Untouchedher eyes rose like a curtain of cheap ignorance. Class isn’t something that can be blinked into existence. She knew she was bitter as a dandelion too young to dance on the wind. She cringed, remembered herself dancing on tables in base-level bars. Tequila and emotional outbursts flying like excess baggage – forgotten. She checked herself out of bed, spat at the mirror and laughed at the half-formed thought: My mother should have named me Monday. Listen to the Shifting LandsThey are losing the moon’s lust for wind. Words circle like seagulls-- vultures of loss, looking to gain ground that is constantly sinking beneath our feet. The waves have teeth. Hesitate too long, and we will drown in stagnant air. My Mind Moves Methrough pictures that bleed as if they were real life. I try and fail to burn them like memories, but my mental lighter is out of fuel, and phobias are dripping from my aching fist. Damn the stars that never go out -- Their light constant and revealing the wall I have pieced together. They are soft as tissue and I can see through their shattered shadows like a crystal ball. Don’t worry, they whisper. You have no future. I wish they were a little less right as I blow at them like a wolf who has never seen a candle. The Attitude of Balancesimmers under the surface, subtle hint of confidence, dash of determined sweat. Pheromone and hormone harmonize into synchronized breath, holding itself, building towards one necessary note, released in admiration of environmental sound. Riding Waves of Wonder[ful?]I wait for your mouthless whispers like a dolphin in a dream. Soundlessly screaming through waves that seem to be moving backwards. I cannot breathe till your song flashes. A lullaby’s addict, I crave a repeat button that does not exist on any communicative planes. I address the problem that is me. You concur and excuse my self so eloquently. I am unsure of your silent’s assent. I slip. Use it as a ladder to dig myself to sanity. But I got it all turned over. And tied in knots is difficult to find a handhold. Yet your fingers manage [to bring] me home. Almost every night. A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has
published 27 collections and chapbooks of poetry. In addition, she has published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for Kind of a Hurricane Press literary journals.
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