...They Scream...




He cooked lobster 

almost every night. 


Sometimes two or three. 


Mind you, he never ate any of it. 


Nah, he just liked 

throwin’ ‘em live 


into the boiling water. 


It was a thrill-of-the-kill thing. 


Kinda made him feel human. 


Sorta reinforced the known fact that 

they, 
the lobsters, 


were part of the animal kingdom 


and he was Man. 


Totally above them. 


Totally separate. 


Course, 

it would be great to be able to 


go out and shoot things. 


Just to be able to indiscriminately 

step outside and 

blast assorted creatures. 


But,  (sigh) 


he lived in the city, 

and people were 

sensitive to that shit. 




What with laws becoming 

the way they were, 


how was a man supposed to 

remain a man anymore? 


Where was his urban right-of-passage? 


What the heck was a fella to do 

with an over-abundance of 

testosteronal uber-juice?


It wasn’t like he was being 

sent out with a spear into 

the vast Serengeti veldt, 


ready to go mano y mano…

er mano y animano 


with some multi toothed beast. 


Course he had almost had an encounter with 


Mrs. Swartz’s Pekinese at the end of the hall, 

but then… 


social etiquette came crushingly 

back to the equation, so… 


there he was, one man
armed 

with a large stainless steel pot. 


One man, face to face with 
a 

vaguely peeved aquatic crustacean. 


There on one side of the stove stood he, 


a man representing the entire human race. 


Pitch-hitting for the animal world 


(and a bargain at eighteen dollars 

and ninety five cents) 


was the lobster. 


Right-of-passage? 


Heck, tonight he was going to be daring. 


Tonight, he was going to be a real man. 


Tonight, before dropped that lobster 


into the deadly boiling water, 


he was gonna take the rubber bands 

off its snappy 

pinchy things. 


Well…     maybe. 


©02 Jack David Hubbell

  ...Sub-Nature Boy (V2)...

There was a boy. 

A very strange enchanted boy… 

whose magnitude and 

grace of inner beauty 

was counter-balanced

by a slight of 

external repugnance.

Yes, ugliness of such  

extreme visual slander, 

that we came to know him 

not as Joseph Carey Merrick, 

but as 

“The Elephant Man.” 

Such extreme visual slander… 

And just who was it that had 

unduly cursed Joseph Merrick? 

When you looked upon his face and 

physical countenance … 

A man of such   deformity 

that he was allowed to cry 

and yet physically

could not smile. 

A man of such 

repellent appearance 

that you can only hope 

the hand he’d been dealt 

was all genetics and not that 

of a ungracious god. 

A little shy 

and sad of eye, 

but very wise was he. 

Joseph Merrick could read, write 

and conceive poetry in a time 

of mass illiteracy. 

Indeed, most of those 

who laughed and jeered at him, 

would have see the word 

‘neurofibromatosis’

as pure un-cipherable 

hieroglyphic.  

And while we spoke of many things. 

Fools and kings. 

We observe ourselves 

in the mirror, 

and say,

“Look at how fat I am. 

Look there at 

the droop in my eyelids.  

Oh, if only I could get 

the shape of my nose redone. 

If only it could be made 

to turn up    ever so   at the end. 

Perhaps then, 

someone would find me attractive. 

Perhaps then,

I’d be worthy of love.” 

The greatest thing 

you’ll ever learn.

Yes indeed, 

you fools;

you freaks; 

you kings and queens. 

The greatest thing 

           you’ll ever learn.    

Ó05 Jack Hubbell

'Tis true, my form is something odd

but blaming me, is blaming God,

Could I create myself anew

I would not fail in pleasing you.

If I could reach from pole to pole

or grasp the ocean with a span,

I would be measured by the soul.

The mind's the standard of the Man. 

A poem often quoted by 

                Joseph Carey Merrick

  ...Woman with an UZI...

I can see that you’re upset. 

Deep inside I feel your pain. 

No need to go full auto, 

when I’m sure I can explain.

If you’d only pause to listen,

click the safety on to off, 

while I ponder my infraction, 

and this new toy that you’ve bought.

K-Mart special submachine gun. 

Box of ammo really cheap. 

I’m sure they’d take it back dear, 

if you’ve still got the receipt. 

Cosmetics vs. hollow points? 

I  can see that you’re confused. 

One’s not quite Vogue accessorized 

when bullets clash with shoes. 

The latest fashion is compassion. 

Seeking vengeance so passé. 

Martha Stewart’s Guns n’ Ammo 

won’t come out ‘til late in May. 

Was it something that I said dear?

Something vile or cruel in part? 

Enough that you ejaculate, 

pumping lead into my heart. 

My attitude’s been altered

via emotive circumstance… 

Yes, the UZI’s made its point dear, 

‘cause I think I peed my pants.

Ó01 Jack David Hubbell

  ...Solitaire (for Roy Peter)...

It was time to go.

All pertinent cards 

had been dealt; 

   played out. 

There were rules to the game. 

A game claimed for himself. 

A solitary game. 

There was no re-shuffle to his game. 

No bury of the card. 

A card stayed where it lay. 

The turning over 

of each consecutive 

was done without hesitation, 

for such   was   fate. 

That which was revealed 

might be beneficial to the game,  

but also to its detriment. 

It all depended 

on the original shuffle, 

and that shuffle, 

he had performed himself. 

There was no contesting the order, 

for such had been decreed. 

The play of cards 

could have been positive, 

and indeed, he at one point 

   perceived it so. 

