Tuesday, June 5, 2012

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense.  She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.

Cyber Kisses

[Flutter flutter flutter] *sigh* MWAH!
wink (blink) one-eyed smiley ;)
So many ways to send expressions
of emotions.  Tangibly flying over signal
streams.  It’s a wonder we ever come
uncrossed.  But I guess desire
always finds its fort.  Write and with
unmuted vibrations:  There is more
than one way to touch . . .

Imprinted by Thought[less Fingers]

I am hollow.  There is nothing

left inside.  I have been gutted.

Disheart[en]ed.

Helpless.  Insignificant.  Disregarded.

Disposed.  I have no lungs.

I cannot breathe.  I have no mind.

I cannot process

thoughts of continuation.  I have

no heart.  I cannot feel

anything.  Not even the empty I accept

is there.  I want to blame.

You.  But it is my fault.  I trusted.

Cared.  Loved.  Believed

in the serial untruths I was fed

daily.  I followed your dots

to a make-shift world.  Thin as paper,

it fell at first light.  Or was it first sight

of another shinier shell?  You left me

wrapperless.  Candy in the pennystore.

Tested and tasted.  And wasted.

Now I am broken.  Pieces

still on the floor and your shoe.

Scrape me off.  Sweep me up.  Or just leave

me to melt away.

Framing Mine

I can breathe here.  In the dark forest

behind [the glass of] your mind.  I am

clearer in this lightless unbox.  Without labels

and strings, I dance.  The perfect butterfly:

broken and wingless.  Yours.  Without any need

for the prick of your pin.

On Pedestals Labeled Home

You worship such strange gods here.

In this room.  Here

in this bed.  [You have] Short-sheeted

devotion.  Its stiffness scars my skin. 

Was I not what you intended?  To bleed,

purity is required.  I passed that inspection

(just barely) and yet you are turning

toward a better sacrifice.  I am

already open[ly failing].  What better fantasy

to feed the clouds.  Willing is always superior

[to wanting].  At least when there is a hunt

or a hunger to feed.

A.J. Huffman