Nathaniel T. Hughes

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

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.