Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Monday, April 15, 2019


That which does not kill you, 
   makes you. 
Makes you  what? 
Makes you  how?
Makes you      who?

Within this slapdash existence 
of potential mortality, and 
against all feasible odds, 
I have somehow managed 
   to persevere. 
I, fully aware of this and that 
and those and them proposed 
to mar and mangle 
this life I hold so dear. 

That which does not kill you. 
Does not maim you. 
Soon  mal-
   deforms you. 

It is herewith simply assumed 
that I in body 
come complete.
That I’ve toes upon my feet. 
That my sense of sight is sound. 
That I can tell what’s up from down. 
That I can see what’s there on the ground. 
That my body veers to vacant 
from the horror I’ve there found. 

That that which renders fear adheres 
to sear my sheltered psyche. 
This is a state of mind 
and my mind is in a state. 

It slithers, and 
it slithers, and 
it slithers, slithers, slithers, 
for it’s said that I’ve 
a ball of snakes 
coiled ‘bout my 
basal ganglia. 

They say dead-center 
my primordial head 
you will therein find 
a reptilian brain. 
And they would have me 
here look inward, 
yet that which there 
returns my gaze, 
remains a viperine vision of which 
I dare not care to know. 

And though my higher mammalian mind 
would have me limbic limbo ‘neath 
a septic serpent’s stomach, 
it remains a synaptic swamp of which 
I do not care to visit. 

This feeding, 
this fighting, 
this fleeing, 
this fucking. 

‘F’ ALL that shit, for I will 
not consume the snake, no, 
will not combat that 
thing with tail and scale, 
and it and I most certainly won’t… 
   …come to copulate. 

Condom or no, I condemn it. 
That a snake wear a condom seems foolish. 
Indeed that anyone’s rancid reptile mind 
finds fetish in a snake found phallic 
be they damned. 
   Be they damned. 
      Be they cast from Eden damned. 

‘F’ and ‘F’ and ‘F’ and ‘F’. 
Unfettered of the letter, 
I would flee. I would fly. 
Would most surely have fled.
I now with tail here unfurled. 
I now with split-tongue set a sputter. 

And yet… 
And yet here I stand 
so lithe and lathed utter legless. 
Disarm alarmed and 
tube torso traumatic. 

Limbic sans limb and 
limb loss akimbo, 
I collapse upon ground, 
foot foiled and coiled catatonic. 

Now serpentine in body, 
sinuous bone next sinuous bone. 
Denied limb to amble yonder, 
I am lashed within this hither, 
for my reptile mind 
has thus decreed, 
its only option:   

Ó2019 Jack David Hubbell

  ....Sara at the Coliseum.... 

Friends, Romans, put down your beers. 
I stand here before you 
with a story of great import. 
‘Tis a telling of heroic proportion… 
nay, legend. 

Visualize if you will, the Coliseum. 
A Coliseum soaked not with blood, 
but with hooch. 
Yes, hooch. 
Booze. Suds. Liquor. Libation. 
Alcohol if you will. 
Take a hit. 
Cannonball that. 
The next warrior 
is about to enter the arena. 

Kick an empty beer bottle across the floor. 
Ah… Now that’s poetry. 
Sling a thousand bottles down the Coliseum’s steps. 
That’sa proper fanfare. 
Yes, and there amidst the 
din of shattered glass… 
For lo, but beneath earthy floorboards 
you can hear the roar of the beasts, 
and how they bellow for more spilt pilsner! 

And now, 
out from the ranks of 
our downed and vanquished gladiators, 
A chant arises. 
“Sara. Sara. Sara.” 

[And at this point , 
the narrator is forced to interject with, “Sara? 
What the heck kinda’ 
name for a warrior is that?”

The games call for another victim.
And yet 
there is no victim
What you have here 
is the deadliest of poet warriors. 
No mere bone cruncher, 
but poem cruncher. 
Her words are sharp. 
Her verse heavy as a lead mace. 
Yeah, but she strides forward 
into the arena and 
an ocean of ankle deep lager 
rises to part before her. 

Her armor of choice is unusual. 
Yes, sports fans. 
Today Sara appears to have chosen 
an oversized knit cardigan, 
and beneath that, 
low-cut denim jeans 
with just a hint of a dark t-shirt. 

Menacing stuff indeed, 
but such sinister fashion 
has been lost on the 
inebriated masses. 
Perhaps this nondescript apparel 
was designed to make her 
appear invisible. 
though her fellow gladiators 
know of her presence all too well, 
to the drunken hordes 
arrayed about the coliseum, 
she is persona non grata. 

No matter. 
Sara circles around to square off 
before an archaic microphone 
circa 2003 BC,  
and settling into a broad stance, 
words begin to dart forth 
and thrust outward. 
Where all previous poet combatants 
had chosen bludgeoning verbiage 
via heavy bladed broadsword, 
Sara’s attack comes by way of 
exquisite rapier. 
Its shimmering surface 
projects a vocal glissade 
out to the arena’s far reaches. 

Indeed, there at the back of the Coliseum, 
one of the inebriated spectators pauses 
mid broken bottle to ocular socket 
and remarks, 
“Hey dude! She’s talking’ ‘bout sex!” 

