Because Silence

by A.J. Huffman

descends with anvilled chime
of midnight, I lock my self
in a room as afraid of the light as I.
It provides temporary shelter
for my ears, embracing inability
to decipher purpose from perceived
persecution.  I tremble in emulation
of the ticking I know should be there,
compose an internal prayer that will never be
answered by any fa[u]cet
of sleep.

Playing Chicken

by A.J. Huffman

with a vulture in the middle of Hope
Road, defending its find,
some butchered necropsy
of undecipherable origin.  I slowed
to give warning, time for flight.  Surely
even this small-brained carrion could decipher
the outcome of this equation:
2 ton vehicle + 1 large bird = double road kill.  Obviously,
I was incorrect.  It flared its wings, faced me
head on.  Stunned by the savage audacity of this creature,
I caved.  Stopped
my car.  Watched in continuing awe as it cawed
in triumph, carried its carcass into the sky.

Sirens Cut

by A.J. Huffman

through early hours of unrest.  My mind swims
a little harder towards awake, clings to inflated
images of tragedy.  I am drowning in another
wave of wakefulness.  This level is painted five
alarm red.  Are they coming to take my body away?
I wonder at decibels far beyond appropriate.
Louder and louder, my thoughts and distant screamings
rage.  I know I should plan, panic, run,
maybe even get out of bed, dressed.  Flashing
crescendos.  I roll over, bury my face
in pillows, relieved, but knowing
I am anything but safe.

I Am Anxiety

by A.J. Huffman

walking, a wavering well of conflicting
thoughts.  Possibilities cling to me
like string.  I cannot cut myself free.  I am
confusion, perplexity, and disorder, tied
to an over-sized chunk of indecision.
I am barely treading water.  I am trying
to swim in a pool of blood that holds
a shark made of my own vacillating skin.

On the Wings of a Shadowed Dove

by A.J. Huffman

I cut through mountains made of paper,
lined and unlined.  Neither can hold
my rage.  I am rock,
resistant to your wind.  I hold blue
flame, symbol of persistence, continuance,
beacon of the broken.  I gather
the pieces that remain around me
like a fort.  They agree to become
kindling for the cause.  I reduce them
to ash, spread them as spackle to fill cracks
in the vision I hold of tomorrow.

Reaping Imaginary Riches

by A.J. Huffman

 

Even in the darkest room

more than your shadow

finds me. Cloaked in nothing

more than simple

subservient sin. I am

shaded and layered

to your hands' liking.

Together they/we are

a puzzle game dream. In this

midnight's holding:

 

Turn one: our every piece is a step.

Flop two: our every step is a gamble.

Fold three: our every gamble is a touch.

Set point match: Connection is complete

 

ly irrelevant as we raise

everything but our minds. Temperament

al misogyny is our latest god.

We worship on our knees.

Our needs soaking the floor

of this make-shift temple

that no longer resembles

any form[al/of] bed.

The Cake Is A Lie

by A.J. Huffman
 

These makeshift bloodprints scream at me

from all sides as I fight, unsighted, through the maze

I believe to be your mind. Sidestepping emotion-

al boobytraps designed to destruct us both,

I am your willing guinea pig. Pre-programmed,

I am following. The sound of your promised touch

is enough to drive me forward through each level’s devastation . . .
 

Are you/they designed to test me or destroy me?

That conception turns me inside. Out

is a concept I abandoned eons ago, before I began

dodging the precariously balanced bullets

spinning on ice I will never be able to see

even as I direct its flow (or so I’ve been taught).

It blankets my view in void

space, begging for a [port]hole: an escape

hatch to actualization. I try to vocalize

this new ideology, but you have not granted me a voice. Over

night I simmer in the cold eye of [ac]knowledge-

Meant to tax my understanding of what is . . .
 

True: extraction is both feasible and attainable.
 

I allow my conscience to ascend. A lever

is broached. Green lights follow

me . . . spanning the fray

                                        [ed ends of another nameless abyss].

