Aladdin 1992


i.

I think that I knew it

the moment we kissed

I’d made a terrible mistake

Time yawned for my heart

(she stretched, pulled her own fabric)

nearly ripped herself apart

(her pity was an act of mercy)

Those few moments extended revealed

(time is a rubber band)

the whirring patterns of faery light

(gravity is a mould)

spidered, webbed, holding reality together

(These are my favorite days)

when I lay back to

let earth swallow me in her sand

(these memories will be my solace)

everyone moves on

we (I) must, anyway

our song; v. a prayer

(that you will make it home alive)

our verse; v. voodoo binding you to I

(so that you will still love me after)

ii.

Repeat.

(Repeat)

Reincarnation.

A reoccurring dream

My worst nightmare

(you – me)

I hear the skies in Iraq are a breathtaking sight

(northern hemisphere)

did you count every star?

(the fortune teller told me)

the creator mapped each constellation

(from me to you)

iii.

Welcome home brave soul

defender of the desert

keeper of her secrets

I’ll hold a ticker tape parade in your honor

10 carnations

(red + white)

wrapped in ribbons

(navy blue)

my gifts to you

I’ll provide the paper; a billion poems

that I ripped apart

trying to describe your perfect teeth

I saw your smile in the waxing gibbous

every month on quiet evenings

One year ago; it still aches

like a new wound (∞)

our relation; my yearning passion

(my poetry; n. dying art)

six pm | *ad nauseum

𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚕,

𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚑𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎. 𝚒 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒’𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢.

𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙱𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎. 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍’𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚍.

𝚒 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛. 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎.

𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚢𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚙𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎. 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎.

𝚒’𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚞 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜.

𝚒’𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝.

𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎.

𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎.

𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢? 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎? 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛, ‘𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢’. 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚎? 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕? 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝?

𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎? 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝?

𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚡 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜.

-𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚙𝚖 | *𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚕

*

We were ready to lay dormant

until the next spring.

Rolling beneath cold clouds

waking the landscape’s frost.

When you found him in orbit about,

a nearer moon.

An unexpurgerated diary entry,

about how woman lay boiling.

A small body of water

and all of it’s creature’s within.

Brought to a stand-still

while the tide’s ripped.

Transforming the water

into a solid sculpture,

about an ever changing world,

still but alive.

To read your work is to know that

not all revolve around the sun.

As you orbit a nearer moon

upon a distant shore.

And his impact is dramatic,

as the moon rises and moon sets.

His height, his trajectory,

his monthly phases

thinning your full breasts

the scythe of a crescent.

A dizzy dissent across

the cosmos in ellipses.

Earth casts a shadow

overbears the surface

the journey that changes

us most of all.

Reveal the beginning,

at the culmination of

a tragic end.

Gravity lifts the water.

Resulting in the rise and fall

of rustic lung.

Sand stands still,

and the creatures cast,

adapt to this

intertidal wedlock

burrow along the coast

Await dual windows & feed fast.

Sheltered within

shore stone cracks.

A woman lay wasted,

you do.

Evaporation run-off warmed water.

Mist seen rising after

morning dew collapse.

Transpiration a phantom

passes through pores

in the atmosphere,

and tiny leaves.

Spring time awakens,

a nearer moon dotes

fertile, nubile,

flung off a surface

crater, cast satellite,

another coastal accumulation.

Another woman lay bare there,

you know.

Close to the warm ground the moisture

is invisible to the human eye,

such fine steam,

colliding as a nimbus cloud

above the coastal highline.

Grow heavy,

groan,

and rain

Gravity brings it

back down to Earth.

Sensitive animals dash,

flee, a marathon

You’re almost out of breath

Earth casts a shadow

overbears the surface

But it is the journey that changes us

most of all.

A bud blossoms at the beginning,

befallen your tragedy’s end

Our time passing as it elapses.

Pages yellow and your dreams

espouse their tender vulnerabilities,

forever cast infamous,

poetic masonry.

six pm | *the super slow motion of yearning

{This poem is dedicated to Anaïs Nin}

That 70’s Show ’98-’06

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i had just read a brief history of time. remember that night? cosmic vertigo took hold of my insides, i quit cigarettes that instant, i crushed my last pack and i declared, to you, that death takes everything.

stephen hawking explained: the universe will have an end just as it has a beginning. so having no more time to waste i told you i loved your face more than any other faces and if there was to be even the tiniest trace of me left behind i wanted it to be the way i felt for you that night.

you blew smoke rings from stitched lips, and i talked in circles around you. bleary and bloodshot our eyes closed. you maybe never read stephen hawking but i know we both ran like bandits from sleep.

