Precious

  Precious

As a child    you would

like to have been seen as precious.

That there was a moment when

all those eyes gathered outside the

maternity ward window came to

gaze down upon you

in your cozy bassinet,

and then…   those words.

Each individual struggling to be

the first to utter them.

“Ah, isn’t he precious?”

And of course everyone

nods    in agreement.

And that moment…

That   precise moment…

That was very well the last time

you were ever truly precious.

Shortly after this you

came to crap your pants

for the very first time, and

there began your fall from grace.

Oh, I suppose in a way

you were still precious.

Simply lesser so with each full diaper,

or     equivalent fecal mistake

on your    decadent way to death.

I suppose there is

that moment before death

when it’s possible to be seen

as precious yet again.

Yes, when infantile transitions to senile.

Bookends to that span of life

in between where your every action

is rendered stark via   brutal critique.

My mother told me to be careful.

That the lamp was indeed precious.

That it could not   be replaced.

Something compared to which I

   was   not held in the

   same   high   esteem.

I figured the message here

was that I could be replaced.

Indeed with only the slightest physical effort

upon my father’s part, and

another one of me

could easily be at hand.

The oil lamp in question

had belonged to my mother’s grandmother,

and after so many coveted generations,

had finally passed into her hands.

There was Grandma Mary,

and there was Grandma Mary’s lamp.

In many ways,  one and the same.

Precious.

The lamp sat atop an upright piano.

A substantial bit of furniture.

Something you would think a small boy

could not shift in weight.

Something that one small boy

did   in fact    manage to do.

And there came that afternoon

when that lamp managed to

topple from its place

and cascade to the floor below

with a horrible sickening crash.

And somehow  my mother knew.

Within seconds, she passed from kitchen

to slowly emerge into the living room.

And there she came to stand,

looking down upon me

and her precious lamp

which now lay in shards

there    at my feet.

And me?     

I am awaiting that

explosion of fury

I so rightly   deserve,

and yet     nothing.

Absolutely  nothing.

There   upon her stoic face,

a most eerie    calm.

And then,   after the pass

of what appeared   eternity,

words come to emit   from her mouth.

Without looking up from the lamp,

she dryly states,

“Get out   of the house.”

Not an exclamation of anger, but

a simple sedate phrase:

“Get out of the house.”

And there, quickly making my exit,

I crossed the lawn to pass

deep into the adjacent woods

where I hid   for a full  two hours.

I was most certainly not precious

   and   knew it.

Years later my mother conveyed

how she fell to her knees and sobbed.

And why had she uttered those words,

“Get out of the house”?

It was because she wanted to   save me.

That at that moment, her utmost desire

was to strike me   with her fist.

Not something one does with that

which is supposedly precious.

A few years before this,

the woman who had given her that lamp

had fallen down a flight of stairs.

Someone we knew of as “Mary”.

The Mary who stood at the top of

   those ill-fated stairs,

and not she who ended up

there at the bottom like a

shattered and ruined lamp.

Well, not so much in body,

but rather in   being.

There within that mind,

this was   tied to that.

String to strand.

A matrix of woven psyche that

had here been ripped   asunder.

A multitude of broken strings

now wadded and wound into a

large   misshapen   sphere.

This synaptic string and that,

once having served specific needs,

but now all   bound together—

compressed into a ball which

held no other purpose than

to roll across the floor and

careen between the legs

 of each and every 

 mislaid chair.

As a child it is understood

that our minds have yet to mature. 

That we’ve yet to be strung as it were.

That we are often incapable

of knowing what is best. That

we are apt to make mistakes

of which time may or

may not permit a certain forgiveness.

With senility there comes

this understanding

that the fabric of our being

has become thread-worn

   and tattered.

And though for this we are often

forgiven by others,

it is something we sadly

will not forgive ourselves.

The last time I saw Mary

was at a family gathering.

Afflicted beneath the sledge of 

multiple strokes, she was

wheeled into an adjacent room

and left to sit by herself.

An enforced solitude

for the fact that

the other adults

remembered her

for who she once was

and herewith could not bear

to see what she’d   become.

As a child I knew no better.

Did not know that my

Great Grandma Mary

had become one who

was now incapable

of the simplest act of conversation.

For me…

For me she was still there.

I mean…   

She was     wasn’t she?

And there as I knelt down before her,

her random gaze

came to reflect   that of mine.

Tears welled forth

from her long lost eyes,

as she came to acknowledge

   one small boys presence.

And there from her lips a

simple phrase came to repeat

   over and over.

“Let’s go.

   Let’s go.

      Let’s go.”

Again and again.

A mantra of brutal anguish.

