Nathaniel T. Hughes

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...