Nathaniel T. Hughes

We departed dark basement gate 16 to Syracuse from the mess of New York's port authority terminal. All was silent as, everyone was OK with letting loquacious Jersey traffic do the talking for awhile. Yet, as we bumped and raged along, showing no mercy for potholes or lane-changing-horns, mouths began to move, and short words began to form. The sun was just scattered modes of light on the tired PA trees, when Jim from Jersey, sitting slightly behind and across the isle, began to talk to me. We quickly agreed that the Mayans were masters of the stars, kings of celestial bodies, resting in astronomical intricacies. We agreed that they weren't profits; and it was just by some sick twist of fate that the world is ending so close to such an infamous, arbitrary date. We agreed that life is crude and that, if we could, we'd make god fuck the asshole of the moon. And as the bus filled up with chatter, and weary sleepers waking up, we hit a dubious

Harking laughter and tiny voices across the street fill the air; as carefree free as they are, tomorrow isn't even a pebbled thought away. Here, there's only a slinking string of time and space, with crickets fighting for the darkest deva sound; it's in-betweens it all that there's a great... pause - the leaves forced upside down, the grasses waiting to be part of wilted vindication, and all the birds coming back from the edge of dangerous sleep deprivation. Yet one noise, transcends it all: a hissing, damning calm, saying: "It really shouldn't be that long now."