Transition

by A.J. Huffman

girl. I am what I never wanted
to become:  unintended.  I hang,
faceless, against your wall.
“Touch when needed!”
The neon label screams
against my skin.  As an afterthought,
you smile and kiss my forehead.
I guess I was a good little girl.  Nursing
your ego at my breast.  Too bad
[for me] you bit through my heart.
Oops.  My bad (not yours).  I should
have kept a closer eye on your lips.
Speaking softly in ulterior tongues,
they remain [allusive].  Loaned out
(at random?) to the bevvy of beauties
your re-formed smile lures.  Dial 911!
For depth, Death, or me.  I listen
for the ring.  My fingers frozen in the pose
of [guaranteed(?)] response.

Ben’s Rock

by A.J. Huffman

Silhouetted against a sea’s st[r]ained dawn,
this devil dares his signature stand.  In attempt
to deter this diminutive cliff
‘s calling to the sun?  Beveled
arms upend.  [A would-be conqueror]  You are
a modern-day Icarus.  You desire to fly
in reverse.  The wind holds
its breath, your form:
stable.
Only your shadow falls . . .

This is how energy is made.

Refusing Free Will

by A.J. Huffman

I am the rose
trapped
inside your empty bottle.
I will not grow.
I cannot die.
I have not air enough
to be anything
but plastic.
You toss me a dollar.
And place your wish.
As blood beads --
red --
on my thorns.
It hurts less
than I thought it should.
Which leads me
to believe.
It is yours.

Holding the Bag of Nails

by A.J. Huffman

Women who pay their own rent
don’t have to be nice.
Or tidy.
Or neat.
Their bows are their own.
To pull as they please.
And release
is a gift.
They scrape
from unnamable skin.
Is that a sin?
Too bad.
You cannot add it.
To their tab.

Out of Moonlight

by A.J. Huffman

Teddy bear eyes.
Teddy bear smile.
So soft.
So innocent.
So kind.
Though not mine.
They do not see me.
Be glad.
I can crack
the softest shell
Fur and all.
Sending it flying.
Falling.
Back through time.
Before the light.
When meeting was still a touch.
Beyond stuffed.
And triggered.
To explode.
At Hello.

Earthquake in a Glass House

by A.J. Huffman

He comes
in the darkest hours
of the seventh sun.
Carrying the sweet black candles
that sweep through my soul
like a half-finished dream.
And whispers the softer touches
of a forbidden god
across my lips.

The moonlight frees his hands.
And I am left
with a stone tongue.
Cold.
And too heavy
to weep
for a broken world.

Experiments in Degradation

by A.J. Huffman

Perfect is passé.
Try damaged.
It’s more forgiving.
It refuses
to crack.
Under the pressure
of your demands.
It is familiar
with those fights.
It plays with them.
Like memories.
Spinning them.
Until they are tired
and gone.
Isn’t that your real desire?
Absence.
Of everything.
But the game.
Known as touch.

Consciousness Dilates

by A.J. Huffman

Don’t look down.
The sky is falling.
And the floor is gone.
And a shadow is all you have left.
Too bad it’s not yours.
Too bad it’s not mine.
Too bad it’s not safe
to say its name to the wind.
It would save you.
But only for a shelf.
Its sin needs a shell.
that isn’t afraid
to force a nail
into and through
a crack
your eyes didn’t even realize was there.

Dusting Off The Blood

by A.J. Huffman

Do you love the color
of my hair?
Do you miss it
as it turns?
From red.
                To gold.
                              To black.
You hope for gray.
But that’s not the way I rot.
Conventions --
such as life --
shun me.
I don’t belong in any of their light.
And yet I cannot disappear.
I am the slate of a mistake.
Wash me.
Trace me.
Re-erase me.
I rise again and again.
I am a phoenix of misuse.
I dream of abuse.
Not mine.
It is my desire.
To be the devastation.
Without the fire.
Though this dream too will fade.
In time,
I remain:
a stain. 
Unforgotten.
And the ash in your mind
is my sin.
You will hear it calling.
Long after night
has claimed my skin.