Saturday, December 02, 2006
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.
Naw.
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
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.
Naw.
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
Utopia
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
“utopia”.
To each his own,
and he certainly owns this one.
Not that it’s something he purchased.
No, this utopia was
acquired.
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.
Utopia?
A word which translates as
“no-place”.
A noun which interprets as
“nowhere”.
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
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
“utopia”.
To each his own,
and he certainly owns this one.
Not that it’s something he purchased.
No, this utopia was
acquired.
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.
Utopia?
A word which translates as
“no-place”.
A noun which interprets as
“nowhere”.
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
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Aphasia
I have moments of confusion.
Moments when say…
I lose my train of automobile and
plain of existential what-the-fuck.
I stammer.
I stutter.
I speak in tongues with a mouthful of
depression compression suppress
shun all conversa…tion.
Aphasia.
Aphasia is a partial or total loss of
the ability to articulate ideas of any form.
It is mostly caused by brain damage of some sort.
Pretty cool, huh?
Wanna be a poet?
Lookin to put together some creative word couplets?
Gotta get yourself a load o’ brain damage.
Aphasia on a hoagie bun,
extra cortex sans syntax and
hold the mayo clinic.
In my lifetime, I’ve been knocked unconscious twice.
That is, twice that I know of.
Could have been more or less more,
or less than that.
I’ll never be able to give you an
absolute response on that
since an unknown portion of my brain
is tapioca pudding.
I’ve been trying to ascertain
how the presence of brain damage
might manifest itself but
nothing comes to mind.
“Nothing comes to mind.”
Get it? Oh, I
do amuse myself at times.
Do you think brain damage is funny?
Well… Not the
railroad-spike-in-the-cranium mega-ouch part.
Geez! I’m talking ‘bout
all the silly things that transpire in the
funhouse reality that surfaces later.
Like…
Like when I come walking out of the toilet,
and let’s say aphasia steps forth
right about the time I was
supposed to have tucked myself in and
zipped up the ol’ fly.
Course, I wouldn’t know,
and after a good chuckle, you
stride across the room to
initiate a conversation with something
pertinent like:
“Hey Jack.
You ever been knocked out?”
This coded question would
instantly enable a
good portion of my brain to
jump the pudding gap and
communicate with some
other semi-functional area.
With this,
I would instantly zip my fly and then tuck.
Or is that tuck first, then zip?
Zip/Tuck? Tuck/Zip?
Frickin aphasia is a frickin curse
if you get my frickin meaning.
Ultimately,
the point I’m trying to make here is… um… uh…
What?
What are you looking at?
Is my pudding showing again?
©06 Jack Hubbell
I have moments of confusion.
Moments when say…
I lose my train of automobile and
plain of existential what-the-fuck.
I stammer.
I stutter.
I speak in tongues with a mouthful of
depression compression suppress
shun all conversa…tion.
Aphasia.
Aphasia is a partial or total loss of
the ability to articulate ideas of any form.
It is mostly caused by brain damage of some sort.
Pretty cool, huh?
Wanna be a poet?
Lookin to put together some creative word couplets?
Gotta get yourself a load o’ brain damage.
Aphasia on a hoagie bun,
extra cortex sans syntax and
hold the mayo clinic.
In my lifetime, I’ve been knocked unconscious twice.
That is, twice that I know of.
Could have been more or less more,
or less than that.
I’ll never be able to give you an
absolute response on that
since an unknown portion of my brain
is tapioca pudding.
I’ve been trying to ascertain
how the presence of brain damage
might manifest itself but
nothing comes to mind.
“Nothing comes to mind.”
Get it? Oh, I
do amuse myself at times.
Do you think brain damage is funny?
Well… Not the
railroad-spike-in-the-cranium mega-ouch part.
Geez! I’m talking ‘bout
all the silly things that transpire in the
funhouse reality that surfaces later.
Like…
Like when I come walking out of the toilet,
and let’s say aphasia steps forth
right about the time I was
supposed to have tucked myself in and
zipped up the ol’ fly.
Course, I wouldn’t know,
and after a good chuckle, you
stride across the room to
initiate a conversation with something
pertinent like:
“Hey Jack.
You ever been knocked out?”
This coded question would
instantly enable a
good portion of my brain to
jump the pudding gap and
communicate with some
other semi-functional area.
With this,
I would instantly zip my fly and then tuck.
Or is that tuck first, then zip?
Zip/Tuck? Tuck/Zip?
Frickin aphasia is a frickin curse
if you get my frickin meaning.
Ultimately,
the point I’m trying to make here is… um… uh…
What?
What are you looking at?
Is my pudding showing again?
©06 Jack Hubbell
Two Loves, Two Hearts, Two Bloods
Within a lifetime of Valentines,
will it have been said that
all the personal encounters
dealt to us throughout the years,
were optimistic or
pessimistic as to all the
intricacies of that
which we came to know of as romance?
