Saturday, December 02, 2006

From the sequence:
"In Memorium"
Big Bang-ish
I’ve got the Big Bang on my television set
and I want to get it off.
Not that I want to get off by
watching a big bang on my TV.
Not that by Big Bang we’re talking
John Holmes blitzkrieging the Kama Sutra.
We’re talking the original orgasmic pop.
Absent prophylactic.
We’re talking the original sploosh of stars
spewed forth from the
great cosmic gonad of forever-was.

Back in them thar days of early creation, when
dinosaurs ruled the Earth and
every TV had a pair of
rabbit-ear aerials on top,
you could twist your select-switch
and tune off mid-channel.
Most programming back then
had to do with infomercials about
what you could be eating or
what could be eating you.
Pretty redundant stuff really.
In between Channel One and Channel Two
you’d find… Well…

Bear in mind, we Homo sapiens had
minimal vocabularies back then.
We looked at that TV screen
and came to the group consensus that
what was present there
might best be described as “snow”.
Someone at the back of the cave proffered that
it was a video presentation of microwave range noise,
but he was quickly stoned as a heretic.
So… “Snow” it was.
Course, centuries later we found that this
somewhat evolved dude had been right all along,
so we dealt with it by
writing him out of our history
and science bibles.

I am now happy to tell you that
what you see on the TV when you
disconnect that cable is a
video presentation of microwave noise.
And here now in the age of Cheeze Whiz
and mass enlightenment,
we are free to ask the following question
without fear of the inquisition:
“Oh Great and Mighty Oz.
From whence doth that micro-wavy noise originate?”
And to that a voice responds:
“Pay no attention to that old man behind the curtain!
The Great Oz has spoken!”

But being of the inquisitive sort,
you lesser beings
Google your question and push aside a
few thousand years of dogma by
simply putting your pinky on that ‘enter’ key.
And here I must interject,
what sort of world is this
when the Great Oz is forced to
genuflect in front of deities such as
Microsoft and Macintosh?

Anywho… I believe the gist of your question was:
microwave noise, liquid cheese in a can,
snow on top of your TV, and
if Britney Spears is still a virgin,
how did she get knocked up not only once but twice?
Something to that affect.

In a get-a-nut shell,
the answer is: “The Big Bang.”
That snow on your TV screen
originated at the center of the universe
from a penis the size of a Humvee.
The big Humvee.
Not the small one.
The big one give or take a few inches.
Okay… I may be exaggerating about
the size of the penis.
I’m known to do that.
If you want to know the true size,
ask that fella Adam.
Supposedly, his penis
was made in the likeness
of that original one
smack dab in the middle of the cosmos.

But now wait.
This presents a bit of a quandary, for
it would seem… rather… I mean,
as history has it:
Not only was Adam incapable of the Big Bang
(you’ve seen how small his fig leaf is),
he could barely manage a
little one.

Big Bang?
More along the lines of
Snap, crackle and… Ho-hum.
“Hey. What’s on TV?
Yea, and…
You gonna eat that apple or what?”

©06 Jack Hubbell

From the sequence:
In Memorium,
He stands in a depression.
What you would call his “low place”.
The altitude of that earth beneath his feet
will always be lesser than
your deepest elevation,
and he…
He calls this existence
To each his own,
and he certainly owns this one.
Not that it’s something he purchased.
No, this utopia was
An asset he never signed for, yet it’s
undeniably his.
A package deal with
generic label.
It was utopia in its most literal sense.
A word which translates as
A noun which interprets as
So how do you get from the
literal translation of nowhere to this
perceived rapture of absolute nirvana?

Good point.
Good fucking point.
Should you figure that out,
he’d sure like to know.

Until then, he exists alone in his
stadium sized sinkhole.
And though a multitude of bleachers
array its steep perimeter
there will be no applause,
for he remains
a solipsistic nation of one.

Above his head black flags wave
and there on the loud speakers,
the late John Lennon
sings his sub-terrestrial anthem
of self-sustained nihilism.

It’s a somber tune.
The perfect libretto for
solo a cappella.
Not the sort of anthem
to put a tear in your eye,
but just the thing for explaining
why the one that’s there
will never leave.
Yes, John’s vocals serenade empty seats.
His melancholy melody drifts upon
stale silent air.
A sustained echo of woe
amidst a stadium with
far too many
oh so inviting exits.

“He’s a real nowhere man.
Sitting in his nowhere land.
Making all his nowhere plans,
for nobody.”

And what are such lyrics if not
to die for?

©06 Jack Hubbell