...Options...

I suppose there comes a time 

when you're sitting there 

looking at what's offered, 

knowing you have to pick 

the cheapest thing on the menu. 

 

It's not a matter of what you'd like. 

It's not a matter of "Gee,

what would taste good right now?" 

When it comes to making 

your selection from the menu, 

it's not the contents that 

your eyes are allowed to scan. 

 

No. Your options 

are there on the far right 

where the price list is located. 

 

Starting at the top, your eyes 

sweep to the bottom, 

in search of a price that matches 

the assorted change in your pocket. 

 

You come to ignore values 

that obviously equate to 

coffee or orange juice, 

for what are those 

but luxury add-ons? 

 

No. 

Value can be summed up to 

just what on the menu matches 

the weight in your pocket and yet 

still fills that cavity inside your gut. 

 

When pockets spill forth empty, 

what truly amounts to luxury 

in a life condemned ascetic? 

Is it solitude? 

Absolute obliterating solitude? 

Can there be any more than this?

 

No. There are other options. 

With cavity half empty/half full, 

you make your way to the exit, 

where a wintry embrace awaits you. 

Out there, solitude equals death. 

A penultimate option of which 

you may not be ready yet. 

 

There at the end of the block 

sits the Open Door Mission. 

Here within, you will again find options. 

Options that come with prices. 

Prices that have nothing to do 

with the weight in your pocket 

but rather, the weight of your soul. 

 

There at the Mission there are 

luxuries and essentials. 

For you, the main essential is warmth. 

The luxury to have the stillness of 

one lone area where you can 

lie down upon a cot and pretend 

you and your half-empty cavity 

   are still you. 

Your spiritual deposit... paid in full. 

Yes, the check's in the mail, 

though the balance of

your faith account 

may just bounce. 

 

Until then, there remain options. 

One, the chilly walk 

from this exit door to

that one in the distance, 

and in that interim solitude, 

you can only hope that

you won’t be distracted 

by all the exit options 

beckoning 

along the way. 

 

Ó04 Jack David Hubbell

 

 

    ...My Dead-End Life...

Everywhere I go, 

     I see condoms. 

 

Now I’m not complaining 

   mind you. 

I mean, there’s a whole 

industry out there that 

condom production supports. 

All those men and women 

standing at one of them there 

condom extrusion machines 

have mouths at home to feed. 

 

Yes, I am sensitive to all that. 

It’s just… 

It’s just that a guy has goals. 

You want to be something. 

I want to be something. Me? 

I’m just tired of all the dying. 

 

Okay. 

Perhaps I haven’t 

explained myself very well. 

You see… 

I’m a sperm. 

 

Well, you see, there’s me, 

and then there’s me as a sperm. 

It’s a past life regression thing. 

 

Oh, I could have been

   a Neanderthal. 

Could have been a 

   slave on a roman galley. 

Could have been 

Marilyn Monroe. 

Could have been 

Johnny Wad. 

But no. I’m 

just the wad. 

Or let’s say 

one of the wad anyway. 

 

Past life?

You know, I would have settled 

for the life memories of 

a road kill marsupial, 

but hypnotize me and 

I go no further back 

than a big bulbous body 

with a long lanky tail. 

 

It just ain’t fair. 

I could have been 

one of the sperm 

who went on to make 

something out of himself. 

I could have been somebody. 

I could have been a contender. 

 

But again, no. 

My lifespan is over 

pretty fuckin’ quick 

   [pardon the pun], 

and it ends up being me and 

about one million other losers 

doin’ the sidestroke;

   swimming in circles. 

And all I’ve come to see 

is one big dick and a

translucent latex barrier. 

 

So, okay. 

This was my dead-end past, 

yet I’m still curious. 

Post prophylactic, 

can anybody out there

tell me about a priapic

punctured future? 

 

Anyone been 

beyond 

the barricade? 

 

Ó04 Jack David Hubbell

 

 

    ...Lord Byron Blues...

She was waiting for Lord Byron 

with an axe there in her hand. 

She was contemplating mayhem, 

should he pull up in the van. 

 

She was a dancer down at Club Foot 

when Lord Byron brought her shame. 

Half-sister loved a brother-man, 

and Augusta was her name. 

 

Transgressor, not deceiver... 

Each embrace love's true believer, 

for such guilt belongs to neither, 

yet grants fever should he leave her. 

 

And the van shall not arrive for 

lack of want or want for grease. 

Sweet Augusta's axe grows duller 

as her lover makes his peace. 

 

And yet she waits there for Lord Byron 

though he's gone to Miss Olonghi, 

with his face down muddy waters; 

breathing deep of Mississippi. 

 

Yea, transgressor, not deceiver... 

Each embraced love's true believer, 

for such guilt belonged to neither.

Granted him fever 

when he chose 

to leave her. 

 

©04 Jack David Hubbell

 

   ...Grope Good Gracious...

Presently, 

Giant Squid are copulating 

in the deep dark recesses of the ocean. 

 

Oh, you can’t see it 

but you know it’s going on, 

and well… 

That shit gets me hot! 

Tentacles, man. 

We’re talking tentacles. 

We’re talking the ultimate embrace. 

 

And is it so wrong 

that I should want this? 

That I should want 

such volume of embrace? 

That I desire someone to 

hold me in their arms 

with such loving intensity 

as to make my eyes bulge out? 

 

Oh yes, but 

it’s eye bulging in a good way, 

and yes again, 

there would be some pain involved. 

At least it’s the embrace that’s painful 

and not the lack of it. 

 

Slimy tentacle or not, 

you will have touched me, 

and I would far more relish 

the pain of your presence 

than that of you moving away from me. 

 

Come hither my love 

for I have a crush on you,  

and it’s a crush times ten times two 

‘cause that’s the way we squid do it. 

 

And oh, by the way, 

there will be some 

groping involved. 

 

Ó04 Jack David Hubbell

 

   ...Mercury Vapor...

Precisely what sort of light is it 

   which kills us? 

Lo, but that I have 

the mind of a moth and 

such question illuminati 

   confuses me.

 

The mind of a moth, 

   yet not a moth, 

yet drawn to the flame. 

The mind of a moth, 

I navigate by way of the moon. 

 

Indeed, such navigation is my nature, 

yet were you to ask my destination, 

am I wrong to in turn ask why 

you’ve chosen to change the subject? 

 

What does that have to do 

   with the night? 

What does that have to do 

   with the moon? 

 

Nocturnal/Narcotic. 

The mind of a moth 

   relative 

to the flame. 

Good night narcotic. 

Ahhh… and is not 

an incandescent bulb 

just as sufficient for navigation 

as the distant moon? 

 

What need have I for destination 

when a warm incandescent hum 

is mere inches away? 

 

Nocturnal/Narcotic. 

With the mind of a moth 

I navigate the incandescent until 

the glow of the filament wanes, 

then fly off in search 

of each and every 

consecutive lamp post. 

 

Narcotic/Necrotic. 

With the mind of a moth, 

I come to acknowledge that 

my final destination is to 

lie motionless beneath 

the searing heat of a

mercury vapor street lamp. 

 

Nocturnal/Narcotic/Necrotic.

I knew where 

the moon was,

but simply did not care. 

 

Ó04 Jack David Hubbell