Barb’s Beaver
Barbara is hanging by her knees
upside down on the monkey bars.
Oh, and I’d like to point out
she’s wearing a dress.
And here on this vast spinning globe
of which we normally stand upright,
there are magnetic properties
which translate to gravity.
And it is interesting to note what these
said properties
have done to the hem of Barb’s skirt.

Of course she and I and
all the other guys standing there studying
the manifestation of this earth’s affects
upon that at the surface are not
at the moment
contemplating aspects of Newtonian Law.
No. Such terrestrial force permutations have
yet to be covered
up on our classroom chalkboard, but
were the teacher to use what’s transpiring
up on the monkey bars as
applied laboratory,
he would be certain to have an
overly rapt audience.
Indeed, though the concept of gravity
has yet to be covered in our current curriculum,
we are fascinated.
This is precisely the sort of
illustrative science
that keeps boys alert and pumping away
at their normally tedious school studies.

Barb? Barb’s dress looks
kinda funny this way.
This likeness of Barbness is just… well…
unnatural.
Um… disturbing comes to mind.
Yes, we boys were being disturbed.
But… you know…
Not that we could force ourselves to
look away.
Oh yea. And I’d like to point out that
what with Barb’s current bodily orientation,
you could see her underwear
and they were… and…
oh my god!
You’re not going to believe this…
They were white!

Well okay...
Allot of girls wore white underwear back then,
but you see, that
is exactly my point!
Yo! You weren’t supposed to
see a girl’s underwear.
Oh, here now, so many years hence,
with post horny hindsight,
I will acknowledge there was
something of particular interest
underneath all that pristine whiteness
but again, that’s now.
Back then it was just about catching a glimpse of
bleached white cotton.

You see, there was no pudenda.
There was no punanee.
No P-U-S-S- Y.
Oh, this might have been about sex but
most certainly not the act of sex.
Intercourse?
What the fuck was fuck?

Upperclassmen… you know…
Fourth and fifth graders…
They’d informed us that
the correct lexicon for what we were ogling
was properly defined as “Beaver”.
Thusly elucidated and ever so below the hip hip,
we now knew enough to say,
“Wow! Look at that beaver!”
and “Yep.
That’s a pretty nice beaver all right.
Thanks for the heads up.”

Of course, it was a pretty surreal image
trying to somehow make the bizarre connection
between white cotton panties
and a big brown aquatic rodent.
Mighty cerebral stuff but
if our peers said “beaver” then
who were we to argue their eloquence?
“Beaver. Beaver. Beaver.” You know.
Sorta springs from the tip of the tongue
just like it was always meant to be there.

All of this brings to mind that time Barb and I
were out on the playground and
an argument ensued.
There came a moment when Barb’s anger
built to a climax and there
in an effort to demonstrate her disgust at my
inability to comprehend her
impassioned point of view,
she lifted her skirt
and with one hand doing a sort of
faux scratching motion at her um…
whited out area,
exclaimed, “Big Hairy Ape!”

I and all the other boys were dumbfounded.
We were rendered speechless at her
somewhat incoherent connection of
all that glorious white, and
a fur clad simian.
But… and this is an important point…
Barb won the argument.
She had used her crotch to dominate us,
and oh so dominate us she did.

Yes, but back here in the present moment,
Barb is currently hanging upside down
from monkey bars whilst we blithering idiots
stand there jaws agape
like the hairy apes that we are.

Oh, I’d like to think that years from now,
we as grown men will have changed.
That horizontal monkey bars
will not have transformed to
vertical poles on dimly lit stages.
That the act of a scantily clad woman
clinging to a chromed erection
will hold no sway over our manly intellects.

Yes, I’d like to think that.
I want to think that.
But… We are weak,
and that which hangs from poles…
strong.
No. No.
Never underestimate
the mind numbing power
of beaver.

©07 Jack Hubbell

Beating Dead Poets
(for Fun and Profit)

