New poems by A.J. Huffman

 

 

Rip Van Winkle In Reverse Barbie

 

has been awake for fifty-
three years (and counting). She’s tired.
No, she’s fucking exhausted!
The Powers-That-Be created a Dream
Bed for her, all four-postered plushy pink
frills. But they forgot
to create Dream eyelids for her
to attach. All she can do is lie
among the pillows and stare at the ceiling fan
that does not move (without 2 AA batteries).
She caught a random commercial at 4
a.m. and played sick the whole next day so
her owners would cough up a bottle of Barbie Nyquil.
They ad promised a capful of coma. Her mistake,
she took it in the Dream Kitchen and ended up
face-first in the cat food. Luckily,
her plastic metabolism processed
it at hyper-speed and she was back
on her toes again in minutes. Damn!
She finally settled for buying a book (yes, Barbie
can read) called Shades of Gray. Her friends
promised her it would bore her to death
if not slumber. (She’s already found three typos).
Guess that will just have to do until Mattel
creates a line of Dream Sheep for her
to count . . .

 

 

 

Best Little Bitch in Daytona

 

“Do you know where the nearest whorehouse is?”
a strange male voice inquired. I could not resist
the urge to look
                      up to see
what kind of freak [show] one would feel comfortable
asking such a question of. Imagine
my shock and dumb-struck awe, when I saw mine
was the only occupied table nearby. I immediately ran
a mental check:

jeans: standard not low rise; definitely
no mini; oversized
tee: no v-neck cleavage; make-up:
who the hell wears make-up in Florida?

Renewed in my now confirmed outrage, I ranted,
Do I look like a whore?
“Nope.”  Quick retort.  Definitive.
Unapologetic. I rise for the occasion, then
let’s take a poll . . .
I clear my throat for effect, let loose
in my best semi-respectable newscaster impersonation. Does
anyone here know where this sad, pathetically . . . I pause to look
down . . . endowed gentleman can find the nearest whore-
house?

An attractive middle-aged woman in ridiculously insensible shoes
approached our train-wreck theatrical. “I hear
it’s right next to the dog house.” She grabbed
the purse and keys I never noticed lying
next to the moron in question. Her stilettos stuttering her indignation
as she stormed out
of the restaurant. Her husband(?),
finally embarrassed, scuttled after her – tail firmly tucked
in contrition, cursing something about a couch under
his breath. I returned
to my seat, basking in righteous justification, and proceeded
to order myself
a cookie.

 

 

 

Fishnet Bootie Shorts

 

should have an age limit. Period. And it doesn’t
matter if it’s that nightmare time when Spring
Break and Bike Week intersect under Daytona Beach sun
and it’s 97º in March and you are on vacation from Alaska
and it’s your 51st birthday and you got shit-
faced drunk in attempt to divert some mid-life depression.
No one wants to see your over-the-hill-un-aerobicized-vampire-
pale-cheeks sporting a tattered white thong that’s two sizes
too small, covered only by thin black open-weave mesh
fabric strips strained to within an inch of their life. News
flash: the cameras are not flashing because you have been
mistaken for JLo. You are seconds away from being this
week’s Facebook freakout post. Digital downloads
of your ass will be shared and tweeted in nauseous, gag-
inducing disbelief. Do you know where your grandmother is?
typed neatly in Times New Roman beneath the wide
lens’ capture of your crack.

 

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