The audacity
that you would write a ***** a love letter
That you would in so many words announce your affections for a *******
Thay you would pour out your heart
to a harlot

But here in hand i have it
written in blood turned tan from time travel
caligraphy cornerstones that mark the foundation for forgiveness
lithography laden with agony for the cause of love

It's as if even now, i can watch your quill
as it traipses across parchment
fabricated from your very own lamb's skin
still marred with scars
rough and red
tears at it's edges
and holes torn by gashes

the audacity of that "I love you"
scrawled in the crucifix cursive of the creator of the earth and its
universe
unfurled to cut the mundanity with meaning


The audacity...


I am wordless.


My soul is far from speechless.

a soul history is like the caligraphy of dunes
the psyche toiling its dark materials
sketching shadows from imagination
the cabaret of desire contemplating all the wonderful trivial terrible beings you can be. a wave in my mind you are
between the visible and invisible man the wisdom of the shamans

I walk on streets, I see things, I touch hands suffering from imagination deficit disorder. sometimes I have thoughts in reverse
but I cage my heart in this shrine of memory while
I am looking for you dawn by dawn, bird by bird

One check of my accomplishments,
But furthermore a verification for skills,
The art of conversation shall be my judge,
And my experience so far my partner in crime,
As the master of this angelic pen I'll suffice,
Even if they find me underwhelmed,
Or leave with disappointment without another word,
It is only proof, I have too much to improve to give up!
One way or the other, I find my hand guide the way,
With gentle movements, a delicate caligraphy has been created,
Thus, a deep breath, calming my tired nerves, helps me relax,
A clear mind is required for a difficult task after all,
And so, my hand gently, softly calls for the cover of this pen,
Time flew past without distraction, confidently,
Handing away this work I wait for the results,
Starting to become nervous down to my very core,
What if it wasn't good enough?

~ Umi

Words wander diwn linely paths
through my unexplainable mind
And along barren veins hiding
In the shadows that were once
My heart.

Simple, tired rhymes linger
at a party long over and dead
As cliche lines dance night
After night in the abandoned
Clubfor grumpy eyes and
Inebriated crowds outside
Outaide what was once
My soul.

I am dyimg to write, to
Get it out of my system
So I no longer have to
think if you, thats all
The voices remind me of now.

You should be here agaim,
I think you should write more
but Caligraphy's calling me
Over and over again to
come home and write.

But its not home
without you.

Caligraphy's calling ...
Caligraphy's calling...
Caligraphy's calling us home.

What are you getting at?
Poetically dispassionate ink
pouring out of your mouths.
Standing half-naked here
with your nasty bits hanging out and dangling.

Fifth grade ******* contest,
tape measure microphone.

'His darkness is bigger than his!'
'Well yeah but his is darker.'
It's okay
maybe you're a grow-er and not a show-er.

Half-poised, microphone voice-box
tell me now, what parchment does
your pen ***** onto?

Caligraphy college degrees.
Upper-middle class tragicomedy.
Skin unscarred,
pretending to know
just how deep a razor blade can go.
Red ink looks close enough to blood I guess.

This vast sea of poetic words,
snotgreen and scrotumtightening.
With your absolute knowledge
of what Joyce was getting at
as he layed there dying and blind
imploring to the world:
"Does nobody understand?"

What awful things has the world done to you
to beget these howls of pain?
What about you
does this dimlylit place,
with it's black coffee and chicken sandwiches,
epitomize?
When was the last time your world was worth destroying?
How did you sleep last night?
Have you ever heard a bone snap in half?
What is your first thought when holding a sharp object?

What will these words prove
when you find that no one's listening?

My tired eyes meet yours
Straining in the dim lighting
Sipping the drink you bought me
Through the thin straw
Sweetness tatooed on my lips
I gently lick it away

Your voice is brash
But mine is almost somber
I play the part well
Of the innocent rabbit
And you're the sly fox
Looking to devour me

Suddenly I'm in your den
Sitting on your mattress
Watching reruns we've both seen
You say loosen up
And touch my thigh
Sending pulses between my legs

Your tongue dives in my mouth
Exploring every crevice
Like a cartographer
You reach up my dress
Looking for the ocean
Your tongue tastes of sea salt

Your face between my thighs
Telling a story I've never heard
Your tongue is a paint brush
Skillfully scribbling caligraphy
I cry out in a foreign language
That feels so familiar

Every inch of my body
Quivers with joy
But there is no love here
And I wonder
If I'm really the innocent one
Or if I devour hearts as well

It could possibly be magnetic
Something in the caligraphy of my actions
I cannot control
When the wind blows
I follow

If the word had not been abandoned
I would swear this was perfection
My marauder
My undoing

Speckles of tranquility settle
At the bottom of my subconscious
Like sediments in a lake
Slowly it thickens
Slowly I am no longer the fraud

Now I open my eyes into miles of sand
Looking to the sun with eyes closed
An insect sheds its skin so delicately
That he appears a ghost

And if blue were blue
I would already be gone
The twisting kaleidoscope of colour
Confused for one shade
Again the corners turn in
Becoming a cocoon

Like a ribbon of sunlit emeralde caligraphy
In arabic I held it close to my eyes.  Only a few
lines in black ink but all I could see was how
Green the grass is.  I cannot remember the

Words only that they were true not why.