You may not have realized it but the literary rapture has already come and gone. Oh, and by the way, some of you didn’t make the cut. Indeed, you missed that divine A-Train Ascension to deity status. Missed your chance to sit just to the right of He who controls the almighty microphone. Granted, some supplicants make it, but of course there are all those lesser scribes left behind. Left to shamble from shadow to shadow; stage to stage; coffee house to coffee house. And just listen to their lamentations: “Excuse me. Um…excuse me. Could you put my name on the list? Any chance I could read tonight?”
I guess you could say that ‘divinity’ (or lack thereof) might be a metaphor for the performance poetry scene here in Nebraska, but it sure conveys a bitter assessment. And lo, but when you’ve come to accept your lot in life, who’s to say you don’t enjoy your sub-seraphim designation? “Dude! Listen. I didn’t even get on the list! I’m sooo far more ‘beat’ than you will ever be!” And with that, it’s pretty easy to grab your beret, bongos and bottle of sour grape, slink away into a dark corner, and self indulge a mighty fine whine.
Okay. Granted, that was a piss-poor ‘Beat’ analogy. Let’s try again.
Before I step too far into a critique of performance poetry, I feel it is important to acknowledge the existence of poets who have never stood before a microphone, and possess no intent at ever doing so. Poets who are perfectly happy to have their outpour of inner thought exist upon paper without delusion that anyone would ever care to utter it aloud. For instance, some single mother who’s only intended audience is the future eyes of that adult her daughter or son will one day become. Or more sadly, that office clerk who upon his death will have an entire unseen life’s verse tossed into a dumpster. A legacy destined for landfill.
At least those of us who once stood upon stage will have had our voices heard, but please note that, listened to is an entirely different matter. Whether our presence was actually noted by those at assorted tables, shuffling their own stack of poems, is the true gauge of just how truly visible or invisible you are. Am I the only one to note how you can walk away from the stage to a round of courtesy applause and still wonder at whether my words have actually registered?
Slam poetry versus straight open mic. There. I’ve said it. Lines are formed; factions joined. Oh, we stand there smiling at each other, but full well know that everybody in attendance has their pockets full of rocks.
Permit me a further caustic clarification by way of cold war simile.
Slam Poetry? Slam Poetry is like Capitalism, whereas with straight open mic, you’ve got Socialism.
‘Isms’ in poetry? Here. Let me elucidate you. You’ve got your poets. You’ve got your coffeehouse. You’ve got your alpha-poet and coffeehouse owner who in the tradition of Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, come to the epiphany of “Hey! Let’s put on a show!” They let their presence be known and like bugs to a porch light, the tables are soon laminated with sheaves of poems all angled and arrayed perpendicular towards mecca. And yes, Mecca in this case is better pronounced ‘microphone’.
Will you get your chance to stand before that mic and face the crowd? Well, your name was put on the list wasn’t it? The Earth rotates and our Sun consistently rises upon distant horizon. You put your name on the list; your horizon at the mic is inevitable. Do you deserve to be up there? Well of course. This is Socialism. We are all the same. There is no good. There is no bad. This is not to say the audience won’t experience some amazing poetry transpiring there at the mic. It will. It will also experience mind numbing banality. It will experience excruciating discomfort. Some of that by way of a well written poem done well. Some of that by a very bad poem done poorly. It will be a manic depressive bi-polar roller coaster ride that pretty much mirrors life, and if you ain’t up for that, then you have to wonder whey you’re involved in poetry at all.
Now in contrast, walk across the street into the Capitalist world of Slam Poetry and everything is Rodeo Drive. Or perhaps Wal-Mart. Pick your analogy. Glitz or bargain bin, these poems have mass market appeal. This is America after all and by God, the customer is always right. At a Slam event, every poet is a commodity and that audience out there is all about assessing value.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! What would you give for this fine set of three minute stone washed jeans?” And there in the front row we have a query. “Um… Is that Kerouc denim or W.H. Auden? Bukowski or e. e. cumming?” And with a mighty huffing from our emcee, “Sir. Madam. If you have to ask, you can’t afford the ridicule. No matter. We must have your hyper-critical/knee-jerk/astute valuation NOW.”
And let’s face it: in the Capitalist world of Slam Poetry, for one poem to achieve value, some other commodity has to be de-valued, right? You won’t find Jesus or Buddha in the world of Slam Poetry. No meek inheriting the earth. No. This is the realm of Charles Darwin. Capitalist survival of the profit test. Wrap your easily digestible rabid revelation in a three minute package and pray that the stage upon which you display it will provide favorable lighting. Three minutes to shine with full knowledge that every second beyond that limit your poem is exposed to such brutal light, it wilts. At three minute plus one second, Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg succumb to entropy. Alas, a certain literary DNA spiral breaks down and dissolves, and there in the back of the coffeehouse, someone raises a stopwatch to proclaim, “Yo, dude and dudette! You suck!” And lo but Walt and Allen satchel their weighty tomes and slink away to hide in the shadows.
In their stead, the fruit of the MTV Generation send forth their token crank cased spark plugs of attention deficit overload to mount the aerie stage. Ecstasy-eyed splice hip-hop tongue tied, they deliver a 9.9 poem at two minutes fifty-nine, and somewhere deep underground Edgar Allen Poe cuts the string to his mausoleum’s bell, because he’s pretty damn sure he’s finally dead.
But wait… If I’m gonna name drop Poe, I might as well drop the name dropper of all name droppers: Truman Capote. Wasn’t it he who was not the one to sigh and bluntly lisp, “Um… That ain’t writing. That’s just shouting”?
Well pardon my slam.

