poems by A.J. Huffman

A Forgotten Space

 

I watch the world through glasses made of lead.

Their cold, gray vision proves most accurate,

if top-heavy.  A great deal of weight to carry,

I rest often, lying in pools of pessimistic slush.

My body begins to emulate the texture of seepage,

dreams of becoming quicksand, waits patiently

for the day it crosses its own path and consumes itself.

 

 

 

Another Empty Night

 

gets filled by my sleepless mind.

Ticks of the clock get counted,

catalogued for no reason

other than the sound of their voice

intrigues me.  A staring contest

with the stars (who always blink first)

turns into a conversation

of composition with the moon.

I tell her I would like to sprinkle

bits of her surface into an urn, keep them

as an epitaph to possibility.  She laughs,

noncommittally.  I turn

to the cable-fed tube of modernity,

baffle over its addictive banality.

Finally, I change

the channel, face another blank page,

wield only my pen as an ax

until one of us bleeds something

that resembles a discernible thought.

 

 

 

I Am Chalk

 

outline, a designator

of space that once held

a body.  Static, I mimic

death.  Echoing a need

to look deeper, I am intrigue,

a puzzle to be pondered,

solved, then labeled accidental,

or worse, unnatural.

 

 

 

Unhammered Nail

 

Silver sliver of connectivity.  Metal

stud, designed to join, hold

in place.  Lying on floor,

point unnecessary, it stares

at potential pieces, misses

the thunderous pain of pounding,

that one victorious moment

of puncture, of disappearing

into seamless flush.

 

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