The sequence of turned cards 

   fell to his favor. 

Life was good. 

      Life was good.

But then, at some point, 

they turned bad. 

Now, each card flowed 

   against him. 

No turn of the card 

   brought solace. 

There was only pain. 

I guess we should have asked 

if we could have sat down 

at his table. 

Yes, in this way 

we might have absorbed 

some of his good cards, 

but some of the bad as well. 

As it is, 

there was only him, 

and knowing how 

the game was to end, 

he threw down the deck 

before we 

could pull up a chair. 

Ó01 Jack David Hubbell

  ...Cerebro-Sonic...

He had gutted a 

small set of headphones

and replaced the internal cones

with miniature microphones

that could be fitted 

deep into the ear canal.

He had hoped to 

record and playback

the rushing of the blood

through adjacent arteries and veins;

to record the clamoring

of inner ear hammer and stirrup

and along with that the stressing of 

thousands of tiny hair follicles;

to transfer to magnetic media 

the multitude of voices which 

careened around his cranium

and were only heard momentarily

as they rushed past each ear hole

with the bizarrest of ill-synchronized 

   stereophonic effect.

A panoply of voices.

A chorus of spiraling monologues.

All of this, 

and yet nothing

(absolutely nothing)

makes it  to tape.

There within the 

multiple folds of gray matter,

lie arroyos of vacuum.

Utter     emptiness.

So many years later now,

and he finds moments 

when thoughts breach like whales

above thresholds of 

medication induced noise.

All the electronics are long gone now.

All but what 

they have left before him

on his drool covered tray.

It's a Fisher Price variation

of his glorious sound recorder,

ah, but he's not stupid.

He knows the difference.

All these years.

So many, many years.

So much could have been avoided.

He could have proved 

the voices were there.

All he needed was a little help.

Just like now

as he gazes down at the 

brightly colored amalgamation 

of plastic in his hands

and puzzles as to 

which of those myriad knobs

is the long sought for

"on" switch.

Ó2000 Jack David Hubbell

  ...Lamplit Ill Lumination...

It's late at night

and sitting on the right side 

of an old Ford Capri,

I'm driving North toward 

Peterborough, England.

It's 1987, but the Capri dates 

from the mid-seventies

and has acquired a 

high maintenance temperament.

The current state of tantrums

seems to revolve around 

all things electrical.

On this night the Capri is in motion, 

and hurtling Northward

while unbeknownst to me, 

electrical decadence

has maintained its course 

towards nullification.

Out before me the dual beams 

of my headlamps do their best 

to illuminate a long expanse of asphalt

while the remainder 

of the English landscape

is lost to blackness.

It is a world unacknowledged 

by this midnight traveler.

The Capri surges ever forward

at a cool eighty miles an hour

whilst photons spring forward

from each headlamps element 

at the speed of light.

Eighty mile per hour 

plus the speed of light

and still these distant photons

die black deaths some 

two thousand feet further on.

All that I am allowed to see 

at this moment in time

is a continuous scrolling 

of asphalt and white lines.

And then, suddenly,

all is blackness.

At the speed of light,

   light is gone.

My 80-mph assist has 

proved to be meaningless.

If anything,

a mini-blackhole has been created

by the sudden collapse of photons.

My proof of this is the fact that

here now, in the sudden darkness,

80 mph has surely doubled in velocity.

I'm moving at high speed 

and can feel it,

but I can't see it.

Frantically I toggle the 

headlight switch on and off.

Nothing happens.

Desperate now, 

my hand moves to the dim switch

and switching it to bright, 

intense beams of light

once again erupt from my headlamps.

A sigh of relief passes from my lips

while at the same time,

I find myself thinking of all the drivers

who will emit profanities toward me

as I pass them on my 

continued way homeward.

My angst suddenly dissolves

as the twin beams of light 

fuse together and then 

fan outward in an 

amazing explosion of light.

By way of a sudden surge of current,

both headlamps have been 

transformed into giant flashbulbs.

Immense flashbulbs which for 

   one half second,

light up a mile distant arc 

of English countryside.

For that one-half second,

I can see a multitude of 

trees and distant farmhouses.

There above me,

the arc of light was mirrored upon 

the low hanging clouds

and then just as quickly, gone.

Holding the steering 

to a straight course,

I move my foot to the brake pedal,

There to begin a slow deceleration

through the blackness 

beyond the windshield.

Shortly the opaque darkness gives way

to a translucent variation

and I coast to the edge 

of the motorway's shoulder.

At a full stop, I reach forward 

to switch my engine off

which soon commences a 

series of random pops and clicks

as the engine begins its cool-down.

My dash lights begin their 

slow swell of illumination,

and I find myself pondering 

all those Britons lying awake in bed

or sitting in a dimly lit room 

watching late night tele.

Moments ago,

a massive surge of light

came in through their windows,

to freeze mid-yawn visages

and then abruptly 

transform them to 

looks of wide eyed wonder.

On this strange night,

some were visited by angels,

others by abducting aliens;

still others were caught 

mid-sexual stride

by paparazzi 

outside their windows.

Rising and stumbling towards

their respective windows,

this various assortment of Britons

rubs its multitude of eyes 

and pulls away curtains

to stare out into the 

blackness of East Anglia.

Somewhere 

out there amidst the dark

sits a very glum American

who has left a 

lasting impression

(however cryptic)

upon the dozy minions 

of England.

Ó2000 Jack David Hubbell