©06 Jack Hubbell

The Man From... (Nantucket Part One)
Nantucket.
They have men there
who are incredibly popular.
Well...
one man was,
or so we've been led to believe.
It could be
that he wasn't popular at all,
and that, all this time,
we've been convinced that he was
because we expected this
anatomical aberration of his
to appeal to either sex
who perchance heard of it,
or worse,
encountered it.
Other than his own
auto-gratification
who else would truly benefit?
Isn't it ultimately
a visual scopophilic stimulation
that excites,
with little orifice penetrating benefit
after the initial six inches?
Anything beyond that would often appear
to inflect discomfort as opposed to
some hitherto inexperienced
plateau of pleasure.
The phallic truncheon?
Our icon of the supreme sado-sexual satori?
An ultra-appendage with trauma intent?
Ah...perhaps the misogynist in us all.
The misogynist in man...
The misogynist in woman...
Embrace the blade.
Sheath Nantucket.

©93 Jack Hubbell

Nantucket (Part Two)
Okay. I’m making a ruling.
Enough about this guy from Nantucket.
In my experience,
there’s nothing special about his attributes
or achievements.
Me?
Been doin’ that stuff for years.
Big deal.

Instead, let me tell you about
this man from Uttar Pradesh, India.
Dude was born with two
fully functional penises.
And what does he go and do
but request that one of them
be cut off.

Now I ask you:
Where’s the sense in that?
I mean, where will it all end?
As in getting a tattoo,
it could all get quite addictive.
Get one pecker lanced off,
think to yourself,
“Hey! That was pretty neat.”
And it’s not long before this whole
“cleaning house” aesthetic overtakes you.
“Well, if one less penis is good,
then two less penis’ has got to be great.”

This unique double eunich wannabe
from Uttar Pradesh
really pisses me off in a
non-stereo piss sort of way.
Double chomp chump!
Wanna one wang wanker!

Okay wait…
Let me wax romantic.
And really
this has always been about romance.
Admit it.
You know I was going there.

When you were a frumpy little girl,
didn’t your grandma take you aside
and tell you there would always be that
significant other waiting for your
tender knock on her back door?
But just think of all the female psyches
you will have tromped
on your way to true love?

Indeed, were it you who desired to go
the eunuch route,
why just think of all those girls
lined up around the block with their
pruning shears in hand.
It might just rival the national lottery.

But enough about you.
It’s this wanker times two in Uttar Pradesh
I’m trying to focus on.
Surely there was that moment
when his Gran Mama took him aside
and said,
“Listen Double D”
(as this was the endearing way
she was prone to address him),
“Listen, for every double digit One,
there a double digit Zero.
It’s all mathematics.
You can’t have One without One-not.
And of course you can’t have Two
without Two-not.”
And he slowly nods his head,
though on the inside,
he doesn’t have a clue
what the fuck she’s talking about.

And little does he know but
just at that moment,
there on the far side of the world in, oh,
let’s say someplace obscure like
Omaha, Nebraska,
some girl is born who is special
in a double Zero way.
And she grows to adulthood.
And she’s there waiting for him.
And… And…
Think of the PASSION to be had!
Think of it!
Visualize it!
Oh My God!

But nooooo.
Double Dickhead wants to be a
single dickhead!

And don’t we have enough of those already?

©07 Jack Hubbell

Nantucket Part Three
A phallus sea of cock-dumb nation,
this should live in the anals of history.
Or her story.
Depends on your pointy bit of view or
lack thereof of pointy out bits for viewing.
Confused?
It don’t mean dick!
Here, let me expound on the meat.

In 2006, Chinese surgeons
performed the world’s first penis transplant,
but… now hold on!
Don’t start getting your hopes up for
all those wee willy wankers you hold so endearing.
There were some short comings.

Turns out the patient and his wife
didn’t like this penis and
had it cut back off.
Wait…
Let this settle in for a bit.
Ponder.
Just ponder the heart rending story of…
What the fuck is wrong with these people?!
Don’t you think that if that guy
sitting over there had a choice
between living with what little penis he has
and having no penis at all,
he wouldn’t opt for the ‘with dangle’
as opposed to ‘dangle not’?
And yet… GAH!!!
This couple in China…
They jointly decide “Um… You know…
Were not entirely fond of this particular penis.
Would you mind ever so if you
took it back?”

“Excuse me sir?
You did not like the penis?
You found the penis wanting?”
“Well it’s just that…”
But his wife cuts him off, and
somewhat demurely interjects,
“It’s just that,
we thought there’d be more.”
“More?” queries the surgeon. “How so?”
And to this the unfulfilled wife
rolls her almond eyes and says,
“More. You know.
I was just hoping for…
more.”
And the surgeon thinks to himself,
“Why you ungrateful bitch!
That was a damn, damn, DAMN fine penis!”
[Note that he thinks all this in Chinese.
It’s not at all funny when you hear it in Chinese.
It’s actually kind of sad.]
“Some guy out there…
Some guy gave his all.
I mean, all that’s of importance
that any one guy can give.”

