Meridian

I am one of many 

hurtling along the interstate.

We—all of us—

proceed in one direction.

All of us hurtling towards 

an assortment of goals.

All of these along the 

same ribbon of asphalt.

No matter the import

we have given our own personal goals, 

and there across the expanse of meridian,

those not so different from us

have chosen goals 

the exact opposite to ours.

The exact opposite.

The exact opposite and yet,

this does not qualify our concern.

Nothing outside this glass, metal,

rubber and plastic carriage concerns us.

We are in transition.

Everything else is peripheral.

And I?   I am their peripheral.

All that we share is the meridian.

Asphalt to asphalt and 

what we have between us 

   is nothing.

Nothing in common.

No.

No, today is different.

Today there is something in the meridian.

There, a half mile distant.

There, within the expanse 

of asphalt to asphalt…   something moves.

Something we are not to be allowed to ignore.

There, 

within the meridian, 

is a dog.

Somehow,

a dark long hair collie

has become lost within 

the forty-yard limbo

between this way and that way.

Between this way…  

    and that way.

Here, there is no direction.

Still approaching from a quarter mile distance,

I can discern the dog's movement

back and forth across the meridian.

First this side,       then that side.

The traffic is extremely heavy 

   and consistent.

There are no pauses.

There is no escape.

I can see from the dog's gait of walk

that it's been doing this for some time.

And still I watch it.

This side, 

pause, 

consider;

that side, 

pause, 

and repeat.

How did it get here?

Here I am now.

Here I am. 

One of many.

My mere passing

an act of cruelty I have 

no control over.

Here now,

I am past and a 

quarter mile down the road.

Here now,

I stand before you.

Here now,

within my mind,

a dog turns and paces,

turns and paces.

You tell me.

How many turns is too many?

How many turns

before the paces proceed

forward and outward

across asphalt?

Ó99 Jack David Hubbell

  Expanse 

Asphalt.

A large expanse of it.

Left to right.

It goes on forever,

   or so it seems to them.

And who's to say it doesn't?

Just how far it goes

does not matter to them,

for all that they care about

is what they can see,

and at this moment, 

they can see much 

too much of it.

Here, just now,

their concern lies

with the forever expanse of

this side to that side.

They are here and 

they want to be there.

Yet all there is    is asphalt.

Just asphalt.

Just asphalt and them.

Them.

They are a couple.

They are man and woman.

They are lovers.

They are special. 

They have special needs. 

They are mentally deficit.

They stand at the edge of the curb.

Both of them frantically looking 

to the left; now, 

both  to the right;

now, out of sync.

One looking left; one right.

Now alternating.

Now again, and again.

Now, once more together in sync.

I use the word frantic,

but that's not exactly right.

I look into their eyes and 

see a certain glimmer—a certain sparkle.

Something else is there.

Their hands clasp at each other's.

Oh, it's not that one wants his

or hers to overlap the opposite's.

Rather, that they both desire

to have each other's hands

safely enfolded within the other's embrace.

Each one wants the other

   to be in control.

Each one wants the other

to be in charge of 

this moment's decision.

Within their lives, how often

have they had to make a decision?

They've led entire lives 

with all decisions being 

made by other adults.

Adults different than them.

Other adults for whom

decisions come so easy.

And here now, again,

    it is just them.

Just them and the asphalt.

The asphalt and cars.

This way and then that way.

It's just an expanse of asphalt

but when is it     just

an expanse of asphalt?

A decision.

   A decision.

      A decision.

Just now, my car passes

and I look in my rear view mirror

to see them bolting across the expanse.

Bolting in unison.

Bolting, and yet with 

all four hands clasped tightly together.

Across both their faces is

not so much fear as to what

they've just undertaken,

but yet,    exhilaration.

They are laughing.

They are squealing.

They are overcome with joy.

Across this expanse of asphalt,

they have joined with you and I.

They are alive, 

and isn't that 

a thrill?

Ó99 Jack David Hubbell

  ...Monkey Business...

An ape primatologist 

doing a study of Barbary Macaques,

noted that during the act of sex,

males would thrust far more vigorously

if their female partners shouted loudly.

Shouted what?

I mean yea, it’s great 

that there’s more thrusting.

Definitely an important discovery,

but don’t you think he could have taken the time

to copy down just what it was they were shouting?

Okay, so yes we’re talking apes here.

There’s of course a slight translation problem.

But if we can put a man on the moon,

you’d think we could get our priorities straight

and decipher what some 

primal hot mama is sayin’

   to get her banana-daddy goin’.

And listen.    Check this out:

Seems the primatologist also found 

it was next to damn impossible

for the male macaque to climax

if the female didn’t shout at least a little bit.

I suppose in the case of macaque evolution,

it wasn’t so much survival of the fittest,

but rather        them gals what be 

   most vocal      in the sack.

Vocal to the point where all guy macaques

can’t help but gather round a 

particularly amorous thicket of brush

to listen full chub at some

serious ape-on-ape action going on inside.

And these hoot and holler connoisseurs 

soon come to the group consensus 

   that she on the far side of the foliage

   doing all the current      shouting

is just the sort of girl they want to

   swing their     vine towards.

So as far as gene propagation goes,

those that scream their ecstasy the loudest, 

get a steady ride on the evolution choo choo.

And there throughout the eons,

it just so comes to pass that all

quiet and sophisticated female macaques

sadly get evicted from the gene pool.

Don’t believe me?

When was the last time you visited the zoo

   and saw a lady macaque

with her legs demurely crossed?

Evolution?

Listen up you prehensile tail 

   progressive primates.

Here’s the posterior poop:

Those zoo-ill-logic researchers also established

that male macaques will actually pay 

to look at pictures of a 

   female macaque’s    buttocks

and…        and…

fork over mucho banana peel 

to gaze at a dominant male macaque face,

but…        butt…

must be paid themselves

to look upon the face of      

   females

   or that of        

subordinate males.

Okay now…

This is where I vacillate on that whole

   ‘evolved from apes’ concept.

Though I will indeed throw down good money

to catch a glimpse of some truly refined buttock,

the odds are fairly low that I would

give up damn good banana money

to stare intently into my boss’s dreamy eyes.

Nope.    I don’t care how butch he is.

In fact, his quality of    “butchness”

might actually impede the reach into pocket 

and slap of banana upon counter.

That I must be paid to

look upon the faces of all you

   subordinate males out there is a given.

It is a daunting task and let’s face it:

there are so many of you sub-level 

   knuckle-draggers out there.

But…      And this is a mighty big butt…

That I might be paid   to

look upon the faces of you women…

Would that not be 

the most delectable profession

a monkey man could ever strive for?

Oh, especially if while I’m looking at you, 

you’re shouting at me.  Yep. 

That stuff   really 

puts me in the mood, er…

if  you get my   

primate  banana  meaning.

©08 Jack Hubbell