A Brand New World
Strange cracks evaporate,
buckle like a sky that has forgotten
its blue. Clouds
crawl off the floor, point
accusingly at stars swearing
they are innocent as a bathroom
mirror. Three leaves send up smoke
signals, invitations to tomorrow’s mess.
Of Onions and Umbrellas
Parallel creatures of hanging,
droplets are their common denomination.
Production vs. repellant. Necessity
will decide as I stand in abandoned
by solace, I waver
between kitchen cabinets and countryside
pathways. I inhale
freedom-scented winds from both sides.
I wonder if I held
a match between my teeth,
would I spark, change
the weather or the world?
Midnight in Central Park
Clock tolls, harsh tones
of deadline’s passing. Old contracts
now void; New contracts, yet to be
inked, lay stagnant on conference-room table.
The squirrels and pigeons have spent hours
painting protest slogans on posterboards,
now firmly fastened to limbs
graciously donated by the trees. Morning
will find a feral picket line rising
with the sun. Let the tourists try
and cross. A mouthful of human nuts might be
an interesting change of pace. Thoughts darken
as demands are prepared for release. Select
branches have been branded, stand ready
for wind’s first liberation movement. Seeds and
crumbs to be bickered over, most will be fodder
for the camel-cracking straw: Respect. Less
smoking. The flowers feel brown tint
is a terrible shade to bloom. No stilettos. The grass
is wimpy, sparse at best, already aerated enough.
Absolute banishment of Alka-Seltzer.
Some urban legends need not be
granted acreage for daily testing by teenagers.
Mandatory permits for artists and musicians. The
ability to hold can or conversation does not make
a Monet or Missy Elliot. Little reprieves
that might make the daily doses of drunks and
muggers bearable. The last[semi]natural wildlife in this city is crying
out for compromise.
Dawn comes, as do the villagers. Both storm past,
ignore flurry of fur and feathers, paws and wings.
These mindless migrants remain
too blinded by their own
desire to beat the rush, to make the train.
A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, thirteen 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.