughter slim hips strong jaw and most myself when i remain ambiguous
my breasts are the buoy of my claim to womanhood
alongside my bleeding cunt they are the lifeline to recognition and 
the betrayal against my lithe un-gendered question mark

the mark that fits my body beautifully
the big round head
flamboyant gesture swooping back to center
narrow hips and slight concave where others might flaunt convex
then the punctum
secret small center my clit hidden tiny 
in comparison to every other part of my symbology
that miniscule convention of nerve endings and fragile skin
cannot announce my femininity
though it is strikingly feminine
it bears witness quietly while my cunt builds up walls and washes them away
my womb often heavy with that task on the days
i am most consistently referred to as "sir"
aching tits happy and bleeding
as the public makes at least polite reference to
the puzzle of me
the man who feel to earth
my mother's and grandmothers' first girl
the first child, period, of the two eldest children
beautiful healthy strong the observer
soaking up the wonder of this life

so what is it that makes me say woman female mama daughter tia
when i am so happily known as mr. e
it's the swing of my hips, the fullness of my lips,
the shine of my hair and when you touch me... just there
it's how i can open to take all of this in without breaking
it's the way i love and create and destroy
in my willingness and persistence in attending to all three
it is my comfort in my skin even if there are times i would like 
nothing more than to inhabit someone else's for the hour or the evening
in the evenings, like tonight, after joy and revelry,
it is my willingness to sit quietly
as i try to give birth to something i can hold up in the light
in front of all of you
breathe into it and make it sing

© e. e. stanley 2/15/2010

dance. lingual.

variations in masculinity

overwhelmed the senses

bodies moving isolations blips and explosions

surreally independent revolutions of each section

head shoulders chest hips knees wavering through

space

this animated architecture

parts leading in improbable directions

counterintuitive

floating... slowed... down

broken satellites challenging each other reacting responding

sometimes one body approached another

begging - be flexible - only to be thrown

back to the floor mightily

all at once i thought of julia child

flipping the potato pancake

to have the courage of one's convictions

trusting that as one's head leads

backwards

to the floor knees buckling

the soft part of a thigh will be just there

at the crook of the neck

just at the right moment

when the cable of light came loose from the edge of the stage

snaking its way around the floor

bullwhipped each time a body scuffed over it

anticipation rose setting our teeth on edge

waiting for how some disaster might play out

that winding strand of glow became the punctuation

in every move thereafter

dancers continued effortlessly

missing the cord - even running backwards full tilt

helicopter flips thrown bodies propelled

into brief flight

© e. e. stanley 2/6/2010

not original

turned the corner

past a window of one of the run down garden apartments

into breeze

sharp tinged like cooked carrots and mildew

this idea is not original

that the surface can remain still

and the view, beautiful

no indication of the inverse mountain

of grief quietly drifting below

last night's dream of S.

dislodged some piece worn thin

fracturing off even after years

gone since our varying goodbyes

the splash of its surfacing

welling up as i drove us to work

but not spilling over

© e e stanley 2010(?)

dream. lover

(i will fall for the enemy)

you and i set out in an elaborate game of intrigue

trailing this gangster... a young mafioso

sending him

a message

i cut pieces of his car away with delicate scissors

in broad daylight

in front of his strong men

then i missed the getaway car and was left to confront him

his languid form, olive skinned and eyes deep

we were at a series of pools

shaded by great concrete archways

like highway overpasses

spring fed, shallow tiled lagoons

i was wearing a long shift

a party dress

my underwear already halfway down my thighs

i was trying to get them back up as he approached

i wasn't sure whether this water was for washing or drinking

and then i stepped in

just lay back in the water

he laughed

i floated... quiet

amazed because it was so shallow in the first lagoon

barely the depth of my shins

the waters all connected and soon i was caught in a current

unexpectedly strong

whirling me, eyes closed, in a great circle

i reached out my hand

uncertain if he would take it and pull me in

he did and then we were in a recess together

like a wide bath for two

you appeared, looking in over the edge

i was taken by his skin, by my want

i looked into your eyes

"i want the enemy as a lover.

is this something you can allow me?"

you nodded solemnly

i looked into his eyes

"i want you but i will never leave her

is this ok with you?"

a grin spread slow and crooked on his lips

but our intimacy evaporated

we saw a rival thug settling into a nearby pool

now i needed to defend his escape

to keep violent reprisals at bay

my lovers fled

i crawled up over this looming man's body

peered through dark sunglasses

and whispered

"stand down"

he was amused

we danced a game of aggression

colored to appear as diplomacy

he was physicality & force & schadenfreude

i taunted him while staying this side of the lines drawn between us

there was no peace, only waiting

until one of my gestures went too far

he rumbled upward into displeasure

heavy fingers drumming on a table in a darkened kitchen

i woke without satisfaction

8/16/11 e.e. stanley

sort purge release

on the day Prop 8 was overturned

i looked at how much i spent on our

wedding bands

for the last time

229,000 lire

at the family of goldsmiths outside Arrezzo

then i emptied our shared years of financial records from small tidy boxes

into the shred bin

hieroglyphic numerals and scribblings

standing in for the details of years of love

years when my name changed

when i spent long hours looking for enough work

when we made our way together from a basement apartment

into a new city

those years we bought juice together and a mattress

countless entries

Fu Wah $1.35, $3.89, $2.50

trolley fare, Abyssinia, Fresh Grocer, EMS,

Garden Court

the market where you bought beer

today it has been years since you spoke my name

smiled at me

wore my ring

now you are preparing to wed another

and i am still finding ways to let go

perhaps no one marries with the idea of becoming to a divorcee

but here i am, going through boxes

of memories and junk and loss

and at night i dream the myriad possibilities of our ongoing relationship

the one i have with or without you

because love has a half life which long outlasts us

last night i proposed to her

that we let go of half of everything here

even if we manage to do so

without growling at one another

throwing up our hands in surrender

to these mountains of belongings lugged across

years and miles of unfamiliar places

we would still have more than enough

© e e stanley August 2010

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