Oh, there’s a chance that someone somewhere
had one penis too many, but
what are the odds of that, huh?
And so… This Chinese couple…
They take that penis for a ride.
Take it around the block as it were.
And for a short time,some other guy
buried in the grave sans pecker
says, “Death is good.
Take my bat and
hit a homer little fella.”

But no. No and nadda.
She says, “It just doesn’t feel right.”
Okay.
So maybe I can see her point of view.
For her, there is an understandable desire
for “more” all the way to infinity.
That she might have a capacity for love
that only a NASA booster rocket could fill.
We can forgive her insatiable appetite for the
almighty mega-meat cleaver but… him?
To have and have not?
To be or not to be?
To have been a wheel absent pedestrian
and then gone 0 to 60, nitrous oxide,
parking lot to Autobahn,
pulsating penile piston plunging passion
and then…
“Nah. I don’t really care for that…
What is that?
Is that a Yugo? No.
Didn’t have an itty bitty Austin Mini in mind either
though, dang if it ain’t sporty and all.
Rather like the racing stripe
running down the length of it, but…
It’s just that the stripe sorta ends
before it really has a chance to get going.”

And then she steps forward and whispers,
“Since we’re talking in extreme metaphor here,
might I politely ask,
are there any Cadillacs parked back there in your freezer?
Don’t mind if that suckers got
a couple a hundred miles on the dial.
Don’t need no super charger under the hood.


No, as long as that engines got a bumpy cam shaft
that can provide the proper timing ala
thump a thump thump…
You know, get those tires to turn
one full revolution forward,
then I’ll license that pecker
and drive it home.
Might even drive it home repeatedly.”

Okay. So we know she has needs, but
what about the husband?
He’s no dummy.
He’s got goals.
Though he’s being a bit of a
non-dick about it all,
he’s got some ballsy intentions.
Indeed, we must admire his
Nantucket ear fuckit aspiration.

Me? Now, were I to kick the proverbial
don’t that suckit bucket,
I’d love to be there for him.
Indeed, there to fulfill his
phallic lick fantasy, but hey…

Rumor has it I’ve spent my life
driving nothing but a boring old Volvo.
Nothing too racy there.
But… (and I mean a big “but”)
What was mine was me,
and even in death,
I’d like to think I was
rather attached to it.

©07 Jack Hubbell

Nantucket (Part Four)
Okay. It’s been confirmed.
Via scientific research of some sort,
it was recently reported that lesbians
have more orgasms.

I’m gonna be straight up here.
I’m not happy with this.
In fact, I’m sorta depressed.
There is a hypothesis
floating around out there
that we on the male side of the
homo-sapien equation are
insensitive, self-indulgent assholes.
Yes. Some think that.
But I, Fabio that I am,
stand here before you on the verge of tears.

No… Wait…
There just now I started crying.
Oh, but you can’t see it cause we Cro-Magnon
do it on the inside.
Yes. We do it all the time.
It’s just that you are insensitive to
male muy macho emotive fragility.

Lesbians have more orgasms?
How could you?!
How could you do this to us?
Haven’t we always been there for you?
Is there no feature upon us that you
in any way find desirable? No?

And so there we stand,
fresh out of the shower,
toweling down our pathetic
insignificant extremities.
Blubbering fools
we pause to wipe
a large swath of condensation
from the fogged mirror,
and are startled at the sudden appearance
of that which we use to take such pride in.
And now?
Oh you little, little man.
You sad little vienna sausage.
Why, you do not even cast a shadow.
This… [sob]
This is what entropy does to you.

Listen men.
We’ve got to stand up.
We’ve got to rise to the occasion
for we as a
go daddy go go gonad nation
are on the verge of obsolete.
Our testosteroney lonely ponies
are soon to have no saddles cinched
to their buckin’ bronco backs.
What with the power of the genetic clone,
there will soon be no need for
our monkey bars to
spit spumy spermatozoa.

Pay heed to my somber warning.
Two thousand years hence,
the great mothership
(yea, you heard me… MOTHERship!)…
The mothership will return to this spinning nut
to find mankind gone!
Oh… Womankind yes.
We will have womankind.
And those of the mothership will ask the big question.
“So um… These men we’ve heard of…
Just what were they like?”
And the all important answer?
“Who? Whatzat? Oh…
The men you say. [sigh]
We kept them around for awhile to
change tires on cars,
but once we devised ways of transport
beyond big ol’ throbbing dicks-on-wheels,
we pretty much phased them
knuckle-draggers out of business.”

And yet the mega-mammary matrons of the
immaculate mothership
mull the minus of man mislaid.

“So these men,” they coyly ask.
“You have video?”
“Erased it.”
“You have photographs?”
“Burned.”
“You have sculptures?”
“Smashed them all.”
“Oh, but if you’re curious,
there are fossil remains
scattered here and there.”

