I Touched a Stingray

By A.J. Huffman

corralled for easy accessibility into a designated

feeding area, was shocked by its spongy texture,

the way my hand quickly slipped from its skin.

Undisturbed, its underwater flight continued,

a diminishing concentric circle mirroring confinement.

I watched it search for random bits of food

falling from foreign fingers.  As I walked

away, I wondered what it would be like to be that immune,

to have the inevitable disruptions of this world mean nothing

but a slight tickle of passing.

 

Men Are Like Drugs

They contaminate

my mind until I cannot blink

without their images streaming

through my thoughts.

I become huntress, stalker,

desperately searching the wild

for a momentary sighting.

Soothed by nothing

less than being in physical proximity,

I twitch and turn

into a nightmare version of myself

dying for the ultimate fix—

a second’s contact, a tangible

touch.

 

The Hitchhiking Lizard

held on to the hood of my car

for the full five miles it took

to get from the house to WalMart.

Head down, fingers splayed,

gripping in desperation, it jumped

off the moment we came to complete stop.

As I watched it scurry across the crazy

parking lot in the direction

of the main store’s entrance, I could not help

but wonder what sort of product it was

so desperately hurried to buy.

 

I Met A Guy

wearing a Pac-Man bracelet

at bingo (guess we both have no life),

and the strangest conversation ensued.

We discussed jewelry

shopping (I soooo need one of those

bracelets), vintage video games,

the attributes of the most recent

gaming technology, and the irony therein,

as they are now paying “homage” to their predecessors

by re-issuing (and I am pretty sure that’s dangerous

ly close to copyright infringement, though I am also

sure mulit-million-dollar corporations have ways of dealing

with such minute details) our favorite childhood games

in their original, unmolested editions.  I’m sure

no one listening would have understood our geek-speek.

Or would have cared

if they had.  The whole scene

lasted mere instants.  A brief little electro-

connective blip in my adaptation of a life.

 

A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, fourteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses.  Her most recent releases, The Pyre On Which Tomorrow Burns (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers.  She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2600 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  You can find more of her personal work here:  https://ajhuffmanpoetryspot.blogspot.com/

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Author: authorbios

The literary journal dedicated only to author bios.

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