I talked about how Robert Jordan said, “the wolves had no notions of time the way men did, no reasons to divide the day into hours” how the seasons and the day from night were all they needed. you had a wolf grin and would reveal a smoldering smile.

earthy smell of marijuana permeated your beard and seasoned our tongues. *omitted, wasn’t it really something? being young and together the way we were. smoke stacked to the ceiling and the lamp glow casted halogen haloes around our heads. don’t you agree how the sun always set too soon?

i’ve watched the stars, since, hoping the universal flow might be reversible. i assure you they tell me nothing of what will remedy any earthly turmoil. especially not that of someone like me, so small and so alone.

though, i love you so deeply when i set my eyes upon you my pupils pool wide as i embrace the pressure of your body’s presence wrapping steadily abound my every bone’s soft marrow: i don’t dare proclaim that your love i know, nor that the love i feel could ever heal a single mortal’s bones. despite all it’s desperation and wonder, the emptiness that swells my soul like a cavity could never be filled by anyone other than me.

when i divide my life into fleeting seasons i recall how the spring loves flowers so greatly, it lifts me every year without fail from the winter blues. yet, the winter still claims every petal and every leaf, eventually. just as my warmth is always devouring the cold weather you breathe. the motions wait for no one, time is a lethal thief.

though my brain wanders towards you and my limbs creek like the branches of trees, fingers empty of your touch like the winter misses spring leaves. i know you were a season and i needed to grow alone.

still the movements of time and her changing seasons, this bitter wisdom that has come from age and grace, nor these emotions that crash like waves cannot keep me from reminiscing so sweetly how we spent entire days and nights: undressed, wearing only one another, or how the sun came up too soon… *darling, i want more time with you.

six pm | *i want more time with you 

Avatar the Last Airbender 2005-2008

i. most magical-beings prefer wild things.

time was where you existed. here. in this space where i have banished your physical form. i print your photographs and reduce you to only 2 dimensions. i spell words, iambic poems, and call the lyrics hexagonal. weaving messages like memories engraved as memorials into the air. symbols burned into my lungs drumming down my throat in heartbeat pattern morse code. pat pat pat the cadence of your character presses beyond its own boundaries and establishes new limits.

bars of sunlight create glitter of dust, but cannot provide magic powerful enough to overcome the grip of this depression. no words can cast a spell over overcast nettled clouds conspiring rain exclusively via creamed coffee eyes. turns them wet and red like koi ponds drowning the sunlight in your ripples.

i have had an eternity to ponder the philosophy of life. i have come to this conclusion: god’s first display of power was to name things. when you kissed each one of my eyelids and named me ‘honey’ i saw my life the way you’d been dreaming it. and so you became holy my blood thickened to the consistency of a viscous liquid saccharine, too morose to pump reason through my veins.

i longed for you. no. more than that. i fought for you. and you are a warrior so you must understand how much you meant to me. i was delicate and focused until you wrapped you madness around me with your lips and i kissed you and drank of it until you grew bored of me and then the madness abandoned me to the quiet.

your body tanned by the unforgiving work in this sunshine. i admired it like Adonis. i saw my reflection in your sweat pools and fell in love with myself in you like a sick twisted Narcissus. like dust in the air the sun made magic out of a thing so common, made gold of a working man’s skin tone. and i—ivory slave to the moon kissed by her beams, spoiled by pillows and pashmina and sleeping until noon, soft boiled eggs for bed in breakfast making love in the frame of our bedroom window. with purple eyes bruised by telescope keyhole making the tiny universe large enough to bite… making me so much smaller. so small that you stepped all over me. too small to swallow you.

Avatar the Last Airbender 2005-2008

ii. i was almost ripped in two, once.

together we were decadence, furnishings forbidden by all ethical code of conduct, conduits of sin: ivory inlayed with gold filigree and no honest man would dare destroy it once it was put together… had we not peeled ourselves apart. pushed awry by the moisture of an enveloping world, God’s masterwork raining on man’s made masterpieces of precious materials soaked in the ripples of rain. nature has no regard for peripheral trinkets like carved tusks and mined metals boiled and thinned and pounded and husked to be a shadow of what it once was. we were to be reclaimed like everything too ornate for utility. we would be stolen like the jewelry we are and tucked away until the estate sale of someone less grateful but more wealthy.

i thought I had it all, that i’d finally held everything…

but my gold-rushed to the coasts of C a l i f o r n i a.

leaving me- ivory with a cold bone heart.