And so off they go
to dig up a relict of man.
Pulling it forth from the musty ground,
they lay the skeleton next that of a pristine woman’s.
Much deductive analysis later,
they scratch their lofty heads and ask,
“What’s the diff?”
And the women of the Earth respond,
“Trust us.
There was a Yin and
there was a Yang.
This… This before you…
This was man.
And beyond what you see as
some lesser skeletal form, there
was a lot of meat to man. But…
Let’s just say we came to prefer our meat
that of the boneless variety.”

And this men is what orgasms
(or lack there of) did to us.
Lesbians prefer their fish
without those prickly bones.

©07 Jack Hubbell

Leo’s Libido
Much like dogs,
men will lower their voices
when they’re feeling dominant.
Nothing surprising there,
but you might find it of interest
that women prefer men with lower voices.
Especially during those fertile periods
of the menstrual cycle.
Oh yea, and scientists also found
that women preferred these baritones
when it came to brief sexual affairs.
This might explain why my friend Leo
scores more poon tang than I do.

In his youth,
Leo was what you might call a
feral child.
Indeed, the rumor on the street was that at
sixth grade he had already grown hair
down there
on his knuckles.

By second grade he was being asked
to use the men’s toilets,
as it was feared that other boys exposure
to his premature manhood
might cause deep Freudian psycho-trauma.

Baby-sitting for Leo became a costly affair
as it quickly became apparent
his parents would have to hire a third person
to be present as chaperone.
Oh, I see you raise your eyebrows in
confounded disbelief but
when at nine months in,
the third babysitter in row
found herself looking for
her own babysitter, well…
action had to be taken.

The question was:
how do you suppress the rampant libido
of a testicular dynamo
whose every sexual encounter
was the equivalent of
the Yanks hitting Omaha Beach?
Yank after Yank after Yank spewing forth
from waves of turbo charged
amphibious landing craft.
Every woman’s crotch was Normandy
and his phallus
“Operation Overlord”.

Sure, Leo could have been sequestered away
in monastic solitude but
what spiritual mandate of
celibate condom-nation
could hope to tourniquet
his copious fluid passion?

What was it?
What was it that finally curbed Leo’s feral libido?
If his dog was limited
to a defined array of fire hydrants,
what was it that gave us the short leash?

Was it his lifetime subscription to Martha Stewart?
No.
His I Pod hardwired to Barry Mantilow?
No. Then…
what was it?
I’ll tell you what.
At some point in Leo’s seminal life,
some evil son of a bitch introduced him
to poetry.
You heard me right. Po-et-ry!
And just what do you think poetry does
to a man’s sperm count? Hum?


YOU say Leo is the same growling dog he always was.
You say he lifts his leg just like in those days of yore.
That Leo Marks his territory
with every guttural utterance.
And yet all that flows from his pencil is ink.
The lead’s long gone.
This dog
is spade.
This dog
is neutered.
This dog is nutted.
Oh so eunich…tified!

And I?
Because I’m a lesser man,
I cry for Leo.
I sob.
I lament.
He that was in many ways bigger than life-size
(in more ways than one)
has shriveled away to nothing.
And I ask you:
What is poetry but low down squat to pee?

For the sake of all things testosterone,
take away his pen
and give that dog a bone!

©07 Jack Hubbell

Wood
I fall asleep in a weathered Adirondack
to awake and there find a leaf
has fallen into my lap.
Yes, on this spinning clod of earth,
once again, decay has found me.
Oh, not that I’ve been
running from decadence mind you.
Not that I’m running towards it either.
I know my place in the scheme of
all things entropy.

That Adirondack chair I’m sitting in,
could collapse at any moment.
‘Course, any moment
could stretch out to forty years.
It could also occur in the next forty seconds.
Jeez, with this looming doom,
how’s it possible I relaxed my guard
long enough to fall asleep?
Yet sleep I did,
and though I did not dream of trees,
I awake to find this single leaf,
just there; just so.

You know,
I use to wake up with wood in my lap.
Oh, I suppose that still happens
every now and again, but
when I was younger?
I mean almost every morning
I’d wake to wood whether
I was inside or outside.
Exposed or un-exposed.

It was alarming and sometimes embarrassing.
There were times you’d awake to
the gentle nudging of she who shared your bed.
And there upon her face…
wide eyed wonderment as she
pointed to your supine lap
and exclaimed,
“You’ve got wood.”

Yes, truly embarrassing.
All you could think about was,
“Where can I bury this wood?”

Of course, there were those times you’d awake
and swear that someone
had planted a tree in your crotch.
“How the Hell did that get there?!
Man o’ man.
I’m gonna need a couple of extra hands to deal with this.”
But no.
You’re on your own.
Solo o’ mano.

So you grab your axe and
proceed to whack at your wood.
A hard job, but
somebody’s got to do it.
Couple of hours later,
it’s finally down and
with a mighty shout of “Timber!”
it’s safe to be seen in public again.


