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
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
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/