Holding forth our court of
harlequins and jesters,
a myriad of stained somas
pour out their bosoms into the
Queen of Hearts
outstretched hand.
Shuffling through them,
all are reduced to characters as
two dimensional as paper,
for indeed they
are paper.
Of course Valentines Day
was always conveyed to us
through childhood and into our teens
as a time in which we were given
carte blanche to communicate some
deep and cherished kinship we had with
another human being.
All this and dare I say,
something called love.
As a young child,
having received a card from
each and every one of our peers
quite simply translated to acceptance.
Think back to your own self during this time period
and consider the trauma that
would have occurred
had you received nothing.
Perhaps now it seems minor,
but back then it was a
major psychological event.
Have things changed?
Do we as adults now shrug off such
petty adolescent pangs?
As adults,
it is now not so much about
receiving a card from someone,
but rather,
simply having someone, for
to approach such a holiday and be alone,
is a massive amplification to the fact that
we have failed in matters of the heart.
Everyone wishes to be adored
and to want it and yet not be,
brings us pain.
How can this pain be defined?
It is not easily done, yet
most of us know how it feels.
To verbalize it is another matter.
Strangely, we do all seem to know
were the pain originates,
and that place lies buried
there within our chests.
If upon being born,
we were never told that
throughout history the
heart was conceived to be
where our deepest emotions were held,
would we not have come to this conclusion ourselves?
Were it that only emotions
could damage such fragile hearts;
that platonic encounters
were the only means of their destruction.
Venus, goddess of love,
brings us not only rapture
but also visceral annulment.
And now,
via the passing of
one blood into another,
a living rust is conveyed to
a heart that desired love,
but ultimately got its valentine
from a tainted envelope.
©95 Jack Hubbell
Within a lifetime of Valentines,
will it have been said that
all the personal encounters
dealt to us throughout the years,
were optimistic or
pessimistic as to all the
intricacies of that
which we came to know of as romance?
Holding forth our court of
harlequins and jesters,
a myriad of stained somas
pour out their bosoms into the
Queen of Hearts
outstretched hand.
Shuffling through them,
all are reduced to characters as
two dimensional as paper,
for indeed they
are paper.
Of course Valentines Day
was always conveyed to us
through childhood and into our teens
as a time in which we were given
carte blanche to communicate some
deep and cherished kinship we had with
another human being.
All this and dare I say,
something called love.
As a young child,
having received a card from
each and every one of our peers
quite simply translated to acceptance.
Think back to your own self during this time period
and consider the trauma that
would have occurred
had you received nothing.
Perhaps now it seems minor,
but back then it was a
major psychological event.
Have things changed?
Do we as adults now shrug off such
petty adolescent pangs?
As adults,
it is now not so much about
receiving a card from someone,
but rather,
simply having someone, for
to approach such a holiday and be alone,
is a massive amplification to the fact that
we have failed in matters of the heart.
Everyone wishes to be adored
and to want it and yet not be,
brings us pain.
How can this pain be defined?
It is not easily done, yet
most of us know how it feels.
To verbalize it is another matter.
Strangely, we do all seem to know
were the pain originates,
and that place lies buried
there within our chests.
If upon being born,
we were never told that
throughout history the
heart was conceived to be
where our deepest emotions were held,
would we not have come to this conclusion ourselves?
Were it that only emotions
could damage such fragile hearts;
that platonic encounters
were the only means of their destruction.
Venus, goddess of love,
brings us not only rapture
but also visceral annulment.
And now,
via the passing of
one blood into another,
a living rust is conveyed to
a heart that desired love,
but ultimately got its valentine
from a tainted envelope.
©95 Jack Hubbell
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Van Gogh Mono
Can I get a witness
to my mental fitness?
Does the wall
upon my clock
drip with paint?
Is my total being
what the Tic Toc Man is fleeing?
Does the harlequin
within me
see its fate?
Does the pendulum that's swinging
see the fluid time it's flinging,
'cross the landscape
that makes up
my mental state?
I see my world turn yellow
with a charcoal lifting halo,
for the arc
across the sky
has brought me hate.
Is rejection what I'm fearing?
to be shunned and pushed away?
I've got problems with my hearing.
Cut my ear off yesterday.
Van Gogh
hears
in mono.
Everybody samba!
©90 JDH
Can I get a witness
to my mental fitness?
Does the wall
upon my clock
drip with paint?
Is my total being
what the Tic Toc Man is fleeing?
Does the harlequin
within me
see its fate?
Does the pendulum that's swinging
see the fluid time it's flinging,
'cross the landscape
that makes up
my mental state?
I see my world turn yellow
with a charcoal lifting halo,
for the arc
across the sky
has brought me hate.
Is rejection what I'm fearing?
to be shunned and pushed away?
I've got problems with my hearing.
Cut my ear off yesterday.
Van Gogh
hears
in mono.
Everybody samba!
©90 JDH
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