So many years have past now
and I figure I’ve pretty much
clear-cut my entire forest.
All the mighty Redwoods are long gone
and all that remain are those
ornamental Redbuds.
Still, I covet them.
Never tire of gazing out
from all the shade they provide.
No matter the size,
I am never less than awestruck.

Would that you could pull up an
Adirondack here just beside mine.
Partake of my
last remaining woodland as
it hovers there
just above your head.
And should you fall asleep
to later awake with
one of my leaves upon your lap,
please do not be startled.

Just be happy it’s not my seed,
‘cause what with
all this wood I’ve come to find
throughout the years,
you just know I was bound to get a
nut or two.

©06 Jack Hubbell

Want
It moves towards me.
From a distance,
it is seeking me out.
It is desire of a sort.
It is need.
It is want.

In stark contrast against some
desolate landscape,
a small black period exists
there at the end
of a short life sentence.

Want.
Want makes a sound not unlike
that of a mewing kitten.
And Indeed,
were it that a giant eye
might gaze down from above,
it might observe a tiny jet black kitten
vectoring towards me
from a distance of thirty feet and closing.

I stand in a compound
some twenty miles south of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
Having given you the locale,
you envision desert—
an extreme environment.
And this Arabian desert is the ultimate of
austere arid nothingness.
Again, everything here has a life sentence.
Everything exists to die.

The compound of which I talk
is actually a series of interlocking concrete villas
and sporadic courtyards.
All of this surrounded by chain-link and razor wire.
All of this surrounded by wasteland.
Here inside, each courtyard is its own desert.
Its own failed petri-dish.
But look, each miniature desert
comes complete with the luxury of
two or three withered palm trees.
The gravel, sand and hardpan between them
has been artfully raked into parallel lines.
If you must die here,
please have the common courtesy
not to fall perpendicular to
these precisely defined lines.

In one courtyard we eat.
In another we find the villas where
we eventually come to sleep.
In between are all the courtyards
that make up the span
between here and there.

Fully sated, I am passing from
what I am to what I will be,
there at my final destination.
Along the way, demands are made—
both by me
and of me.
In one of those many courtyards
I encounter “want”.
Here in this vast honeycomb of villas
live a multitude of feral cats.
How this came to be, I don’t know.
An act of god?

Don’t get me started.

We are told that in this colony of cats,
there is the existence of rabies.
We are told to have no contact with these
feral felines whatsoever.
We are told that.
And here in this desert
there is that which thrives
and that which dies.

“Want” does not exist
though some apparition of it
continues to move towards me.
Abandoned by its mother,
this tiny black mewing kitten
should have been claimed by the desert
one week ago,
and yet some life-form…
Some thing we know
which walks on two legs,
has passed this way before.

Something bipedal gave in
to that which we define as
compassion.
Something upright and human
came to the assumption that
we as a generic species
would all possess
this exact same compassion.
That we as a whole
would always be here
for this one small kitten which
has come to associate us all with sustenance.

Rumor has it that
we are all made in the likeness of our creator.
That all of us possess aspects of
his divine qualities.
Do we?

There now six feet away,
“Want” cries out my name,
but I?
I take two steps back.
I turn and walk away.
And for my final week in this forsaken desert,
I follow a different path home.

©06 Jack Hubbell

Umbilical
The culmination of the pregnancy
was something she thought
best described as
popping a giant zit.
That which had produced the swelling
prior to the popping
was deemed unsightly.
An embarrassing blemish.
That delivered to her crotch
some nine months earlier:
nothing more than…
bacteria.

Is it important to know her
state of mind at that exact moment of
infection?
No. Not really.
That which is irrelevant before the act
is just as irrelevant after.
All you need know is that she
is incapable of love.

And so, this excrement comes to lie
in someone else’s hands.
An easy afterthought,
were it not for the fact it exists…
there at the end
of an umbilical.

“Umbilical”.
Just what the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Are you trying to imply that
it has something to do with motherhood?
Nah. Nah.
Nothing more than an inconvenient tether.
Nah.
Fuck that shit!

And there at the end of an umbilical,
some bacterial life-form
cries out for sustenance.
A sustenance beyond the mere
gratification of nipple.
A sustenance of embrace.
To be enfolded into another’s arms.
Held beating heart
to beating heart.
The desire for an assortment of qualities
gathered under the heading of
what it means to be
a mother.

That which exists at the far end
of the umbilical
has a double X designate.
Chromosome string,
gene to gene,
they are one in the same female.
So very, very alike.

And yet… And yet…
That one which yearns
for nothing more than her mother’s touch,
is seen by the other as… what?
Diseased doppel-ganger?
Nine months of festering tumor,
now on the verge of being lanced.

