Nathaniel T. Hughes

My mind is strapped in a spiderwebbed straight jacket spun cunningly by the night sky’s gossamer factories of vexing thoughts and indecision, like beckoning black holes of space my aura has been etched with the continual failing signs of darkening midnight blue: this, my life, many colliding mistakes; so, like the ever expanding universe, at some point I must stop, let the imposing forces of the implicate order slow me down; shrink and collapse, let my life explode, into another ontological world.

We'll climb up, past these rooftops and listen to the world scream at us from below; we'll go on and on and on, past the haughty highways and meadows turned to gold, above the forested hilltops and sky-high canopy of dreams, crooning with birds: an owl's lulling cry, along with a solemn goodnight, as we forever sleep above the deep safety of the wolves

Idyllic skies color themselves in abstractly ordered hues, poignant castings across ungraspable reaches, to farther-offs never to be reached to gossamery shimmers of ambivalence across dead dusty summer rays: Late early evening speeds up; bygones come spooling out - distant fields of view prettier from farther away. But, we find, we can’t stop this hasty world; we can't bother our hasty selves with slowing down, and the sun gets paler, gets dimmer,            more distance,                     and more sad: the twilight, like hazy magic, as nebulous dreams come out, and our halcyon days come undone.

time antiquing time, sepia afternoons spent chasing coppery sundowns: I feel summer ending through cold gripping autumn nights

Start now by  saying grace, waking up awaking sounds: sun on pillow, sun in heart, sun in all you do from here on out.

Pacific time eagerly chasing me; old westerly ways battling barefoot, a stand-still eastern jive. So, here's to unconvincing June gloom, creeping chilly night fog, and all of its electrical line tunes - the Santa Anna winds on empty Canerry Row streets, smells of ocean and sounds of seals, all the promises I forget I made. I still miss foggy nights and a chilled-red face, but I can't stop this traveling; I'm overly anxious, in an easterly way.

-Not to sound trite...  But I miss you. It has been like three life times and another summer is passing, another life being written, in-between  mountains and city buildings.