And I wish I could have taken her

out through the door,

   across the lawn and

       there into

           the distant woods.

Out to a place where

she and I could hide together.

For you see

out in the woods,

you can often

    find

self-   

    forgiveness.

©2010 Jack Hubbell

Big Top

  Big Top

You might find this a bit presumptuous

but within moments of our first meeting,

I knew we’d become    estranged.

Oh, it’s not that I didn’t like you.

No, there was not a single pre-existing bias

for what were we if not the

most complete of strangers?

Between strange

and estrange,

we were one and insane if

   only for a moment.

Yes, I’d like to say I liked you

but unlike you, I unfurled a

fence of indifference.

Abandoning our uncommon ground,

I left it for you to raise the circus tent

which made up your mind.

Lions and tigers and bears… oh my!

Presently, another arrives

upon our shared street corner

to set up his own circus tent.

And his lions are more ferocious;

his tigers more terrifying;

his bears     more unbearable.

Yo, and his circus comes complete with carnival.

And he’s smokin’ a cigarette, which is

almost as good as being a fire-eater.

Almost…

Lucky Strikes in a rolled up sleeve.

“Step up. Step up.

You look pretty tough.

Let’s see if you can ring that bell.

Close   but no cigar.”

No cigar.     That’s you.

Oh   so   you.

“Um… Excuse me bud

but could I um…

   bum a cigarette?”

Dude is smokin’ and you ain’t

and somehow you figure you have just

got to get a little of what makes him

   “the Big Top”.

So he throws you a fag

and it would be a pretty good trick

if you caught it mid-air

but you don’t ‘cause   your circus is

   sawdust      and peanuts.

He knows it, and I know it.

And here with a crack of the whip,

some lion roars from your center ring

while we in the bleachers yawn in mass

as yet another painted clown

spills forth from a miniature car.

Here on this particular curb

there’s many a big top that

will roll up with it’s own unique

   barking ring-master.

Each one his own Ringling Brothers.

Each one his own Barnum and Bailey.

Each man insisting that his tent pole

is that much thicker, and taller,

and more rigid than the others.

Each one thinking his stay power

will outlast that of all his contenders.

Each one singing the praise

of those special acts that

grace his center ring being.

You would think it would be hard

to set up tent on this urban concrete curb,

yet you’d be amazed at the ease

   at which so many do.

This scrolling concrete beneath our feet…

This concrete that we share…

The same concrete

that stretches away

down to the men’s shelter,

some three or four blocks distant.

That place where Saint Francis of Assisi

pitches his tent and religion.

And again, this is a bit

presumptuous of me

but I get the feeling

you know that place

all   too  well.

There now,

giving your best impression as to

how a true Big Top smokes a cigarette,

I notice that there’s a prominent

indentation in your skull which

begins at your right temple

and wraps around to forehead.

This, the spot where the

lions crawled into your head,

or the portal from which they roar to escape.

And here with a flick of ash to the ground,

the beasts step to your brow

and bring words to your nicotine lips.

“I can kick six feet high.

They don’t know that.

They think I’m a pussy but

    I’m not    a pussy.

I can lift one thousand pounds, I can.

I could punch you in your heart.

Punch you in your heart…

   You’re dead.”

Ahem…

“Hey Rube!

Looks like we’ve got a violent one here.”

Yes well…

I suppose you’re only trying to warn me.

Imminent threat duly noted.

Relationship   estranged.

Ticket sales plummet, and you

wonder why your circus patronage

   is so limited?

And as we part our ways,

my mind travels to that distant building

where you will pitch your tent tonight.

To all those men and all those beds.

Chock o’ block tents of testosterone,

each with its own circus calliope.

That every man there

lives with elephant trunks

full of memories

which try as he may,

he will never forget.

That every man remembers

some girl in glittering sequins,

who swung from bar to bar,

but never chose to take his hand.

That she would rather risk the fall

than fall in love with him.

This man who painted tears across his cheek,

and made a target of his nose.

Who crawled inside a darkened box

and was skewered by

one hundred piercing swords.

Who placed his head in the lion’s mouth

and welcomed the scars it left.

All circus acts these men chose

to inflict upon themselves.

And there with the fall of night,

each marquee dims,

flaps are drawn,

costumes are hung,

lions, tigers and bears are

ushered to their respective cages

and the circus goes to sleep.

And there in that slumber,

you would think these men

would be given a token respite,

yet through the night,

they are jolted awake by

the random roar

of some beast in tortured pain.

Sawdust and peanuts.

Such is the life of men

who as boys once dreamt of

running away to join the circus.

Men who arrived at

their coveted destination

   only to find that

they now only dream of

finding a way back home.