For Stanley Godluski

Some hear static and no more
Some hear a lion's roar

Some see an oil leak on pavement
Some see swirled caligraphy on parchment

Some see a worthless industrial junkyard
Some see a playground better than their yards

Some see a run down city street
Some see it as a great place for a band to meet

Some see a vacant, remote field
Some see a backwoods campsite to yeild

Some see scrawling on a bathroom wall
Some see the frustrated creativity 'neath it all

Shane Michael Stoops  3h
On point! I remember when journalists and journalism were highly regarded for being pretty factual.
kevin  16s
back to the future!!! collect the facts marty

i just created a print job for a kid coming out of county review

he says he is an expert painter, he's hired

someone get to work on the requisition orders for his gang and file it under the caligraphy arts and exams folders with wall grants and access kids requests for endowements for the arts of something to be seen and not otherwised often

homeless people conditions plEASe remember us is watching the dog

chadillac i am a master manufacturer of lithography
i halt and examine know they opinion of homes for tattle rattles

this is the thousand oaks conundrums crimes of fraud rents its dones

Someone said in a curt cliche.
That
It's a
Cold hard
World out there.
Friend.

You gotta keep your wits about you.
Take the medication,
Drown out the voices with sedatives and
Keep a formal fragile facade of average.
Conform into the agglomeration of normalised behaviour.

Repeat the Nicean creed
Of nit picking normality.

Unfortunately.
I think I only think in cliches.
The soul of the author is laid bare.
And becomes
Destroyed.

Oh friends.
I know.
Self similar sentiment
Is wasted on literary minds.
As my verbosity is limited by my lexicon
That's drying up as we speak.
The creek bed of my creativity
Evaporating.

And,
What am I but average
In ability.

Irregular in mental acuity.
My divine spark
Is this mashing together
Of words someone else
Stoked in a literary bonfire.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Disjointed from the ambient temperature of familiar
In my own personal agoge.
Raised on rusty nails
Tempering my will as
Hard as an isolated diamond.
Ranting to the coal.

And, I found myself
Looking for my rough.

It's where I discovered
Some familiar adage
To regurgitate in an off tempo
Poorly worded poem.

And it's always a sob story they're singing
On the radio.
About the trials of other people.
And their mundane conformity to their ideals of
Triumph and tribulation, scraped off their existential sinew.
Burning.
Curling up their metaphoric arm.

Familiarity in self diagnoed PTSD.

There's
Always a love song they're writing.
With fountain pens.
In caligraphy.
Vague and ambiguous.
A passion everyone feels the same.

But isn't it the desire for a break
From the mundane.
To be consumed in an eschatology.

An apocalyptic devouring
Of logical reasoning.

When they find me out.
As they always do.
As an asymptomatic.
Anomaly.

They'll say,
There's no better torch song than an epitath.
A ****** ballad.
With a sorrowful refrain.
For me, strange and unusual:

Farewell.

Here too often.

Never.

Gone.
Too.
Soon

Whose ***** is she,
someone stands on the corner,
influencing the planets with her sign
did **** take a hit?

pain. take care
sweet heart
deliver to me inside me hurts

The names of plants are plenty -
incant and hope in chemicals
the ground to rise or give up.

Messages are soon delivered on trains
We are the World
her horrible tragedy is over,
And what minerals selling
points to the plot,
In comedy.


The scene photograph
peirces me in these pictures
wheels white and soundless
A good show in goldleaf
, and know little else-
for i am alone in her theater
without her,
Just me and my pipe,
now, simply existing;
a heaven on earths i do not care for.

Time in Doses too little
Love my libel on his word,
just asked in my bible.

I'll be someone's lesser,
now, firmly believe in pain
wandering begger
and blindly pulling off
all that I've gathered inside
A hypodermic needle.

So long ago and far away
to the frosty night
I traveled on that pipe
so far to or from
When it will begin

carry a tune,
caligraphy,
darned socks
we're all aboard and
A Northern wind
Spirit gifts us.

Horrors
were just time spent quilting
A train pulses
its pillow smoke
as she hushs the neighbors to sleep
along the tracks
Erased the last few yards.

her beautifully closed eyelids
meets next to each stop
Steam rises up to my nostrils
as pulsing dreams
I was
Loved once in traveling
in those pillows that gather up on the down thrusts.

We are the world as theives
to old pipers music,
notes inside the body
of these discordant tunes.