*

Avatar the Last Airbender | 2005-2008

When cast upon the barren terrain of loneliness I’ve crafted many castles and shrines to give shape to this flat land. Worshiping Him who merely crossed but did not root.


Every smirk; a sunrise scattering blue light and casting a golden warmth upon my empty sand. I was a sponge; I absorbed every ray of His light and when His star set, I began to pray facing West. I was left alone in the dark with shadows and shapes of the towers looming unoccupied.


To preoccupy myself from the daunting empty and the always alone I painted murals and gilded each shrine with gold. I went hungry to leave rice cakes and fruits at His altar— hoping to lure Him into the home I’d created and love me again for the art I’d devoted to His likenesses and name.


Each note upon which I’d wrote became a poem, became a notebook, became a grimoire full of morbid canticles. Much like space my loneliness spreads infinitely, as vibration and blue songs, as if willing its way towards forever seeking the edge and an end.


Every red candle burned brightly not to satiate the darkness; but as prayers to cast beacons across the liquid night and beckon back His ghostly glow.


If He’d rose again and become my sun, daring only I stare into His deadly radiation I’d have gladly looked boldly until falling blind; so blindly did I seek to feel the embrace of love when I was empty and there was none. –six pm

∗six pm | *holy ghost

Aladdin 1992

Dear 6,

     I write you to allow myself closure. The truth I’ve never revealed to you is how after years of atheism and searching for answers it was only upon meeting you that I almost believed in God.

     I’d spent my young years with my nose to the grindstone and had very little time for fun and frolic. I have always been restless, a wild-child in my soul diving into fiction to suppress these desires. I’d sacrificed education for hourly wages necessary to keep the roof over my head. I exposed these truths to you in shame to be comforted by the thick tusk of your shoulder.

      The musk of your natural body still intoxicates my senses. The deep sienna of your skin against the champagne color of my wrists trembling as you placed upon its thin wafer layer a first kiss. Where did it all go wrong? Was it how our bodies didn’t quite fit the way our minds melted like wax and our conversation flowed like wine? The awkward communion of the first sacrament of our union…

     This I won’t forget: your deception and how its reveal decapitated the holy body of our bond at the slender curve of its neck.

     There are two instances in my life that are traumatic blessings: the birth of my child at the age of 18 and the loss of you at 28. To the other side of this continent you reside with a whole fraction of my soul. I write you this letter in hopes you might know. But I send nothing to you, our communication will remain cold.

Save you discover this letters, until which no bars will I hold.

Yours,

3.14

*For him whose name meaning is heart, and the associated lucky number is 6.

*six pm | 2021 {notes on poems

Aladdin 1992

i
am a
sentimental
physicist.
observing
the gravity
of emotion.
noting the
subtle lensing
of light,
as it
filters
passed you
and
distorts my
star weary
eyes.
i must
crunch the
equations &
check them
twice
before
i don
aluminum,
endure
your
endless
cold,
& shoot
for your
moon.•
○.

⁂⁖
.
the
mass
effect
of you
consumes.
hypothesis:
your
spirit’s
path is
visible
light,
racing
towards
a cosmic
wall; to
decorate
galactic sky
as microwave
impressionism.
•°.


.
to
make
sense of
your dark,
i spend
my nights
measuring
boundless
black
matter that
surrounds us.
enraptured
by the
scented skyline
prophesying:
jet propulsion,
serenaded, and
lemonade rainfall;
Armageddon
upon another
acid planet.
your pain
upon the
reaches
still unpinned
by travelled
telescopes;
dying
technologies
making me
jealous of
all the
places where
the universe
sees the
parts
of you
i am
physically
incapable
of being. °
•.

⁖⁕
.
as love
moves
in ellipticals
it eclipses
my heart,
eventually.
always,
the awe
never ceases
to inspire me.
invokes my
muse.
devote my
life to
translating
the beauty of
its euphoria
into the
English
vernacular.
ceaselessly.
to release
the burden of
it’s memory
like the sun
burned into
my retinas.
i compose &
compute each
intangible
equation.
nuance
comprises
itself onto
endless notations.
converting numbers,
filtered through
my limbic system,
into colloquial
prose.
closest words
to illustration,
as my
cerebellum
can
surmise. •
. •°.

.
code the
sentences
unto
my poems;
my theories
of everything.
presenting
my poetry
to everyone
as my
thesis.
phantoms
obsessing
my mind
my only
tangible
evidence.
am i
still the
only
person
who can
see
how
perfect
we
are?
the
only
person
who
sees
our
future
written
in the
stars?

-six pm |* sentimental physics

*

*

Photographer: Paige Six

You having sex in the morning, your love was foreign to me

It made me think, maybe human 

not such a bad thing to be…’

But I just laid there in protest, entirely fucked….

it’s such a stubborn reminder; one perfect night ‘s not enough

*

*

*

*

(𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 *darling,

𝙸’𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚕, 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘̇𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 — 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎.

𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎n 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜̣ 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚜̣ 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘̇𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 —

*

— 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘̣𝚜̣𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕.

*

𝚃𝚑𝚎 ‘if‘ 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘̇𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢:

𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝—

—𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍.

*

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝙸 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢  𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 —

—𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠. 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢.

𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘̇𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜̣𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜. 

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. 

æ𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐—

—𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚘̣𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 

𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜̣.

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎, 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘̣𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜—

*

—𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚢. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑.

*

— 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜̣𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘̣ 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗

𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘̣𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕; “𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑”. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑? 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠—

—𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, *darling,

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

six pm)

*

“But I’m a constant headache, a tooth out of line.

They try to make you regret it, 

you tell them, ‘no, not this time.’

It’s just a constant headache, a dead-pet device.

You hang me up unfinished, with the better part of me 

no longer mine…”

*

*

 –six pm *3:15

(Song Credit: Joyce Manor)

Aladdin 1992

*

*

*

[ I don’t believe in magic ]

but I do believe in

magnetism

and

*

the

direction of our stars

so don’t call this intuition

[ when all sign say you’re *my north. ]

*

-six pm | *my north

*

*

for fifty days i fasted,

knowing no-thing,

save the retching of my own flesh,

save the pit of my own stomach.

*

for your arrival safely we sold

our cattle, fashioned a festival

our first kiss –a first sip of wine

on the day break of Pentecost,

at last my fast was over.

*

we fashioned circles of precious metals

and strung them around each other’s

vena amori, declared forever in a vacuum

proclaimed endurance upon the coming

event horizon of time itself.

*

space swells with the ancient ruins

of men and women who shed tears

tracing the constellation trails

from one end of an ocean to another

filling the void of voiceless oceans

with metaphoric rapture and appetite

for adventure.

*

*darling, the smell of desert sand swims

firmly between your pores,

your body warm as the land

cut like mountains

between your biceps

where my head lays

basking in the moments

you are here. 

*

how i adore you so.

*

proclaim eternity

enter matrimony – eyes wide open

place his heart upon a pedestal

let no slanderous word nor malicious canticle

seduce his woefully mortal heart.

*

roots and petals of calendula

poultice to quell the spasms

you take me in my blood 

and i take you in my arms 

when the nightmares hurt 

worse than the back pain.

*

you remind me that even in the winter

the carmine-colored cardinal coos

and whistles, awakens the trees and fills

the cold world with sweet song.

*

i’m unraveled in your high collar,

blue and burned in a freak fire,

raptured by the desert

nothing is forever, we know,

yet everything is possible.

*

there is no going back.

*

on this river of time

except maybe we’ll escape 

the event horizon burn 

as radiation about 

the black hole’s radio halo.

*

dying light is a subjective notion

when you limit every poetic persuasion

to the limits of the human eye.

*

we weave honey, orange citrus, & marmalade

into spacetime tapestry,

 devote each second

as the present is our own reward

the art of being in love,

the pleasure of being alive.

*

the future is a metaphor –

as in calling the ocean endless

naming riptides undertow

we: new and other molecules

blur into water, two bodies

one brackish soul.

*

-six pm | *after easter

*

*
April Egg Moon | Photographer: Paige Six, 2020

*

i.

I am a golden dawn and this is my orchestra. There are cracks in my soul glow, carry like broken notes, but as the light breaks the horizon I carry them well. I carry the heavy load, the low tones, the vibration pitter pattern wringing out the old rag and make streams from the runnels. They called it nesting but I called it cleaning the walls and floors to no avail because I was the only one who cared about the child growing inside of me in the whole circle.

*

ii.

Time is a wrinkled fold in the corner of her eyes. I press them out with the girth of my thumb and hope the world learns to embrace change. Her skin stretches as my heart sinks. Cut the baby curls and let them populate the linoleum. I find comfort in the signs of aging, in the middle of the folds that foreshadow the way my child’s face will soften as the years callous her soft hands. Look to the mirror to see her in 30 years because I may not be; and she looks so much like me when I was younger.

*

The moon has a navel, I gaze up its intricate craters and see the umbilical cord, a tell-tale cluster of  constellations, cut from Mother. Earth can only watch as space smacks her first child; mars her daughter’s glowing smile with imperfections; carving holes into her powder surface. I can only relate in the most holy helpless manner

*

iii.

A brain fold beneath a miracle, a raven crown of perfect follicles dry of melanin dripping silver everywhere. A surgical procedure carved of sawdust, and she a comet spilling stardust. If I was a dawn then she is a choir. I a setting sun and her new day a chorus. This is my orchestra but the music is for my daughter, my golden dawn but a fleeting moment and her life an endless sea of sparkle. An oasis where only time bends to the gravity, a notebook, a sonnet, a melody.

– six pm |*the moon has a navel; we all gaze upon her