...Cold White Porcelain...

Once upon a time in days of yore, 

you could actually perform 

the solitary act of flushing a toilet 

  all by your lonesome.

It was a time of boldness, 

  when you were on your own.

When you were    self-empowered.

When you and only you 

got to make the choice

as to when the present ended

   and the past began.

The moment when you 

were permitted to say,

“That…    That was me.

That was me but here at

this    precise    moment,

   it all ends.

Herewith I begin anew.

I     have had enough    of that     shit.”

Yes, in a lifetime of existence

where-upon every movement 

  from inner to outer

is enveloped within the usurping need

   of an almighty other,    

  there is no lever.

No lever to  

  lever yourself away

     from that which you once were.

No.      Now there is a sensor.

An electronic eye that

acknowledges your significant presence

at this moment of     

soulful evacuation.

I think therefore I am.

I make ca-ca     therefore I was.

Fecal fidelity unto    forlorn finality.

In these times of rampant existential angst,

I suppose it’s a good thing that

urinals have built in flush sensors.

Well…     Good for men anyway.

Surely there are moments when a woman

acquires notable issues with self-esteem.

Moments when her 

corporeal presence tends to ebb.

Moments when she wanes and

her timid trace tilts to translucence.

When she looks at her reflection 

there in the mirror

and comes to question whether

what she   in reality  sees

is a sheath of spectral skin…

A taunt ethereal veil

on the verge of evaporation.

An accursed vacuous hull,

she paints her face with

opaque pigmentation

in an effort to elude 

the evanescent

and yet…   

And yet there she stands,

fraught at the thought 

of perpetual dénouement.

Tis a Sisyphean ordeal 

of whichwe men 

are mostly spared.

Throughout the day

we expose ourselves 

before porcelain

and there at the final 

shudder of expenditure,

ease away with an 

upward zip of dismissal,

there to have the all knowing 

  omnipotent sensor

acknowledge the absence of our

waggle worthy wieners

with a wash of whirling water.

There throughout the day,

we return again and again

to stand flaccid before white ceramic,

full well knowing 

our pending benediction

by way of     valvular      validation

   is only moments away.

We   men   are   so    vain.

What would we be 

without our precious urinals?

Subjugated to that well-worn whim 

  of the willful woman?

“Ye gods man!

Just once in your life

could you put 

the frickin’ 

toilet seat down?!”

Tis a hateful hurtful mantra 

  of ill-will intent.

A sexual social 

interactive conflict

of malignant significance

which the advent 

of the upright urinal

   all but alleviated.

Indeed, here in the 21^stcentury,

the horrific contact of bare buttock to

cold white porcelain

has become a folkloric tale

told to insight 

convulsive spasms of terror

around the glow 

of late night campfires.

Ah well…

Such is life in the modern world.

But there was a time 

  before porcelain.

Before urinals.

Before indoor plumbing.

   The stained chamber pot.

      The rustic outhouse.

A time when we stood in the woods

with our fuzzy pudenda 

exposed to the gods of old.

It was a laughable matter,

  but not to us,

because we   

did not     get   

  the joke.

With no flush sensor 

to provide our noble affirmation,

we stood naked     

amidst that of    hoof and tail;

that of tangled root and clinging vine;

that of brutal tooth and     horn.

Yes, back in those 

feral days of ignorance.

In those ecstatic days of    Eden.

In those primeval days

when a man 

or woman 

could stand    

(or squat)    

and say,

“This…    

This looks like   

a damn good spot.”

And indeed     

there was a time 

  when it was.

©09 Jack Hubbell

   ...Slither...

That which does not kill you, 

   makes you. 

Makes you  what? 

Makes you  how?

Makes you      who?

Within this slapdash existence 

of potential mortality, and 

against all feasible odds, 

I have somehow managed 

   to persevere. 

I, fully aware of this and that 

and those and them proposed 

to mar and mangle 

this life I hold so dear. 

That which does not kill you. 

Does not maim you. 

Soon  mal-

   deforms you. 

Listen:

It is herewith simply assumed 

that I in body 

come complete.

That I’ve toes upon my feet. 

That my sense of sight is sound. 

That I can tell what’s up from down. 

That I can see what’s there on the ground. 

That my body veers to vacant 

from the horror I’ve there found. 

That that which renders fear adheres 

to sear my sheltered psyche. 

This is a state of mind 

and my mind is in a state. 

It slithers, and 

it slithers, and 

it slithers, slithers, slithers, 

for it’s said that I’ve 

a ball of snakes 

coiled ‘bout my 

basal ganglia. 

They say dead-center 

my primordial head 

you will therein find 

a reptilian brain. 

And they would have me 

here look inward, 

yet that which there 

returns my gaze, 

remains a viperine vision of which 

I dare not care to know. 

And though my higher mammalian mind 

would have me limbic limbo ‘neath 

a septic serpent’s stomach, 

it remains a synaptic swamp of which 

I do not care to visit. 

This feeding, 

this fighting, 

this fleeing, 

this fucking. 

‘F’ ALL that shit, for I will 

not consume the snake, no, 

will not combat that 

thing with tail and scale, 

and it and I most certainly won’t… 

   …come to copulate. 

Condom or no, I condemn it. 

That a snake wear a condom seems foolish. 

Indeed that anyone’s rancid reptile mind 

finds fetish in a snake found phallic 

be they damned. 

