Showing posts from 2009

Made in Difference

The mind shuts off,
and you forget who you are
- where you've been
and where you're at;
It's hard to define the places, panicked
like laughter, the cool wave
that will always come as
ice on Sundays - you
left it all behind for a kiss,
a matted silence in a room of fears,
as you realize nothingness isn't a bliss
when you can't function where it is.

To Gaia With Telepathy

I've commoditized my life and now I'm bored enough
To see through the trees that stripped naked in the speed of things;
It doesn't please me, the empty veins that fell now singing for home, singing
for a grave under sunflowers feeding birds that sing some more,
so deafening they flutter streetlights to a deadening whim, it has
the jam of getting things done in the worst way - a
division lost for good, bitter as it always was,
rooted under full moon tongue and spit to get right; the cogs
spinning my life, I had enough: my connoisseur
the earth, welcome barefoot feet, re-sow the seeds of
entertain me like you used to
under an orgy birthing stars in the further clouds of newer things to come.

Her Hula-hoop Is Her Hippy Heart

Her hula-hoop sombrero-ed like spirals of galaxy dust,
a hippy hue that held train-wreck breath for burgeoning slacks in the room, a
catalyst of reactions that made the universe wait for her stop. He
watched as if she didn't know his atoms had birthed the chemicals of sex.

And, just for that it was unbuttoned, the barefooted pride of
exposed skin - her
hips often rolled the clocks of time like that
two at a time, heedless
as the fermented wheat gems that bounced around the planets in her gut. It was
the bursts of orgone energy that ripped wormholes in her pants,
the ratcheting gears of dawn that lured a morning suck and fuck, her endearing
laugh that lead to tingly shotgun highs billowing there
in the night as a culmination of his and her' auras
spinning webs of light across the room:

They both held out for the belly of the keg to burst
For inebriation to drive them back to together
For bees to pollinate a sticky affection so they'd never leave

They hoped themselv…

I'll Always Find Her In My Travels

The levies opened, autumn's pale color,
jetting through the jugular thrusts of tires that were headed west,
the coddled chill of her-on-me,
hung out for all that mattered:
the fogged direction, the
sunburned legs of the universe getting tired,
the fissure of memories squashing a mellowed scrutiny
that gasped for us back then. It was the indefinite.
It was the cracked leaks of time, a widowed view
gulping on a suckered taste, measuring the spaces,
among the shifting hues of tawny clouds
that cried, it will always work out for the better.
My speed was slow; my shearing, steady.
I thought of her as Us,
a hot jonahed moment, cocking my dick like a line geese
quickly headed south. That's when I found her
in a windshield-ed parallax of deep breaths,
a magnificent Mississippi blues vibe being lindy hopped out as
I parked this travel vessel in the drive like a break on us.

To A Throne in Monterey, I say Goodbye

I stood on the runway we used to watch from the rooftop in
Lawn chairs. Where we ruled matchbox planes that grew
bigger with the flick of a finger. They used to rumble above us as we
laughed at the sulking shadows in windows, ignoring the cipher of flashing
red and blue farewell lights. Standing there on that concrete slab,
blinking at the intermittent singles, I tried to see that shingled throne,
but could only see the heroin sunsets of last week, the choppy
bay that teased us with enthralling gazes of Santa Cruz, tried to hear
the entrenching roots of steadfast friends, but
could only hear eerie fog horns that stretched across the grass,
the sassy seals, and dried out conversations
pressed against the creases of our minds. I tried to reach out and
halve myself between the tugging sides of both the coasts
and failed, eyes staling out in creeping Monterey fog. There was no Venus light,
no blinding moon or crashing waves. There was only Mercury,
poised and ready to go away. Businessmen

Wegmans' Brand

The past is simply, 
the past. Although,
it may turnover several times, it's 
all part of letting our deltas settle,

a soothing recognition for 
sapient death - the 
soft-power we've become:
part of building a monumental ceasefire among 
loaded toes that daftly spark,
barefoot atop the graves.

It's not....forgotten, yet
sorry-lipped to make us sane,
more patience as 
the stains melt away. 

