If You Don’t Move…
“If you don’t move, you won’t get stung.”
And he says this with such authority.
“And what would you know?”
I respond with a sneer.
Well, not with a sneer actually.
To be perfectly honest, I said nothing,
but on the inside,
I was seething with attitude.
And yet, seeing that
I was a young boy and
this was my father,
it was all best left unsaid.
I suppose there is a lot of
quality activities you can do as a sort of
father/son bonding thing,
but raiding one of my dad’s bee hives
was not one of them.

Contrary to what you may see in documentary films,
wearing body suits and mesh hoods is for pussies.
That which does not sting you
too many times,
makes you one bad mo-fo.
Okay, so I guess my dad was the bad mo-fo.
Me? I was keen to embrace my pussy side.
Damn it! I wanted my mesh hood!
Yea, and Kevlar body-armor woulda been nice too.

“If you don’t move, you won’t get stung.”
Don’t know that my dad
may have been making some
deep philosophical statement here.
“Okay ol’ man.
I’m callin your bluff.
We’ll just see who the pussy is!”

[Again, please note that this is what we call
one character’s internal dialogue.
I had already begun my
non-moving at his point by
non-moving my lips.
That is except for some
quivering present in the lower one.]


Look pa. Look. I
am at one with the landscape.
Absolutely stationary.
Why, I could be a great big flower for all you know.
Yea. And what do flowers attract?
Let’s just say that my entire body
was a stem rising from the ground;
my head, a crown of petals.
My ears succulent pistils; my
mop of hair, that irresistible stamen.

“If you don’t move, you won’t get stung.”
Well, hey pops! It appears that
a few of those bees
missed the morning brief.
Dare say dear daddy-O,
my dapper doo has been deemed delectable.
Yes indeed,
the USS Honeycomb Kid is open for business.
Minimal pitch and roll as Admiral Dad
has advised your landing strip
to remain [and I quote]
“Absolutely stationary”.
In absence of running lights,
please use the conveniently provided hair part
to guide your erratic descent.
The scalp zone is for loading and unloading.
If you care to load or unload,
please use the scalp zone.

“If you don’t move, you won’t get stung.”
I ain’t frickin movin’ dad,
but somethin’ in my hair IS!
I’ve come to the conclusion
that though arduous workers,
honeybees have the mental capacity of, say…
honeybees,
and I’m of the opinion there must have been
certain of these bees that
rode the short-bus to Honey High.
Pardon my lament pops, but this
non-nimble nitwit of nectar
now nudging my nappy noggin
need not nettle.
That is to say dad,
I’ve got a bee in my not so bonny bonnet.

“If you don’t move, you won’t get stung.”
Listen up maternal fornicator.
This here kamikaze commando
is currently in the process of
vectoring his payload of ill intent
towards MY precious cranium.
Stick your bowel movement mantra
up your bee brain butt, cause…

And then it happens.
There atop my head:
Slim Pickins drops outta a B52
riding a ten megaton bomb.
There atop my head:
A mortally wounded John Wayne
staggers into the Alamo’s gunpowder room.
There atop my head:
James Cagney yells
“Top of the world, Ma!”
and dies in a blaze of White Heat.

Yea, well… Some
non-moving movie metaphor
is being conveyed here
but I’m damned if I understand what it is.

But yo little buddy.
I feel your pain and am moved to tears.
You might even say I’m moved to perform a
“Sympathy for the Honeybee” dance.
Yea. Imma movin’ and
Imma gyratin’.
And all to the sweet musical accompaniment
of my father’s empathy laced
laughter.

Yea. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet.

Sweet as phuqin honey.

©06 Jack Hubbell