3 0 0 0 m i l e s, from my head on your shoulder.

you are banished from my pillow case.

a scar across the sunset sets the scar across my forehead purple while my neurosis picks at scabs turning towels red. the scar across my arm begins to glow under the moonbeams casting soft hue about the encroaching shadow and i turn on flash to take its picture. the dusk sets the scene for a martian planet without ever having taken off from under the oppressive atmosphere of mother.

i lay down on top of my roof and pray that i might roll off and never feel the falling. gun metal cold of a steely eye contact briskly cuts me without ever having to make real contact at all. i lay here fuchsia in my panties, i squabble with the seconds. i forge a foxhole in your neck nape to survive the nuclear winter. i reserve my american right to lie bare in your arms...

….i delete your number from my phone.

six pm | *all the elements in honey

Photographer: Paige Six

I’ve waited quite literally a lifetime to settle into the type of love which brings the terms settling to a distinctly new definition. I love my husband the way I love to run barefoot through grass. I love my husband the way I love to find shapes in clouds.

So when he came home yesterday telling me he needs more tests, that his back may be giving out not due to the degeneration of his discs which the VA insists is not a service related disfigurement, but because there may be a growth on his spine, well it felt fitting that the bright side of his diagnosis rests on the chance that the signs of a growth may be only a shadow.

For reasons I will not disclose in this portion of my writings: I feel like Faust. How beautiful it is to feel the skin of a lover who embraces you so whole, gentle on the blade of his fingers my cheeks, wisps of baby hairs, and the gentle swell of grey hairs spreading across our hairlines. How heartbreaking it is to put the plans to buy a home on hold because treatments cost so much money, and money doesn’t grow on trees nor has a history of populating my pockets for too long.

We used to sing together in his silver Elantra “it just takes some time…”, but the closer I get to whatever remains of my life the more I understand how time only takes. Every break I take risks breaking me as well as it can rejuvenate my body and mind. The fine line between resting and rusting, how I’ve made a living of walking its tight rope. And the bygones kept floating by.

We still sing together, more than ever. Only it’s in our white Buick. My only regret is that we didn’t realize that this was the best life could be. We went our separate ways for so long, and now we have no idea what’s left. It’s such a bittersweet kind of dream life.

Paige Six | 10.07.20

Being chosen for print has always been an object of my desire. I have always wanted to have my work accepted, appreciated, and loved. But what is this driving force that keeps me sharing my words rather than locking them in my armoire to be discovered upon my death like Emily Dickinson?

Jacques Lacan coined the phrase ‘objet petit a’. What he meant to accomplish was noble in my opinion: was to put a neat bow around the emotion surrounding an unattainable object of desire. Was to give humanity a phrase in which we could communicate and relate to one another through our unique shrouds of longing.

I particularly love the use of small. tiny. petite: ‘objet petit a’. Because it feels small, doesn’t it? Even though it inspires our bigger calls to action

*

Would you call it an echo? Or perhaps just a ringing? Picture a soft Doppler Effect: a subtle vibration that flows in waves, a pattern that we can follow until the next soundwave disrupts the flow changing our driving direction towards something new and more colorful? Hubble might have said so had he not had so many more important realities to tackle.

Is it to pine for an unspecified, and perhaps abstract moment in the future? A greatness? Or maybe to long for it to rectify the regrets that haunt our past without consequences of regression? A reunion?

It is a ghost that hasn’t passed away yet haunting us, speaking through code upon a ouija board and we simply will not say good bye? Maybe it did die and we’re arrested in the denial stage.

In my time postulating how to put this phrase, ‘objet petit a’ into poetry I have come to some conclusion as to what it means to me, currently, or in the past, as to you are most definitely reading it as it was in mine:

Imagine a mote, a spec of dust, neglected maybe, inside of us that we cannot pinpoint, something too small to see without a microscope. Yet it is powerful. The quantum quandary that allows for the tiniest pieces to hold the greatest potential force. An atomic explosion resulting from hadron collision. A Big Bang. An accelerated particle in all of us that was dormant for far too long.

It’s not missing, I think, even though we search for it, chase it, dream on it. No, I believe this ‘objet petit a’ takes on the abstract shape of an unfillable void. a pocket with an endless hole. While one small spec may light its dark tiny spaces for a while, its insatiable longing pulls us towards the next object of our human appetites.

And it makes us great. It makes us better. It makes humanity, when working towards a cohesive goal more whole. I am proud to be a part of something that made the world more beautiful and kind, even if it is not my final destination…

Paige Six | 3.20.20