Saturday, April 27, 2013

Two By A.J. Huffman

Fuck Machine
I am invisible. Until the lights go
down and the Jack meets the Coke
(over ice, of course) a few times.
Then clink! Suddenly he sees
me. All shiny and nude
(even when I am not). And
it is perfect. For an hour
or two (on a good/rare night).
Then in the morning, he is gone
again. Or I am. And does it even matter
which one of us disappeared. We are
each dissolved back into the reality
of our own mundanity. Until further
escape is desired/required. And somewhere
as the sun goes down again,
a telephone sounds its sirened call,
that will (no doubt) lead to another inevitable
Happy [Hateful] Anniversary – June 5, 2012
The number 5 resonates from inside its markered circle.
A silly sentimental scrawl splayed beneath it
to [rein]force a remembrance
I now wish I could forget
as I sit here shredding any and all evidence
of that fateless day.
There goes the ticket stubs to the museum full of stars
and teddy bears – the perfect place for the childish dream
of “us” as a beginning . . .
There goes another picture of us in a wooded garden:
a simpleton’s smiling portrait of the happy couple
you now swear we never were . . .
There goes the dress I wore to impress you,
not realizing I was committing blasphemy in your eyes
by believing I could ever look better than the “average”
you believe I’ll never reach . . .
I am standing to my knees in the rubble; this piled mess
of paper, cloth, film and wish
I was a humble[r] match
capable of effectively scorching these tracks.
Instead it is my anger that sparks, and I who burns
on this mountainous bonfire of regret
as, finally, I realize it was I who never amounted
to more than a handful of futured ash
for you to feed to the wind.
There goes the [metaphorical] knife scarring the skin
of my breast – senselessly searching for any scrapped piece
left that might have enough faith left
to manage a solitary beat.
--A.J. Huffman

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