Yes. Oh, Yes. 
Sara’s talkin’ ‘bout sex. 
The punters way up in the bleachers 
ease back their oral fixation 
upon long neck liquid phallus’ 
and rack bleary eyes 
towards the lethal siren 
behind the microphone. 

The murmur from the back row 
sweeps forward. 
Oh yes. Sex good. 
Sex is our friend. 
We like sex.” 

Yes. Sara’s talkin’ ‘bout sex, but hey! 
This ain’t a dirty poem. 
Hell, the dirty poems 
are up in the bleachers. 
[Oh yea, and also what’s going on 
underneath that table right there.]

No. Sara’s serving up clean sex. 
Keen edged clean sex that 
skewers the soft pink eardrums of 
each and every booze binging Roman. 
Except, you know, 
for those there distracted 
beneath that table.] 

A poetic martial art, 
her wordsmith utterances slither forth 
to slice Roman cerebellum with 
double edged XY chromosome. 

Yes. If Sara bleeds, 
she bleeds pure estrogen. 
An estrogen of such might 
that it vanquishes every 
testosterone laced, 
booze braced poet 
who ever preceded her. 

And then… 
And then some blotto Roman 
pulls his thumb from his waistband, 
raises it above the table before him 
and wraps it around the lip 
of a longneck Budweiser. 
With this, one hundred thousand 
toga attired bacchanalian sots follow suit. 

Yes. For a few seconds, 
poetry rolled forth over 
the entire tanked up Roman empire. 
For a few seconds, 
culture and civilization reigned. 
For a few seconds… 

Then some drunken idiot in the back 
got out his fiddle, started to play, 
and the lady at the mic 
was swept away to oblivion. 

Rome may be burning, 
but what the fuck. 
Put another keg on the tap. 
Bring another poet to the slaughter. 

has left 
the building. 

c 03 Jack Hubbell

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Saturday, April 13, 2019

Thursday, April 11, 2019

Tuesday, April 09, 2019


Fouetté rond 
de jambe en tournant. 
Or rather…  
  to spin. 
To spin     in place. 
To spin in place and yet 
  not lose control. 
To maintain a certain equilibrium
  by way of that quick turn 
      which precedes the body. 
The whip of the head. 
The rapid rotation and 
precise act    of spotting. 
The eye within that vortex 
finding one thing to hold in sync. 

Something stable that 
the mind can lock onto, 
which    in this case, 
happens to be some 
decrepit old man 
sitting in the corner with 
gnarled hand furiously 
pumping away at his crotch. 

She could not think of a single 
prima    ballerina assoluta 
who might find 
this sort of adoration    flattering. 
Not one. 
She herself was not a prima ballerina, 
but this was not to say she did not 
periodically find herself capable of a 
grand pas de deux piece de resistance. 

Admittedly, her chaînés déboulés 
maneuver would be done down a 
long narrow stage with 
sporadic floor to ceiling poles, 
and yes, she would of course be 
   absolutely naked but, 
other than that, 
what was her execution of 
cabriole and    entrechat 
if not the ultimate of    bravura? 
Yet who of those men 
skittering away 
in the receding dark with 
  antenni erect 
would appreciate the rigid aplomb 
of her exquisite arabesque? 

They    liked the splits. 
Indeed, they’d sit a la pool o’ drool, 
dumfounded in mutual 
  mute appreciation 
of a really good split, and 
it need not even occur 
  at the apex of a leap 
to get their antenni     throbbing. 

There was a time    when 
the only appreciation that mattered 
was the smile that might form 
on her father’s face when 
she twirled her lithe body 
  into his outstretched arms. 
She in that blue tutu he had bought her.
She in her pink leotard. 
She there standing toe en pointe 
as he placed a delicate kiss 
upon dimpled cheek. 

To don a tutu. 
There prior to the dance. 
To attire oneself in costume. 
This as opposed to 
the explicit act of disrobement. 
That she step out upon a stage 
  completely naked—
herewith     now considered 
the utmost of refined entertainment. 

To point her toe just so… 
Who here   gave a 
Fouetté rond de fuck about that? 
These cultured pearls 
crushed ‘neath cloven hoof. 

“Tendu”: A balletic term. 
To stretch the movement 
  to its furthest extent. 
Who here cared about that? 
“Ballon”: To bounce. 
The perceived lightness of the movement. 
Yes, well… 
There in the back room… 
There behind curtains… 
What lap dance ever reached its climax 
without a certain quality of    ballon? 

And there she stands in balletic efface—
an erased or obscured movement. 
This sordid charade… 
This squalid façade  which was her life. 

And there she stands, 
balletic en croix—
she in the shape of crucifixion. 
With nails she bought 
and hammered home herself. 

She in her perpetually scheduled 
Ten until two, six nights a week,
  matinee on Saturday.

Here for the pleasure of venereal eyes 
  and syphilitic minds. 
She, their bawdy   bauble. 
She, their burlesque    ballerina. 

the balletic act of falling. 
That to which she 
most certainly excels. 

Perhaps all else balletic 
is nothing more than pretension.
All but that one…    Tombé… 
That one she has practiced 
  to perfection. 

A lifetime’s achievement… 
She and the forever act of the fall 
  have become one… 

The same… 

The shame. 


Ó2012 Jack David Hubbell