poems by A.J. Huffman

I Dream in Breathless

 

night.  My body

smothered in darkness,

radiates a solid that should not be.

I struggle against invisible

ropes more stagnant than my skin,

inhale the smoke generated

by imaginary friction.

Sadly, I know there is no hope

of bursting into salvatory flames.

 

 

 

 

A Fly Buzzed

 

and then it died.  Its last moments

erupting with inebriated burst

of champagne from the glass I left

on the counter.  I smiled as I watched it

wobble, teeter on rim, free-fall

to marble-countered doom.  I imagine

how wonderful to tip a toast in that final

instant, before it all goes to Hell.

 

 

 

 

The Merchant of Death is Dead

 

the headline screamed, mistaking Alfred

for his brother, doubling his grief.  This forced

moment of retrospection changed history.

Inventor and manufacturer of dynamite was reborn

as philanthropist, poured blood-tainted fortune

into hope for the future, created Peace

Prizes.

 

 

 

I Am Living

 

with ghosts of a yesterday

I do not remember.

 

My mind is a labyrinth of half-

formed lies, has confused fantasy

& reality, has merged them

into dream-like stature.  Too enticing,

I fall through its ephemeral

embrace, land face-forward

on the concrete of a bitter today.

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.