Nathaniel T. Hughes

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 exhale, and solicit a summer, Central, 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

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 f...

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.

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.

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. But, it doesn't matter; were moving fast and soon I'll be moving on.

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 rhy...

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