©2010 Jack Hubbell

  Boy Meets Girl

Boy meets girl.

Boy asks girl for a date.

Boy    seduces girl.

Boy and girl participate in

undone-undie,

under the cover,    

   unadulterated,

      unprotected    sex.

Boy oh boy.

Boy and girl have sex again.   

And again.

Repeat.     Repeat.    Repeat.

Boy and girl are mighty damn frisky,

   if you get my    meaning.

Boy somehow manages to impregnate girl.

Boy does the right thing.

Boy pauses and thinks to himself,

“Who the hell come up with that phrase

‘Does the right thing’?”

Boy figures, “Alright,   fine.

Such is my lot in life, and

there’s not a damn thing I can do about it,

um… ‘cept ponder whether

   the person who coined

“Such is my lot in life” is the

same pecker-head who came up with

the guilt inducing sentence of

   “Do the right thing.”

Okay, now hold on!

This whole morality play of words

is obviously from a

male’s pointy head of view.

That’s not romance.

Let’s let a woman tell the story.

Um… Girl meets boy at bowling alley.

Girl finds boy cute in a

whimpering puppy what needs

a bit of cuddle    sort of way.

Hey!    I ain’t tellin’ the story.    

She is.     She found him cute.     

Go figure.

They spoon.

They swoon.

They croon.

They serenade beneath the moon.

They    swap    some     spit.

He asks if he might be able

to see her the following night.

Giddy with anticipation,

she says “Oh, yes.”

And there that following night

he picks her up and right off the bat

asks if it’s okay to go back to his place.

Rewind.        Re-roll.

Giddy with anticipation,    “Oh, yes.”

Now wait a second.

In chapter three, page sixty-two,

sub-paragraph four of

the woman’s field manual on

sexual relations with a male homo sapiens,

doesn’t it openly state that you are

never suppose to go to the fella’s pad

   on the very first date?

I guess her copy had a few pages ripped out.

Girl meets boy.

Girl ends up on boys couch.

Someone’s tongue ends up

in someone else’s mouth.

Don’t know whose.

Hey. She’s telling this story.

Not me.

He interrupts their   moment of passion

and excuses himself to the kitchen.

From where she’s sitting on the couch

she can see him digging around

   in the refrigerator.

Shortly, he closes the door

and vanishes down a hallway

to pass into view through an adjacent door

before disappearing into his bathroom.

And he’s in there a long time.

A    very long time.

She studies the ceiling;

the wallpaper;    the curtains;

the watermarks on the coffee table.

Presently the door opens

and he strolls across the carpet

to plop down beside her and

ease into her embrace

as if he’d never left.

And there again,

just as their passion reaches its crescendo,

he stands, pardons himself

and heads for the kitchen.

There again, his head in the fridge.

There again, the walk down the hall.

There again the open, close and click

   of the bathroom’s latch.

To her utter amazement,

she once more finds herself

alone on the couch

rearranging her disheveled clothes.

And this time,

he is locked away in the toilet

for a good twenty minutes or more.

She’s at the point of slumping down

into the cushions for a nap

when she hears the door unlatch again.

Stepping from the toilet,

his eyes meet hers and she can instantly tell

there’s something very different.

Indeed, that which is there,

spreads from pupils,

outward to eye sockets and further,

   to overwhelm his entire face.

In quick transition, a look of shock;

a look of fright;   a look of      anger.

And there from those lips

which had just been pressed against hers

come the following words: “Who are you?!

How the hell did you get into my house?!”

To this she starts to giggle and mutter a quizzical,

“er… What?” to his somewhat inappropriate joke,

when he overrides her with “Who the hell are you?!

How the fuck did you get in here?!”

And here she comes to realize

that there’s nothing funny

about his current ill-romantic demeanor.

Again she tries to utter a response of “What?”

but here is voice gets shrill and ever more frantic.

“I’m calling the police!

You better get the hell outta here, ‘cause…”

And here she suddenly hears

her own voice overriding his.

“What’s going on here?

Why are you acting like this?

I’m your date, god damn it!

Don’t you remember you and I

just now sitting on this couch?!”

It’s at this point she recalls his face

   altering yet again.

Its mutating from extreme anger

   to that of utmost pain.

And he    begins to sob.

Not just cry, but   sob.

He wanders over to the couch,

sits down, buries his head in hands

   and truly breaks down.

And yo! If there’s anything

that pushes a woman’s buttons

it’s when the man she finds worthy of sex

turns into the man she wants to kick in the groin,

but then quickly transitions

to the man she wants to

hold to her naked breast and nurse.

A maelstrom of manic emotion.

A macabre and malignant mix

of malnourished masculinity.

