#stanley
I see you in the arrival of streetcars
in the mud and blood of New Orleans.
You’re a Stanley among plucked weeds.
Or I recognize your smile, your horse-like nod
so curtly possessing me once before
(though you need to brush your teeth).
You used to prance around, chest like a rooster’s, your
gaudy breath seeping through decidedly crude remarks.
You pecked at my hen cage. I could’ve let you in.
And there again I lay in bed, your Napoleonic
threats—the implied and fabricated—
haunting me. Such are the dangers of being lonely.
Among the stella, I’m Laika-like, floating in fear as the Earth draws farther,
the pinhole camera world ecstatic with discovery, and I feel your
panting presence over my shoulder. Desire.
In every cell of my body, you have chained bits
of your brain into. Stanley, won’t you,
won’t you, just leave me be?
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 10:19 PM UTC
Far out of the corner of his
Eye he followed a star
Shining deep in the distant
Constilation
Dark matter concealed his
Hand out of sight
The connection was COMIC
From the hammer of Thor
Stan Lee created
Spiderman and the Fantastic four
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 9:09 AM UTC
Pushing a key oh how it brings me glee;
Content even happy in simple existence;
Many may not want to be just like me,
For a dry dreary job takes a work of persistence,
But each button I press is a step to success.
Merely a man without a choice,
Only a puppet with no voice
As I wait for direction with keen apprehension;
I stare at the screen first perplexed then distraught;
I see no coworkers it fills me with tension;
What was that? Was it just a thought?
A voice in my head, now it fills me with dread.
He must choose to make a choice,
To give his mouth a voice
“Stanley,” says he, “walked out his office”;
‘Stanley’ is that honestly my own name?
This voice I don’t trust, I will be very cautious;
I shut my closed door so all will stay the same;
The voice has not parted, I’m back where I started;
How?
The end is never the end is never the end
“Stanley,” says he, “walked out his office”;
Shall I play with him in his own little game?
My other decision was not quite that flawless;
I walk outside and am filled with no shame;
“Rejoice, you’ve made the one right choice”.
Now he’s a man in a world of choice,
The one employee that has a voice
I come to two doors and feel a great sensation;
“Walk through the door that's to your left”
What should I think of his clear calm narration?
I walk to the left, trying to be quite deft;
“You must not try to be uncouth, my words they simply speak the truth”.
Does he really have a choice?
Are the words his own real voice?
The constant dictation is no consolation;
I am led into a secret new door;
What I now see is a mind control station
But how do I know what is real anymore?
Does this place control me, or the voice within me?
This is the chance to make a choice,
His opportunity to put forth a voice
"Will you close down the station boy?
"Or put its full force into motion?
What choice do I have but to follow the story?
'Mind control', I'm dismayed at the notion;
I think I heard the voice inside me just scoff,
I turn the station off.
Only a character in a fixed plot line,
He does not see a contrasting sign
Now I am free but it brings me no glee;
Maybe I should have put up some resistance;
Merely existing means nothing to me;
I must now question my unclear subsistence;
The voice has not parted, I'm back where I started.
A man with a choice,
He has a voice
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
rooster-crow and the repetitive tap
of a hammer like the tick
of a clock in the distance
woke me and I followed what
was left of your voice like the tracks
of an animal to the edge of the copper
water. Though I knew there were
Cottonmouths thick as ropes, I waded
into the cool shadows and then up
a hill where trees grew, preordained, laid
out in perfect rows like headstones. When
I had reached that place where
we had left the past, and shed even
our skins for love, I saw them:
the blackberries surrounded
by briers. Supple and sparkling
as jewels. The same ones that we
had subsisted on, with bleeding
fingers, for one afternoon
of our lives. And though
I remembered all the fears
we shared like sackcloth
and ashes, and I knew
the danger of reaching
into the unknown, (it seemed
like there were serpents waiting
beneath every beautiful thing)
blindly grasping for the sweetness
that everyone longs for, and I too
have always feared those things
I cannot see, I put my faith
in the innocence of nature. I tried
to believe in the benevolence
that exists if you go beyond
the fear, and so I found
them again: the blackberries,
the fruit not forbidden
to those who love, huge
and succulent, and so full
of grace, they were almost
too heavy to bear.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC