Calligraphy Mornings

Oh, Small City! I love you but sometimes, you don’t have what — or who — I am looking for. Like now, I have been dabbling in calligraphy, but the only tools I have are a pencil, a Panda ballpen, and a fountain pen that has a fine nib. The real pens they use for calligraphy are those that have broader nibs (I am so interested but uninitiated!).  These are not available here, but I’ll find them soon — or they’ll find their way to me. 🙂 

I love how calligraphy — at least my crude kind — pins me down and suspends everything around me. It suspends unnecessary talk, unnecessary tinkering with other things, unnecessary, mindless munching.  But amazingly, it does not in any way suspend thinking.  I never realized that three of my interests — prose / poetry, sketching, writing by hand — would merge into one quaint art form. 

My mornings have been spent journaling and writing by hand.  So far, it is becoming a good preparatory exercise for my bigger tasks for the day, like writing (the serious kind), research, and my daily Sacred Half Hour. 

I’ll have the pens, and like-minded friends, soon, so thank you, Providence! 

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If I turn to girls

If I turn to girls and find

my dreams in them, I wonder

if you would piece together all

those moments when you had

the chance and save me from

the confusing lure of

 

curves and cuntentment.

 

I wonder if you would spend

your nights in solitary bleating

for lost time, all the lost time

at other meadows looking

at a flock of conventional girls

finding nothing of me in them

they with the constitution of

goats.

 

I wonder if you would ever

think that my new-found fire

for sapphic territories may be

an aversion to yours, to your

blankness;

 

an Eve rising from exhaustion

Eve turning to Eve, exploring

none of you, none of swine–

only the sweet honeysuckle from

full teat, maternal measures

made carnal.

 

But I would long for you still

your protrusion, the turning

of gears and lock and key

 

opening futures in front porches

and beach fronts, the mystery of

you in palm fronds,

 

my unquestionable submission to you

your drone against my moan

the possibility of contentment.

 

 

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morbid fantasy

Cure me from the morbid fantasy

of falling and rolling off to the unknown

right when I’m ripe for the picking

 

of sitting beside pilots in cockpits

savoring the turbulence before a crash

 

of leaving before children and old age

make the magic wear off

 

of punctuating an incendiary speech

with a bullet

 

of levitating elsewhere upon

a cloud of cigarette smoke

 

of vanishing after laying

a manuscript to bed

 

of permanent curtain calls

 

of invoking God after the last climax

 

of dying young

and letting the story live on.

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i could never have you

lingering

like the gaping hole you left —

the dumb stretch of

no conversation I desperately

blur with smoke

and bitters.

 

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Can you hear me

Even when my cries

are floating phantoms waiting

For words to weigh them

Down where

 

I am louder

As tears soaking ground

Watering grass

Greening earth

Grass and earth speaking for me

remembering my worth

 

Or even when I just

look at you, Formless Face

On a blank wall

Silently as You are silent

 

Can you hear me?

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