is still alive and kickin’ somewhere south
of sanity, I twist my way through
midnight after midnight in favored pair
of blue suede pajamas, chillin’ and chattin’
with my Chihuahua, who sometimes sings
(a cappella) of being a hounddog. Together,
we watch B-movie musicals about the beach
on AMC, and mourn morning’s inevitable rise
before heading off to flip peanut butter
and fried banana pancakes, a recipe that would
take more than a fleet of feral cats
to drag from our lips.
Crabs In Your Inbox
The subject read, made me lol!
Visions wandered south, quick
as the microbial manifestations itching
in my mind. ??? Your response,
perplexed apprehension. Relax,
it’s just a pre-dinner picture. I took
it before they hit the pan.
tailfeathers, the goddesses have adorned themselves
for the ritualistic walk of the season, months ahead
of its actual arrival. They emote fierce nothing
as their streamlined struttings telepathically tattoo
proposed images of our ideal selves
into our unconscious starings. Staccato stutterings
of stilettos reverberate their points
halfway home. We sacrifice
to their labeled altars. Our will, our wallets,
our health. Whatever
it takes to mold us into the [im]possibility
of their mastered reflections.
A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her eighth solo chapbook, Drippings from a Painted Mind, won the 2013 Two Wolves Chapbook Contest. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com