of Grammar & Keyboard


Was not afraid of heights.
He (and his sister Zippee)
Were more afraid of the lows,
Concealing. What we keep
In hiding is never more valuable
Than its unveiling.
Zipper knew that. Very well.
The sound of train tracks
Being pulled apart.
The tug of revelation.

c. QBH

12:30 pm, by quirksofgrammar
tagged: zipper, Quentin Huff, poetry, poems, Quirks,

"Yesterday Didn’t Taste Like Yum"

The best part came first, a forkful of coconut cake and a spoonful of vanilla fudge: white crystals and deep brown rivers. Morsels of yum and crumbles of sugar. We sliced down the middle, compromised the cream. A gleam of sun twinkled off a butter knife’s silver, it’s small teeth covered in carbs. It was a great day that smelled of baked flour and lemon extract and tasted like a tired oven. And in my stomach, yesterday’s sardines.


"X-ray Vision #7"

I get tired
of looking at skeletons.

c. QBH

"Winking Tutorial #3"

my girlfriend winks
like she’s having a seizure
but i gotta tell you dag-nab-it
i like it

c. QBH

"Unsolicited Observation #5"

The world is round
but time is a straight line,
like an arrow from cupid
shot directly through a soft heart.

c. QBH

12:30 pm, by quirksofgrammar
tagged: Quentin Huff, poetry, poems, writing, Quirks,

"they sold the pet rock"

are easy to trick

you tell them how intelligent
they are

then you make them
believe it
when you talk to them

ar range the words

change all the names

call a war “civil”
call a depression “great”

they won’t know the difference

(after all,
they sold
the “pet rock”)

you could even
sell muddy water —

call it Evian

(and doesn’t that spell
“naive” backwards?)

c. QBH

12:31 pm, by quirksofgrammar
tagged: poetry, poems, writing, Quirks, Quentin Huff,


I do my best writing
in my sleep,
when rain plays
percussion on rooftops,
a whop bop ting.

Fat pillows
sing sixteen bar solos
in my ears & in my dreams
I know what silence tastes like;
it’s olive oil,
candle wax,
& Lady Day.
Lady Day sounds like chocolate.
God Bless the Poet that hears

screeching tires,
saxophones blaring
serenades to my raw complexion,
almond eyes in a pool of syrup.

Metal collisions
! crash !
the cymbals,
syncopated chaos
between accented bass snores.

Dancers in my head
take to the floor,
roll over on one side
& try to forget
where the music comes from.
Static cling in their faces,
They cackle & stare

at me.

But it’s not me; it’s Duke Ellington.

I slid my girl under my pillow
& we dreamed all night,
put the ‘R’ in Renaissance.

Morning wakes me, smiling.
I think, “This ain’t Harlem,”
then forget it all until I see a pen.

c. QBH


shy woman wink
brash suitor say hey

lady intrigued
nice man say dinner

dinner for two
too good to be bad

woman say thanks
happy dude say later

she say okay
and man say yay

five weeks later
woman say we

you me us
brash suitor say who

what and how
girlfriend say now

define what we are
scared man say wow

love me love me?
smart man say yes

man plead tired
woman yell so

am i
then man say gimme

more space time
more time space

woman say go
both go silent

man and woman
husband and wife

speak for each other
unspoken for each

c. QBH

12:30 pm, by quirksofgrammar
tagged: poetry, poems, writing, Quirks, Quentin Huff,

"Questions…" #4

"Questions Not Even Scientists Or The Clergy Know The Answers To (And Neither Do I!), With Answers."

(For brother St. Augustine)

[Why’s the sky blue?]

Because it is, damn it, and don’t let anybody tell you different. And also because the earth itself was once a large teardrop.

c. QBH

12:30 pm, by quirksofgrammar
tagged: writing, Quentin Huff, Quirks,


my jealousy
burns your skin
from the neck down

c. QBH

"Office Culture"

The boredom would kill me. The paper pushing, the predictable words of a secretary. I would die from falling asleep, tilting out of my cushy chair, cracking my skull on the edge of my wood flavored desk. I’m already sick of it now and I haven’t even started. The sound of leather heels sinking into carpet would annoy me. The silent, airy opening of the doors. It would spoke me. No one should trust a door that closes behind them. It is inhuman. It is cold. It shows too much respect for the lapel, the pleat, the pinstripe. This is more respect than I will ever have. Or want to.

c. QBH

"Nightmare Haiku #5"

The mother of my
children is falling in love
with another man.

© QBHuff

"My Favorite Things #5"

The rush
of being afraid
when behind me my shadow
looks like someone about to attack me.

(Double take.)

c. QBH

"Life Poem #7"

Life is the boy
who sat next to me in class
and copied off my test

and I’m the one who gets in trouble.

c. QBH

"Kimonos Worn by Thought Bubbles"


This is nut buttered madness, this smile of mine. Mummified by my urge to agree, my habit of acquiescence, mouth sealed shut with the duct tape of getting along.


Yet, you have to be somewhat pompous to close the gate to your own mind, to pack away a thought, as if your opinion is so important it must be quarantined from the filthy world or else it will catch cold, become infected, and whither.


That’s why comic strip characters think in thought bubbles – a thought is too precious to allow it outside the membrane. Even the ones someone has already thought before.


We are afraid to get too deep into the synapse of the moment. We shoot around each other like neurons. Sometimes, I’m not firing on all cylinders and what becomes of me is this mannequin smile, stoned in position and utterly unreal. Sometimes, all you want is to get along.

c. QBH