A.J. Huffman

I wade into the waves, wondering
if Columbus was right. I lie
back, arms splayed, give myself over
to nature and the possibility the scholars
are still wrong. I exhale, and my body becomes
weightless, relaxed. I believe the waves will carry me
somewhere towards true understanding.
Tangible knowledge requires fearless faith,
and possibly a hint of wished-for death.

a profession, a tower, something
erected, intended to reach
heaven, a structure
of large size,
facilities, an establishment
for factors of manufacturing,
a dwelling, to endure, sustain,
withstand without yielding
or submitting, the basis,
the groundwork of anything,
the lowest division, the act
of founding, of establishing
growth.

Pay the ferryman twice, just to be
sure you do not end
up haunting the waters of hell’s only river.

Place remaining coins over each eye to show
your life had worth. Subsequently, purpose
may seemingly echo with shadows of pointlessness.

Immortal
gods do not lack
a sense of vindictive humor.

Before first paw hits track, anonymous
controller’s hand hits the switch.
Lucky flies around the track. Ears back,
he is a filthy streak of mechanics and fur.
In this moment of unchased bliss, he is free.
As he rounds turn after turn, I watch and wonder if
he envisions a digital field, a makeshift meadow
full of daisies and butterflies scattering
beneath paws that have never actually touched
the ground.

The feeling, not
the color, creeping into my eyes
as they watch a phone that doesn’t
ring. Your wheel is running,
but I have no marble left to
drop. Time
slows. Distance
ticks off
in my head, leaves
me spinning. Knowing we
will land on double
zero, the shape of repeated
emptiness

is cordoned off,
again. Caution signs and scaffoldings
line both sides of twin sawhorses – painted
yellow – for emphasis – acting as barricades.
Rumor is, the last trespasser
lost it at the first intersection, took out half
the block when her head – unable to adjust
to the actualization of its own
imagined ideal – exploded.
The hard hats will arrive in the morning
with new blueprints, born from another
brain. They will toil in silence, futilely
trying to re-build what is inherently
designed to crack, crumble, crash.

by bioterrorism. The idea that scientific research has
advanced to the point of producing a tangible embodiment
of the inherent desire inside every scorned female. To kill
a man, a thousand men, with a single touch. To initiate
the most intimate peristaltic chain reaction. To spread contamination,
destruction with a kiss.

I swallowed the seeds of my own
tongue & choked on words that never
had a chance to form roots, grow bark,
irritate a politician’s son to the point
he bought an ax & told his father a lie
that later would be picked up by hidden
media feed & echo like an earthquake
around the world.