Poems by A J Huffman

 

With Waiting

 

room distemper raging behind
my eyes, I swallow
the four-letter-foul-mouthed retorts
that beg to be spat in response to
intrusive commentary and less-than-idle chit
chat. Who are these random spies
desperately desiring intimate
details of a stranger’s life?
They hope my responses will cure
their need for vicarious stimulation. They sicken
me with their sycophantic cacophony.
I clutch my ears to drown them
out, but they are a faceless contagion rising,
jumping from chair to chair. Relief
finally falling in the form of my name
called for examination, a more intimate version
of the same onslaught. I splay myself
on the paper-covered altar, and pray
for this inquisition to end.

 

 

 

How to Deal

 

Dear Buffy,

 

               I know you don’t know
me. We are marketed by competing
distributors, but I have a part
icular problem that, rumor has it, you
might know something about.

 

               You see, my designated boy
toy is a vampire. He doesn’t have
a soul per se or even a plastic heart
accessory add-on to stake, but he does
take to brooding in general, and whining
in particular. So I ask you,

 

               What’s up with that!?!
Is this some new necro-sexual trend? I always
read vampires were bad boys. Buy me a ticket
for that train to Transylvania, please. But I
digress, and must confess that I am
particularly intrigued by your storyline. I heard
you killed yours, or sent him to hell, or another
dimension (it was all very fast and confusing for
my deliberately diminuted IQ). Did that help
with your relationship issues? I am willing
to try anything.

 

              I will anxiously be awaiting your
response.

 

Yours eternally [indebted],

 

Twilight Barbie

 

P.S. Can you also slip me a list of your rates
in case spousal termination is considered a breach
of my contract? Thanks.

 

 

 

Clothes Bigots!

 

Affront #1: Hoodie Ban

The latest symbol of protest took
a potshot from an overpaid mouth
piece and suddenly fabric is condemned.
God forbid children get cold. Someone might
not be able to see their eyes . . .

Affront #2: Cargo Pants Ban

Too many places for guns and drugs. As if.
The way these kids wear them, anything
with weight would pull them
down.

The Final Affront: Half Tops and Bootie Shorts Are Allowed

to run rampant. I guess the sexualization of the girls
is acceptable despite the increase in teen pregnancy.
Of course, that could get them on a reality program
and trickle down to national exposure for the school.
Press is press. Good,
bad or controversial doesn’t matter
as long as somebody gets paid. The price
of modern education, or so it would seem.

 

 

 

Pole Dancing To Be Considered For An Olympic Event

 

And the gold medal in pole dancing goes to . . .

the 16-year-old with sequined-clad triple D
implants and a G-string full of Euros!

Not! The International Pole Sports Foundation
is quick to say nudity
and high heels will be forbidden. They have even
drawn up an official rule book for the sport, more politically
correct: “vertical dance.”
They compare athletic work
on the pole with gymnastic work
on the parallel bars, emphasizing core
and upper body
strength requirements. They implore
the general public to see
its validity as a sport. And we do,
quite clearly. Promotional muscles splayed
beneath barely-there bikinis in the ads and articles begging
for petition signatures. They want to qualify
as an exhibition (how appropriate)
sport for the London 2012 Olympic games.

So far 6,000 supporters from 50 countries are active
ly backing this most recent manifestation of blatant sexual
frustration, meeting my indignation with bemusement (I am
just jealous of the female “athlete’s” bodies) and/or
righteous outrage (these girls have valid technical skills). I bet
they do. So tell me, officially, in your very best I-am-
an-athletic-sponser-not-a-masogonistic-pig voice, why
is there not a single mention anywhere
of a male division . . .

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