⁕                                                                    .




∗                                                                                   ⁕

for you i am a tequila sunrise;

for you i am heartbeat panging

through the pages

of schoolgirl crush notebook.

kissing crux of neck bone crest collar,

soft and warm as morning bread.


*                             .


you are at least 6′ tall.

i blink.

i am sure.                                    

i say: starlight you are sunshine                         .

and i love you like buttercups.

i write you sonnets and give you heartbeat

gift wrapped in its parchment.                                                   *

             .                                      .                         

*                                   ⋆


you grow 10′ taller.

you are menace and

i am mouse.

i tell you i am falling from your eyelash.

you grow larger. 20′ tall now.

13 miles you crest everest.                                 .

i go to hold your hand but i’m a lonely golden pebble.

you ask the clouds a favor;                             .                        

to blow their wind and push you away.

                                    .                                                  º             *

 *                                                              *


you are leaving.

i will stay.

i tell you i need you.

i feel nothing.

i am in the stratosphere; floating                        .

i am a helium balloon and you are shrinking.


*                                                             *

you are dusking sunset through bleary eye slits              .

and it is getting cold here.

star sparkle my vision sun sinking             .

backlit dropping…*



you are

… my lover?                                                                                    

you are                   º

…my height now.                                               •

no.                                           .                                                   .

you are smaller.

you are sprawling pacific ocean.                   *

whole life ahead of you.

*                            .


i am drifting alone.

i still love you.

you are orange melodrama,                    .    ·

you are marmalade paintings on still-life ocean surface.

you are the west and i am gone.              *

                                    · •                .


                                 .                                             *

every constellation becomes a new map evolving

and i am only marrow.

you can see right through me.                        ⊹

i am an open book and you are diary entry.

startling the starlings with my stories.

i regale earth’s sucking mud,                        .                 

her jewel weeds, dandelion wish clouds,

and the way you kept together everything.

∗                             .                                    ⊹


            .                                            •

furloughed like an arrow.

you sentenced me to no-thing.                                      º

bone marrow bow flung me                                                                              .

with the bow crafted of my own heart strings.

sorry. i couldn’t make it to the moon by morning.                                   ⁕

i hope the darkness wasn’t so bad.

i hope you missed me.  –six pm | *furloughed

   ⁕                                                                                 .







Photographer: James Hammerick | March 2018

Have you ever watched WAKING LIFE? It’s one of my favorite films and I believe you should watch it if you haven’t yet. There is one line in it in particular that sticks to me, it suggests ( for thought) that reincarnation is humanity’s poetic expression for collective consciousness.

I think about that often, and especially since my mother passed. Occasionally I try to speak with her “ghost”, connect with whatever is out there of hers, because I imagine that parts of us have no choice but to linger where they naturally existed. Granted I’m usually stoned when I do this, so take that for what it’s worth.

When I was in college I wrote a thesis on geisha, the point of the paper was that art is the most integral part of any culture for connecting generations to their roots. As I had a panic attack on my 31st birthday trying to feel my mother’s presence again I held her prayer card. We spent a lot of money paying for her prayer cards to have gold-inlay. I studied Art History, my favorite religious art period was the Byzantine era, so that’s what I wanted for her funeral card’s art. If you have never seen Byzantine era art, you can see similar religious art today in Greek Orthodox churches, and dare I say Catholic churches, although not quite as extravagantly.

I was raised Catholic and I believe there’s an intrinsic aesthetic influence due to that fact. I see how Catholicism domineers my tastes, my visual art, and my poetry. I believe once you were raised Catholic a little bit (or a lot) of it always lives in you. How could it not? The art and architecture is so breathtaking, the poetry is moving, and the cultural impact the Catholic church has had on the world is powerful.

That’s how, I guess, how even without a solid belief in religion I still find peace in the iconography, and the symbolism. My point being that art is a mysterious tool that should not be taken for granted.

I don’t know if I believe in a “beyond” in the traditional sense, but the more I ponder what I do believe the more I believe in a reality. My doubts come with only our limits of perception, even if we’re holograms. (Although my expertise falls way short of holography at this point in my life!) I think it’s imperative that artifacts of our culture’s art history to be preserved, because they’re sacred. Sacred is a powerful word if we allow it to be, sacred status gives people something to connect with that’s unpolluted when they’re completely lost. At least it has for me.

I think as a mother I might have taken this for granted, so far as raising my child is concerned. I don’t want the cultural significance of our most brilliant artistic masterpieces to disintegrate like old photos in a shoebox, or like the geisha are disappearing from Japanese landscapes taking with them many delicate trades the likes of musical instrument makers, silk craftsmen, and more. It’s my job as a parent who values art history to continue taking her to museums, travel with her if I can, and to talk to her about which art meant something to her family. It is my duty to show her the value in the art of other cultures which melts into the melting pot of human perseverance. If I don’t what was the point of that education? Why be cultured if you are going to take your culture for granted?

Paige Six | 11.25.20

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