On one end of the umbilical
is a life-form that once knew love
but now sees only an object of hate.
There on the umbilical opposite,
is that which knows
neither love,
nor hate.
She is a blank slate
in need of… What?
Does it come down to
sustenance?
There at the end of the cord,
a mouth opens and closes,
and with each transition,
the only emotion
it can possibly know
is expressly conveyed.
“Sustain me.
Sustain me.”

And yet… And yet…
The umbilical is severed,
and every external remnant
of mother/daughter
is cleansed away.
Two hands raise, lift, and lower—
mother’s womb
to sterile incubator.

“Sustain me.
Sustain me.”
And there in her mouth she finds it.
Love. Love.
Love is a dummy; a binky.
Love is a pacifier; a rubber nipple.
Love.
Love is right there at hand.
Right up until that very moment
when even your thumb
is denied you.
When even the love of you…
is brutally
taken away.

©06 Jack Hubbell

Below the Belt
Ponder this:
Is it ever appropriate
to strike a man in his testicles?

Now, don’t answer too quickly.
I want you to savor the visual
you have in your head
at this precise moment.
There’s that which you men have pictured
and then that spectacle of testicle trauma
you women have oozing through your brains.
They’re not always the same.
You women simply have not envisioned
a sufficient level of violence.

Try again.
Get mean.
Make a face.
Imagine someone who really deserves it.
This is YOUR moment.
Nope. Nope.
Pathetic attempt.
Girlfriend:
You are soooo lacking in motivation.

Have I ever struck a man in the groin?
Why yes. Yes I have.
Here. Take my hand.
I will lead you to the dark side.
It’s just up these stairs.
There behind my eye sockets.
Nice big comfy chairs where you can
sit back, relax and soak in
all that ultra-violence.

Oh, and being as you’re sharing my inner eyes
and they being prone to disturbed cognizance,
please note that my visual acuity is quite crisp.
Everything is HIGH DEFINITION.
Indeed, I have refrained from alcohol
because I knew you were
gonna wanna see this some day.

Shhh… Quiet now.
The show’s about to start.
I’m getting ready to open my eyes.
I’m at this party, see.

Okay. Turns out the girl we were just…
Wait… Again,
note that I’m including you in this
as you are now part of the decision process
and therefore must share in the guilt.

Anyway…
Turns out the girl we were just hitting on
has a live-in boyfriend.
Big guy. He’s upstairs.
There’s children upstairs.
She just went upstairs because he’s upstairs
and there’s children upstairs.
Course you and I don’t know this is an issue just yet.
Up until now, he’s just a quiet bodybuilder
you’ve seen off and on at the gym.

The party’s pumpin’. The music’s blarin’.
From where we are all sitting,
you can see down a long hallway
to observe the two of them have come downstairs
and passed through a screen door
to stand a few feet outside.
All you can hear is the music
but there on her face,
you can see she’s screaming at him.
He says something.
She reaches up and slaps him hard.
He reaches out and shoves her with such force
that she flies off her feet
and lands hard on the concrete sidewalk.
You stand up.
You start moving towards the door
which seems a lot further away
than it did a moment ago.
She’s tough.
She’s quick.
Before you’re halfway down that long hallway,
she’s gotten up,
took off one of her high heel shoes
and brought its spike down on the top of his head.
Impressive you think, and pause for a second.

And then, in slow motion,
you see his fist pull back,
fly forward and there explode into her fragile face.
As you pass through the screen door,
you see her hit the ground again.
The red of her lipstick
has been obliterated by another form of red.

He turns to face you and from his lips comes,
“I’ll kick your motherfucking ass too.”
And for the next thirty seconds he tries to do
just that.
Me?
I try my best to keep you guys
from getting knocked out of your comfy chairs.


Let’s cut to the quick.
She gets up off the ground
in yet another attempt to attack him.
I go to shove her aside
and it’s at this point that he jumps forward
and puts you and I into a forward headlock.
There in our muffled ears we hear him mumble,
“What do ya think of that?!”
Yup. He’s got us pretty tight.
Now bear in mind that from this vantage point
(I with my eyes and you in your comfy chairs)
we can see two things pretty prominently.
There to the left,
and sprawled across the ground,
she with her face a spattered mess of blood.
There to the right and just within reach—
his groin.

At this point I will pause.

I’ve a question I want to put to all you women out there.
There’s a decision to be made here.
Being as you are female
and morally superior when it come to
choosing peace over violence,
all you have to do
is come to a group consensus of “stop,”
and the poem ends right here.

So what’s it gonna be?

Yes?
Fuckin’ A right,
I slammed the inner edge of my hand
full force into his tender nuts!
Felt his testicles part
as my hand passed through
to crunch bone to bone.
Didn’t stop there.
Nosiree.
Grabbed ahold of his junk and squeezed.
Not only that— I twisted.
Felt his squishy gonads
pass through the ringer of my finger joints
to pop out on the other side.
One this way. One that way.