   Be they damned. 

      Be they cast from Eden damned. 

‘F’ and ‘F’ and ‘F’ and ‘F’. 

Unfettered of the letter, 

I would flee. I would fly. 

Would most surely have fled.

I now with tail here unfurled. 

I now with split-tongue set a sputter. 

And yet… 

And yet here I stand 

so lithe and lathed utter legless. 

Disarm alarmed and 

tube torso traumatic. 

Limbic sans limb and 

limb loss akimbo, 

I collapse upon ground, 

foot foiled and coiled catatonic. 

Now serpentine in body, 

sinuous bone next sinuous bone. 

Denied limb to amble yonder, 

I am lashed within this hither, 

for my reptile mind 

has thus decreed, 

its only option:   

slither.

Ó2019 Jack David Hubbell

  ....Sara at the Coliseum.... 

Friends, Romans, put down your beers. 

I stand here before you 

with a story of great import. 

‘Tis a telling of heroic proportion… 

nay, legend. 

Visualize if you will, the Coliseum. 

A Coliseum soaked not with blood, 

but with hooch. 

Yes, hooch. 

Booze. Suds. Liquor. Libation. 

Alcohol if you will. 

Take a hit. 

Cannonball that. 

The next warrior 

is about to enter the arena. 

Kick an empty beer bottle across the floor. 

Ah… Now that’s poetry. 

Sling a thousand bottles down the Coliseum’s steps. 

That’sa proper fanfare. 

Yes, and there amidst the 

din of shattered glass… 

Listen.

For lo, but beneath earthy floorboards 

you can hear the roar of the beasts, 

and how they bellow for more spilt pilsner! 

And now, 

out from the ranks of 

our downed and vanquished gladiators, 

A chant arises. 

“Sara. Sara. Sara.” 

[And at this point , 

the narrator is forced to interject with, “Sara? 

What the heck kinda’ 

name for a warrior is that?”

Never-mind.]

Yes.

The games call for another victim.

And yet 

there is no victim. 

What you have here 

is the deadliest of poet warriors. 

No mere bone cruncher, 

but poem cruncher. 

Her words are sharp. 

Her verse heavy as a lead mace. 

Yeah, but she strides forward 

into the arena and 

an ocean of ankle deep lager 

rises to part before her. 

Her armor of choice is unusual. 

Yes, sports fans. 

Today Sara appears to have chosen 

an oversized knit cardigan, 

and beneath that, 

low-cut denim jeans 

with just a hint of a dark t-shirt. 

Menacing stuff indeed, 

but such sinister fashion 

has been lost on the 

inebriated masses. 

Perhaps this nondescript apparel 

was designed to make her 

appear invisible. 

Indeed,

though her fellow gladiators 

know of her presence all too well, 

to the drunken hordes 

arrayed about the coliseum, 

she is persona non grata. 

No matter. 

Sara circles around to square off 

before an archaic microphone 

circa 2003 BC,  

and settling into a broad stance, 

words begin to dart forth 

and thrust outward. 

Where all previous poet combatants 

had chosen bludgeoning verbiage 

via heavy bladed broadsword, 

Sara’s attack comes by way of 

exquisite rapier. 

Its shimmering surface 

projects a vocal glissade 

out to the arena’s far reaches. 

Indeed, there at the back of the Coliseum, 

one of the inebriated spectators pauses 

mid broken bottle to ocular socket 

and remarks, 

“Hey dude! She’s talking’ ‘bout sex!” 

Yes. Oh, Yes. 

Sara’s talkin’ ‘bout sex. 

The punters way up in the bleachers 

ease back their oral fixation 

upon long neck liquid phallus’ 

and rack bleary eyes 

towards the lethal siren 

behind the microphone. 

The murmur from the back row 

sweeps forward. 

“Sex?

Oh yes. Sex good. 

Sex is our friend. 

We like sex.” 

Yes. Sara’s talkin’ ‘bout sex, but hey! 

This ain’t a dirty poem. 

Hell, the dirty poems 

are up in the bleachers. 

[Oh yea, and also what’s going on 

underneath that table right there.]

No. Sara’s serving up clean sex. 

Keen edged clean sex that 

skewers the soft pink eardrums of 

each and every booze binging Roman. 

[Um…

Except, you know, 

for those there distracted 

beneath that table.] 

A poetic martial art, 

her wordsmith utterances slither forth 

to slice Roman cerebellum with 

double edged XY chromosome. 

Yes. If Sara bleeds, 

she bleeds pure estrogen. 

An estrogen of such might 

that it vanquishes every 

testosterone laced, 

booze braced poet 

who ever preceded her. 

And then… 

And then some blotto Roman 

pulls his thumb from his waistband, 

raises it above the table before him 

and wraps it around the lip 

of a longneck Budweiser. 

With this, one hundred thousand 

toga attired bacchanalian sots follow suit. 

Yes. For a few seconds, 

poetry rolled forth over 

the entire tanked up Roman empire. 

For a few seconds, 

culture and civilization reigned. 

For a few seconds… 

Then some drunken idiot in the back 

got out his fiddle, started to play, 

and the lady at the mic 

was swept away to oblivion. 

Rome may be burning, 

but what the fuck. 

Put another keg on the tap. 

Bring another poet to the slaughter. 

Sara

has left 

the building. 

c 03 Jack Hubbell