...Opposable Thumbs...

I have come to the conclusion

that my dog is an atheist. 

Oh, I’ve suspected it 

for some time now, but

as opposed to us humans,

they really have no motivation

to debone dogmatic matters.

Hey, they’re dogs.

Number ten on their maxed-out

meter of shame amounts to

doing something bad on the carpet.

 

No. In truth,

the first eye-opener to my dog’s

metaphysical leanings

had to do with light switches.

“Light switches?” you say?

 

Okay. 

Relative to my dog,

I’m pretty smart, but

this is not to say my dog is stupid.

It’s just that I   have opposable thumbs,

and of course get all the

intelligence that goes with said thumbs.

For instance,

I can utilize said thumb 

to flick a light switch

and have a pretty good idea as to

what’s gonna happen when I do.

 

Me?    I’m sorta 

beyond being impressed,

but, the dog?

Well...    Let’s say 

I’m standing there in a dark room,

but can still see well enough to

tell that the dog has wandered in

and is standing mid-carpet, looking at me.

When I step to the light switch and throw it,

suddenly transforming this room 

into that awash with light,

what I expect from the dog is,

“Whoa! Hey!

What the...?

How did that hap...?

Did you do that?”

And yet...     nothing.

Business as usual.

A slight hint of a tail wag and 

   there nothing more.

 

I kinda figure that this moment

has been my chance to play deity

and bring forth unto dog...   light!

“Look dog.    Light.

Aaaand,    no light!”

Off. On. 

Off. On.

And all the dog does

is blink his eyes.

 

There is no miracle here.

This dog is not amazed.

Instead, I rather think

the dog is putting on airs that 

he knows something I don’t, 

and before too much 

canine vanity kicks in,

I give him a quick rebuke of,

“Oh yea buddy?

Well you don’t even have thumbs!”

And with that,

I throw the switch for the final time

and plunge his world into darkness.

 

When morning comes, I find him

sitting at the end of the bed

staring at me.

I roll out of bed,

open the window shade,

and am momentarily blinded

by the glare of the sun

upon far horizon.

Now, I know it is simply 

a matter of earth rotation that 

makes night transition to day.

There’s nothing special about it,

and yet... 

I would like to be amazed.

 

Right now, just at this moment,

I would like to see something special

from this shaft of light now 

streaming through the window.

Yes, as the dog and I

sit bathed in sunshine,

here on the edge of the bed,

it would say allot

if that glowing orb out there

would toggle off and on

a couple of times.

 

And yet it doesn’t.

All it does is slowly rise.

Rise and increase in intensity.

Indeed, it becomes so bright

that it causes the blink of my eyelids,

and during said moment of blink,

I acknowledge that the sun

has vanished and reappeared.

 

And the question remains:

did the sun covertly toggle

during those moments of blinking blind

or remain as steady as 

its heat upon my face?

 

And while this guy

with the opposable thumbs

sits waiting for divine response,

the dog jumps down

and there saunters off into the 

deep dark bowels of the house

in search of un-soiled carpet.

 

Ó05 Jack David Hubbell

 

    ...Channel Cat...

Channel Cat. 

Now what a great name 

for a fish is that, huh? 

Great fish.    

Great taste. 

A damn tough species of fish 

whose overall best feature is their 

imperviousness to any toxic quality 

inherent to bubble bath. 

 

Yessiree. 

A catfish is pretty much 

immune to the effects of sudsy water, 

and to me this is relatively important 

as practically all of my bubble-baths 

are accompanied with the presence of 

two or three of these 

glorious bottom feeders. 

 

Of course, there are times 

when I don’t take bubble-baths, 

and on these rare occasions, 

I bathe sans channel cat 

‘cause there’s nothing grosser than 

looking down into that clear water 

and seeing your 

disgusting pink bulbous torso 

mingling with such a 

visually transcendent array of 

aquatic pisciforms. 

So ultimately,

no bubble-bath; 

no fish. 

 

Okay, now I know what you’re 

thinking at this precise moment. 

You’re saying to yourself, 

“Hey. What about carp?” 

 

Well, I’ll tell you. 

I’ve tried it.

And although carp 

are totally adaptable to 

the presence of bubble-bath, 

take it from me, 

don’t try it. 

Carp are entirely 

too temperamental 

to share a bath with. 

 

Man. You drop an assortment of 

three pronged fishing lures 

into that bubble-bath water; 

a carp goes and 

starts getting energetic on ya… 

You are gonna be inna’ 

hydro-world o’ hurt. 

 

No. 

The docile Channel Cat 

is the way to go. 

As any bubble-bath 

fishy aficionado will tell you, 

you don’t dangle your worm in 

just any tepid water. 

 

And oh yea… 

 

Barracuda? 

 

Don’t even go there. 

 

©05 Jack David Hubbell

   ...I’m a Phuqin’ Poet...

You know, 

it hasn’t been easy 

living the life of a global 

multi-media superstar. 

Yea.

I could have lived the life of 

the common people. 

I could have been just like all of you 

     little people. 

Oh, and I don’t mean to be 

condescending but, 

you are what you are. 

I, on the other hand, 

am a 

poet.

 

Sure.