A magmatic magnum of mother’s milk,

primed for manly mammary mastication.

Madness.   Madness.   Madness.

I think it was right around

this point in the story

when those of us on the

outside of the asylum’s gates

decided to phone in an observation.

“So… um…

You got the fuck outta there, right?”

And here a serene smile forms upon her face.

“No.    Actually,

we’ve got another date this coming Friday.”

Ah…

The mysteries of amour.

Boy meets girl.

Girl meets boy.

Someone’s forehead meets

   a meat-cleaver.

Not saying who.    ‘Cause

    you know…

Romance is always best when unpredictable.

Ah heck!

Who’s foolin’ who?

Doesn’t the boy

always

get the girl

in the end?

©2010 Jack Hubbell

  Combustion

That cars explode

whilst suspended mid-air

is an absolute given fact.

Drive one through a barrier

and over a cliff   and

you just know it is going to be

enveloped in flames

before it hits the ground there below.

How do I know this?

Well hell… I’ve

seen it in the movies.

All I know is that if I launch my car

off a 500 foot drop, I’m

gonna open that door

and step out into the sky

‘cause I   

sure don’t want to get burned.  No.

Best wait ‘til everything reaches the ground

before I climb back in for

a nice   clean    painless mortality.

You know, I find myself trying to think

of all the cars I’ve ever been in that

spontaneously burst into a ball of flames,

   and I can’t even think of one.

Don’t remember a non-spontaneous combustion either.

It may come down to my always having managed

   to buy a good quality blast-free car.

Either that or I’ve lucked out and

the industrial mechanic for

every purchase I’ve made

forgot to install the airborne detonator.

Then again,

(and this is important)

I don’t know that I’ve ever managed to get

all four wheels off the ground at once.

I suppose it’s extra motivation

to slow down around speed bumps.

Might explain why my wife always screams

when I approach one at high speed.

I may be using a strained logic here

but I figure that all those exploding cars

that you see in the movies

were obviously sitting in

close proximity to a speed bump.

Those CGI guys just use some special affect to

mask out that bump at a later date.

I’m thinking that in an effort to save money on

pyrotechnics in all those Schwarzenegger films,

they probably shot them in

ever so anal residential areas.

ka-‘Burbs.   ka-Bumps.   ka-Bounce.   ka-Boom.

I was once in my car

traveling down the A1-M motorway in England

towards the sprawling city of Milton Keynes.

My destination was a cinema multiplex

where they were showing a

new action flick with Arnold in it.

It was just at dusk and

I was heading into a sunset.

What was curious was that I was driving South.

So    adding up sunsets—

the one in front of me and

the one off my shoulder to the right—

I came to the eerie equation of one sunset too many.

A mile further on and I noticed that

my Southern-most sunset was producing

a vast plume of inky black smoke.

This was either a new solar phenomenon

or confirmation that my rumored lack

of deductive reasoning was indeed sadly true.

At this point on the motorway,

the Southbound lanes were three across

and there just ahead of me,

a multitude of glowing brake-lights

competed with the glow of my polar solar fate.

A half-mile further on and

the chaos of competing red

split into two separate columns

as all the cars diverged

into the far left or right lanes.

There in the center lane

and facing us,    stood a man.

A man silhouetted by a blazing sun

which threatened to engulf us all.

This man…

This man had driven his car

   into the Sun.

Well no.

That’s not necessarily true.

His car was the sun.

No. Again, I’m misleading you.

This man’s car had burst into flames

there in the absolute center of the motorway,

and he, having escaped the inferno,

had wandered a hundred yards

up the middle of the

three lane expanse of road

to face the oncoming traffic

as it veered left and right in a

frantic effort to avoid him.

And there as I drove by

in what appeared to be

a certain cinematic slow motion,

I noticed the look in his eyes.

He was not looking at us. No.

He was in the midst of  trauma;

of horror; of visual overload;

of that proverbial thousand yard stare.

Zero to sixty.    Sixty to zero.

Step out before you hit the ground…

   and survive.

The cerebral shred

of a fuel injected head.

And cars continue to swerve.

And tires continue to screech.

And this is all the action you could ever hope for.

But we have not a second to spare.

No time to pause in mutual PTSD consolation.

Why?

‘Cause we’ve got a date with Swarzenegger.

Oh, the brutal excitement!

The anticipation of all that pending violence!      

The destruction. The decimation.

The deto…nation.

We get to see Arnold kick some doors down.

Snap some bones.    Fracture some teeth.

We get to see him pump high-caliber lead

into the chest of a wide-eyed man who

really really really needs to die.

Hell.     If we’re lucky,

we might even get to see some

   cars blow up.

©2010 Jack Hubbell