INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Lyn Lifshin
Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Kufre Udeme
Michael Lewis-Beck
A. J. Huffman
Nugent Karhu
Fred Wolven
Shutta Crum
Fatmir Terziu
Steven Gulvezan
Kyle Hemmings
Adeeko Ibukun
Chris Cialdella
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu
Chris Lord
Dike Okoro
Jennifer Burd
Alisa Velaj
Joanie Freeman
Jeton Kelmendi
Richard Luftig
Dzekashu MacViban
Mike Berger
Al Ortolani
Ndue Ukaj
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Diane Giardi
Running Cub
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2013
Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------
staff:
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
I met a man. Suddenly,
I hate myself. Which is
odd, since I am an exceedingly intelligent
marginally talented forward thinking fully competent
wholly independent woman. So please
explain to me how a smile from a relatively attractive
man (superiority/inferiority as yet undetermined) can send me
into a full-force tailspin through the needle's eye
of neuroses before the disconnecting blink of
broken eye contact can occur. I am ashamed
to fess up to the fact that when I say I met him
translates roughly to I've seen him around and
we have engaged in that tired tedium of pseudo-courtship
wherein he catches me looking at him and smiles as I fluster
to look away, knowing that moments later I will smile
catching him doing the same. Neither
of us sure we want to take that beleaguered
next step toward introduction and inevitable disillusionment.
Ideals are a bitch when pulled into the full light
of conversation (or is it confrontation? I believe
either makes my point.) which I am starting to lose
in my own mind. I have caught myself
imagining conversations and interactions. Each and every
one of them amounting to the inevitable conclusion
that I am socially (and possibly sociologically) retarded:
I cannot relate even inside the utopian constrains of my own imagination.
How did this happen? When
did my mind dwindle, letting the insecure echoes
of my distorted reflection take hold?
My body my mind my accomplishments
have numbed themselves into irrelevant obscurity. I am
already beaten. I frantically blame the past. Stupid
childhood tales and stupider adolescent trials. Still I find
no rhyme or reason to adequately define this latest psychosis.
Please help me. I am drowning
in ink and lack of understanding.
A. J. Huffman, Ormond Beach, Florida