Amy Huffman

Tangles of Ambiguity

Thoughts run in my brain
so many
so fast
it hurts.
And I am blind
or might as well be.
Since I can never seem to pull
even the simplest words
from the clutter.




A Guernica of Distress

“Purity implies the dross of defilement.”
                                    -- Robert Hunter

I haven’t had a drink --
a real drink --
in almost two years.
Not because I’m an alcoholic.
(Recovering or otherwise).
But because I’m an economic.
Which is really just my own polite way
of telling you I’m broke.
Which was actually okay.
For awhile.
You know, that whole “starving artist” bit
the is considered quite pseudo-chic
in New York and Paris
and other lots like that.
But now that I’ve been downgraded --
degraded --
to “sober poet”
well . . .

This just can’t continue.
What will the biographers think?




Buried Beneath an Altar of Moons

Shadows dancing on the ledge.
Neon bodies dressed in dark.
They form her words.
Her dreams.
Her life.
Which isn’t much.
Just a flower.
A dress.
And a series of anonymous beds.
Fading black
                        to red.
                                     Till light.


A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.