j.e. stanley
is of the deep cleveland tribe of poets. his chapbook "dissonance" was published on deep cleveland press.
stanza crunch
for patti smith
red chaos bleeds to white.
guitars weep deep blue america.
the land struggles toward free,
toward be.
broken orbits fracture space.
black holes bleed in time
to the screams of the furies.
american renegade,
our lady of the free verse,
blindfolded and dancing barefoot,
she maps the urban wilderness
and we follow her voice,
break our chains to ride
eternal waves through
cities of stars,
perfect moon nights
and neon galaxies
of electric light.
(Note: Title taken from "WOMANMusic" by Joanne Cornelius)
Blues song
like the naked trumpet
as it echoes
through the alley, yearning
blue and deeper blue,
the first, last and only sound
in this alone night.
The naked moon
with no light of her own,
abandoned realm of the huntress,
goddess of the wild,
now forsaken in the concrete minds
of cold and modern men.
The naked silence of 3 a.m.
and I read to seduce sleep
but the book is Morrow's "City of Truth,"
disillusionment laced with depression,
when what I really need
is a single, convincing lie.
The naked absence of you,
nothing left but the black panties
from the hamper
that you missed when you packed,
and your scent
which draws me again and again
to sweet and sour loss.
Wilderness
Even out here,
the silence speaks.
The wind breathes lost songs.
And the trees whisper quiet stories
of sad human truths.
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