Oh, and he went down.
Me with him being as I was attached
appendage to appendage
in the worse
hands-on gay experience
he would ever have.

And he commences with this gagging noise.
Now normally,
a gagging noise isn’t pretty, but…
this one was.

And I feel hands grabbing at me.
Pulling me away.
There through my eyes…
There through your eyes…
There on the ground,
you see a man curled up in a fetal position.
And you ask yourself:
“Did I make the right decision?”

Well girls… did we?

©06 Jack Hubbell

Absolutely Flaccid
Girls. Girls. Girls.
You want them.
We got them.
They hang from poles for your delight.
And if we only had meat hooks,
the slaughterhouse of your somewhat
sexually confused dreams would be complete.

Did I say meat?
You bet I did!
But not the other red meat.
Not the other white meat either.
Nah. How’sa bout some shade of meat
dead center them thar two
titillating tones o’ pulsating protein?
An exact shade of pink
smack dab your object of desire.
This is what you want, right?
Not to worry.
We’re flexible.
Just watch.
We can tweak our taunt to penetrate
all the way to the center of your
erect wad of George Washingtons.
And just look at the size of those pockets!

Have we paused to tell you
how much you’re appreciated?
Why you’re our favorite idiot,
and we will indulge your every whim
as long as you can sustain that there bulge of…
Just how are
all those Georgie Washingtons?


Oooo, I bet you’ve got
something bigger in there don’t you?
Something huge.
Andrew Jackson huge.
Have I ever told you
how sexy Andrew Jackson is?
Oh and you?
You so remind me of Andrew.
Yes. That look on your face is
dead ringer for the seventh president.
Why, Mr. President!
What big eyes you have!
Indeed, there in your ample pockets live
six inch after six inch after six inch of
flat dead presidents,
and as wooed as I am by your
exquisitely greased mullet and
Andrew Jackson potential, dare say
I can sense the presence of a President Grant
lurking there in your wad o’ sex appeal.

Like you, our eighteenth president was a man of
such insatiable appetite.
Plop your six inch Grant in my hand
and the three of us will take a stroll
to the promised land.

But no. What’s this?
It would appear your pockets
have gone lame duck.
No Grants or Jacksons.
No Hamiltons or Lincolns.
Not even one
single solitary remaining
Mister Washington.

Oh, I’ll grant you you’ve got six inches of
some sort of George there in your pocket.
Grant that you deem it worthy of
forty seconds of something.
But I regret to tell you that your
forty second George is
and never will be
a worthy President.
Your six inch of George
ain’t nothin’ but flaccid dick.

Indeed, we regret tell you,
that your George or Dick or
whatever vice you care to call your
concept of presidency… they
are just about worthless.
Lame Duck or
Lame Fuck…
Either way, it is time
for you
to go.

©06 Jack Hubbell

Aidan is a Fish
At the moment, Aidan is a fish.
She has fins.
She has gills.
Of course, what I see
is a small girl of four years
communing with one solitary fish that’s
been placed in a pitcher full of water,
but these are mere facts.
Nothing to be confused with reality.
No.
What’s real is that Aidan
is a fish.
So much so that it does not occur to her
that she cannot breathe underwater.
A ridiculous observation in her point of view.
Why would a fish dwell on such menial things?

At this moment I am a human being.
One of the adult sort, I sit with other adults
some twelve feet distant from Aidan.
We mature humans
relate just as mature humans
are supposed to relate.
We co-exist in the bodies we were given,
and yet…
As I glance over at Aidan,
a part of me wants to peel away
and join her .
Here at this table we discuss issues of
such heavy import
while there at Aidan’s table,
wondrous things are happening.
Aidan is a fish!
How can you not see the marvel in this?

Perhaps you envision Aidan
pretending to be a fish, but no.
That is an adult assumption.
Though we might see a small girl
there on her elbows,
mere inches away from a pitcher of water,
that… That is not Aidan.
No.
Aidan is in that pitcher.
Aidan is there in that water.
She is at one with all things aquatic.
All things piscine.
She is so much a fish
she doesn’t know that water exists.
There is no her inside water
for water simply is.
It eases through her mouth
with each subconscious gulp
to pass through her gills as mere…
…sigh.

Why waste her time pondering frivolities
when there are better fishbowl conundrums
to puzzle over.

Aidan moves to the inner edge
of the pitcher’s thick glass
and looking out sees a small girl
gazing in.
Far beyond that girl
a man sits at a crowded table.
Swishing her tail,
she nudges up against some hard invisible barrier.
And there in her piscine mind a question forms,
“What? What does that human desire?
He looks such an old man.
So old, yet surely he longs for… something.”

Isn’t the answer evident?
He?
He desires that return to innocence.
That forever sense of awe and wonder.
He?
He
wants to be Aidan.

©07 Jack Hubbell