by on
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

by on
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

*

*

by on

⨀

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

by on

*

*
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