The Secret World of Arrietty 2010

I believe in Nothing,
after This is all over,
before Everything began,

So if This is Something,
even just a little bit…
it matters who I spend my time with.

You’re so in love it sets your eyes on fire.
See, I need to feel that too.
I’m simply not falling in love with you.

So take back your gifts of golden bracelets.
I don’t feel comfortable giving them away.
Though soft and made of finer things…

They are chains all the same.

-six pm

Paige Six | 2021


*a draft I’ve been aspiring to finish since I’ve sought to build off of the final stanza since 2017. It’s still sitting on my chest. One of the mornings I’m going to rise and sing the right companion verses. Until then, we have this.

*

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

*

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}