You got your celebrities. 

You got your rock musicians. 

You got your football heroes. 

You got your porn stars. 

But there… 

There at the top of the heap… 

Like a cultural black hole, 

sucking in all your adoration… 

It’s me. 

The Po-et! 

 

Oh yes, I abound with poet groupies. 

Hell. You don’t think 

Charles Bukowski got laid in his prime? 

Yo! Dig out a photo. 

That’s one ugly some-bitch! 

 

Oh sure. 

Sure.

I could have downgraded my 

aspirations one notch and 

become a porn star, 

but who do you think gets more sex, huh? 

Yep.

That’s right. 

The porn star. 

 

I…  wha…? 

 

Fuck!

I knew I made the wrong career choice. 

 

Ó05 Jack David Hubbell

   ...Goo From Me To You...

Normally, 

I am quite free with my bodily fluids. 

Perfectly willing to share 

with almost anyone. 

But then there came a time in my life 

when I found out that certain women 

possessed a hidden agenda when 

it came to one specific emission. 

Nasty viscous fluid indeed. 

 

Nope. 

You don’t want any of this 

inya, onya or around ya. 

 

Oh yes. 

That’s right. 

We’re talking about snot. 

 

Horrid stuff,   snot.

Just my opinion here, but 

I’d venture to bet 

most women find it repulsive. 

And those women 

who don’t find it repulsive 

are found repulsive by those who do. 

Yes. Yet another ugly form of prejudice. 

 

So, I guess you’d have to say 

that snot is an acquired taste, 

and it doesn’t matter whether 

it’s Brad Pitt’s snot or not, 

women still don’t want to be around it. 

 

  [Wait. There’s more.]

 

Okay. 

Let’s talk about love. 

Love and viruses. 

Same, yet different. 

 

In my life, I’ve been loved. 

At this precise moment I am loved. 

And when I’m loved, 

I’d like to think I’m loved completely. 

All of me. 

Every aspect of me. 

Every nuance. 

 

When I get sick… 

When the virus invades, mutates, 

and becomes one with me… 

My Love… 

My Love cares for me. 

Me and the virus that is me. 

 

But… 

But should I blow my nose… 

If I, the one she loves, 

fills a tissue to the brim 

and overflowing with 

virulent chocked snot… 

You think my anti-snot sweetie’s 

   gonna’ pick it up? 

 

To love… 

To love or 

snot to love? 

That 

   is the question. 

 

Ó05 Jack David Hubbell

 

   ...Forever Falling...

At what age do we learn 

the concept of trust? 

Or perhaps it is more 

appropriate to ask, 

at what age do we learn 

the existence of doubt? 

 

There at the table 

adjacent to mine, 

a great-grandmother 

holds her great-granddaughter. 

Just a baby, 

the granddaughter is a frail thing which 

thrusts its tiny legs out in 

an ever ecstatic attempt to stand. 

 

The grandmother holds the child 

with her liver-spotted fingers wrapped 

around a delicate ribcage, 

and brings its porcelain face 

close up to hers. 

Now perhaps it’s an attempt 

to get the child use 

to the concept of balance 

and with that,

the act of standing, 

but periodically 

her hands release their grip, 

the child begins to fall away from her. 

And there from the doting 

great-grandmother’s mouth 

come the words, 

“I’m gonna drop ya.” 

 

And as the child is falling… 

    There just at the last moment, 

the ancient hands 

quickly close back in  

to cease its fall 

towards the harsh reality 

   of the floor below. 

 

And there it stands. 

And there it begins its fall again. 

And there those 

same threatening words, 

“I’m gonna drop you. 

    I’m gonna drop you.” 

 

And again and again 

these words are made 

in a strangely playful 

taunting fashion. 

Yes indeed, 

she makes good on her threat. 

She does release her grip. 

Indeed that doe-eyed child 

experiences the fall, 

   but not the fall. 

 

And I ask myself, 

“What message 

is being conveyed here?” 

 

Now, I do not deny that 

this grandmother 

loves her grandchild, 

but why the macabre verbiage? 

Why this macabre action? 

 

I will acknowledge  

the baby’s vocabulary likely 

does not allow comprehension 

of the phrase,

“I’m gonna drop you,” 

but from the look of 

astonishment on its face, 

there’s a chance 

it understands the 

intent of that 

prune face above it 

spouting gibberish. 

 

How can there not be a form of 

deep-set Freudian trauma 

instilled into an infant 

at such moments within 

their primordial soup 

emotional programming? 

 

Well, it may just be that that child 

will turn out okay. 

Heck, it just may be that 

both you and I

had a grandparent, an aunt, 

a mother, or father 

who did this exact same routine. 

And we all turned out okay, 

    now     didn’t we? 

 

When I married my wife, 

there was that part 

where I stood there before her 

and said,    “I do.” 

 

Yes, indeed, I said that, 

but what I meant to say is, 

“I’m going to let you down.” 

 

Indeed, she may 

have heard me say, 

 

“I will let you fall.”  

 

And after all this time, 

there my wife still sits. 

Still adoring me. 

Somehow figuring 

the falling in love part 

has always been worth 

the constant fall.      

 

©05 Jack David Hubbell