by A.J. Huffman
In the Hungover Bathroom of Wakefulness
I hold my own hair and stare at the blurred
reflection in the mirror. I understand
it should be me, but I am having trouble
recognizing my own features. The ants,
exploding like hiccups, complete with sound
effects, are distracting. I start
to wonder if we drank the same thing
as my feet seem to be floating
three inches off the ground.
Bigotry, love and God.
arrogantly sucking realitys marrow.
Down my throat,
a more exact comprehension, a burning
desire to find my own source,
a salvation without special instructions
or millions of definitive holes
to fall through.
I Count Memories
like spaces between the clocks
tickings - a language of uniform
solice, I know these silences
as well as the back of my eyelids.
They have become screens of screaming
sheep I pretend to ignore -
their bleetings are bleeding my nights
as the moon and my misery rise
into a fire I despise twice
as much as the sun.
The Waves Have Teeth
Rising crest conceals feral beast. White
foam and white skin become synonymous
until crash settles, reveals territorial fin
too late. The surfer survives the ride, falls
prey to distraction. Victory is overshadowed
by congratulatory bite.
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