humour and ire
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More poems by A.J. Huffman.


Retired Show Horse Becomes Unwitting Real-Life Unicorn


As if! More like I’m a freak show. And no,

kid that’s not a plastic cone glued to my forehead,

that actually hurts, so don’t fucking touch! It’s bad

enough you laugh and point and pretend to believe

in magic. Hey, how about my three wishes:


1. Quit putting your grubby little hands on me.

This is not a petting zoo. And the next one of

you who flashes a camera in my face is going

to get a first-hand up-close-and-personal

with my Sean Penn impersonation.


2. Make the humiliation stop. Seriously,

they even made me a Facebook page. International

high tech humiliation. Lucky fucking me!


3. Kill me now! Somebody? Anybody?

Or at least put out a hit on my money-hungry owners

who will do anything to earn a buck AND keep

their hands clean.


Bastards! Quit riding me. I’m supposed to be retired.


And I am not buying the “We have no idea how

those three pieces of wood got jammed into his skull”

bit. What? Like maybe I fell into a wooden fence

while I was skydiving last week? P-lease! I eat

dinner, take a nap, and Bam! wake up to find you

giving national interviews about my miraculous

Jesus crown in reverse. Is that the new spin?

Maybe it’s stigmata – equine version. Hurry,

somebody better check my hooves for bleeding holes.


Get a grip. Can anyone say Ruffie? Who wants

to bet I couldn’t pass a post-show drug test right now

if my life depended on it? And all I want

to what the hell did I do to get mixed up

with the likes of you people. I must have had a hole

in my head. . .

            Oops, my bad, that’s exactly what I ended

up with.


a line, (a blue one)


Eating Chicken

fingers out of a Bud Light box

because the dishwasher

broke. I am (who isn’t?)

bored and basic

ally belligerent

because this bastard world has

labeled me: designated

bitch. I know


that is why I got escorted out

of financial aid and off campus for expecting

civility. Common

courtesy got flushed with my patience,

but it’s still my fault it takes 16 people to

wipe one girl’s ass with the paperwork that grants

me money [and permission] to breathe


only for the three miles it takes me

to drive home and hand over my keys

to the repo man. He has been waiting for

me. Not a good sport,

I spit

          at his feet. Fuck

you for living; for having

a sadistic job; for screwing others.

He laughs. I don’t

care. Grab the nearest lawn chair and crazy-

glue it to the floor-

boards of the beat up anonymous mess

of a Frankencar

my boyfriend has somehow hallucinated

will suffice in this particular pickle

I am in. With it’s new-fangled front seat

of pasty plastic and never-a-lost-key screw-

driver ignition, I might be able

to go to work tomorrow if


I decide to summon something (like courage)

to counter the alarm

clock’s rage.

And my own.



a line, (a blue one)


Lesbian Barbie


was not quite as disappointed with Ken

as she should have been

once she saw him undressed . . .



a line, (a blue one)


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