It still makes me crave things:
you, those times - longing... 
for patchwork within a cup of tea,
to twirl our past in steam; a deep
and solicit a summer,
in our hideaways,
far from teeth
in the clenching jaws of York,
sipping to the gods of what's to come
and finally,
tear the drafty ductwork out.

I haven't had black tea, 
microwaved. warm. the 
sugared splash of milk
- the loyal type -
in quite some time:

I hope to see you soon.

-Nathaniel T. Hughes, December 2008

Lately, it rains a lot more than normal

One layover away from home, and
ten days ends up being too short.
Too short to sustain embraces that should have lasted
longer than heat stroking fingers coming undone;
too short to escape sleepy jitters of the night;
too short to digest fibers of angled relations jetting back up
in the harbor of our hardening hearts; and
too short to lie to myself, in mummers convincing me to stay with
afternoon flogged with green and swollen air. I wanted
friends to be an eyelash in the blink of our
universe and hoped microbrews would, one at time, bend
finite notions back to a rooted place in these stomping grounds.
But now I have text messages coming in,
and I'm not even back yet;
I have unstable emotions about where I should be,
roots of maples yanking me back with each sway of the swing.
It's the politics of longing in the steady cradle of waiting and
little babies we collectively birthed years ago are now growing up
and although we're worlds apart,
It all gives me something to look forward to.

Return of the Everyday Life

The lens of her eyes
reflects off of mine;
as she lets me put it deep
inside her, it's vibrations,
heavy breathing that moans:
This goodbye is going to be a lot harder
than we had thought it would be,
so take me from behind,
the side, on top,
however ever else we can,
just so we don't forget how it felt,
when mornings harboring late night eyes
kept us inside talking
in little voices,
hiding from what we knew
we must face.

Oh Pythagorean

There's a commotion;
it's our Tuesday's lost time cluttern' air:
The bustle of trash men accepting things people heedlessly give away,
the humming of engines that gulp on anxious expectation,
dogs whining - a hankering for all the world's attention,
peoples voices summering as they become
steeped in this crowded space we share; it's
the clatter of the blinds, and it's confusion's running fun.
Because as we lay here, we're becoming a point
that glistens 45 degrees from where it could have been,
a theorem proving me wrong for assuming
that part of me died over a year ago.

To Sonoma

It's summer for once
during summer on the coast.
I'm taking the train
- San Jose to San Fransisco on track three:
they'll spoil us with Mountain View and
express stops where untamed sun tickles my arm,
skin, stained golden,
wheat voices of sunny excitement and
rumbles in the undertone of tongues missing the way things use-to-be
in-between rattles of baby bullet
crawling half-in-and-out of the shadows, I'm
restless with them because tomorrow will be Napa,
will be something new evoking old,
something stained red,
something to call old friends about
to tell them you still haven't forgot,
wish they were here.
it doesn't matter;
were moving fast and soon
I'll be moving on.

Lamentably Yours

Knee deep in swirling grass, we kicked drapes ajar,
unapproachable invertebrates so frightened they,
belted notes that shoed us onwards, their harped voices
pulping us together through transient trails
trekked along weary markers. The whistling blades like candor
propaganda we could submit the past to.

We gulped on this mending ambiance,
pills that forged titillating embraces. Soon the rumble
of aching ground would surface as a scowl, a pasty lit
horizon that tripped on photons
behind the clouded fog in our minds,

it was alluring bygone,
all wet lipped in dank and smoldering auroras that held out for us.

By then we chased each other still,
so rash our thoughts became obfuscated and made
the fuzzy outlines in this foolish place seem sane

We became doggedly timid. Fractious sensation
itching in preachy rapture. The sideways hormones
obliging all yellowness to blush green in twilight-ed circumscription.

It was then she finally took my hand.
Our clasping silhouettes resonated to be the rhythm of …

part of there, part of ready, pinch of not

the bustle of skies unbuttoning beer cap dresses. fashions
blinking eyes, the circadian rhythms
born sideways, blurred memories lace our shoes.
we're dragging along the gift of hangovers, stealing
teardrops along the way; we'll laughingly
never make it there