...The Thrust of the Matter... 

As she lay there beneath him, 

she could not help but feel that 

he was trying to make a statement 

via his over energetic thrusting. 

Yes, thrusting was the best word to 

describe what he was doing. 

No doubt about it. 

 

Here as self-defined pin cushion,  

she found herself dwelling on the 

exact definition of thrusting. 

This, both as a way to 

better understand what he was 

succinctly trying to express, 

and as a form of distraction 

from that which he as machine 

was here to concussive convey. 

 

“Thrust”:   To push or 

drive quickly and forcibly. 

To stab.   To pierce. 

To force oneself or another into 

a specified condition or situation. 

To put in;   interject. 

To shove into something; 

to push.   To pierce or 

stab with a pointed weapon. 

To force one’s way. 

 

It occurred to her that 

none of these definitions 

seemed very endearing. 

Surely there had to be an 

alternative message being conveyed. 

How about: The forward-directed force 

developed in a jet or rocket as a 

reaction to the rearward ejection 

of fuel gas at high velocities. 

 

“Well,” she thought. 

“Now that I think about it, 

that might just explain some of the 

facial expressions he’s been making. 

It might also explain all those 

assorted sounds that 

his body has made 

during this drastic spastic act 

of convulsive coital exertion.” 

 

Oh yes. 

If he was a rocket, 

then surely she was his 

realm of vacuous cosmos, 

patiently awaiting his 

sizzling shower of stars. 

Yes. Oh yes. 

The long awaited arrival of 

the great Milky Way. 

 

Was this love? 

     Was this truly love? 

 

Nah. The true

thrust of the matter 

equates to nothing more 

than one 

lousy 

f…

 

Ó 05 Jack David Hubbell

 

   ...What’s in a Name?...

I was supposed to have been a ‘Kevin’, 

but at the very last moment, 

the me that I am was 

relabeled as a ‘Jack’. 

So of course I adapted all my 

personality traits to become 

at one with that name. 

 

I guess it was a good thing 

I was a ‘Jack’, ‘cause 

I was destined to beat the hell 

out of a guy named Kevin. 

If I’d been a Kevin 

I might have had a hard time 

pummeling another Kevin, and boy, 

this Kevin really needed to be pummeled. 

 

I figure that on that particular day 

it was his destiny to have his head 

bounced off the gym floor and 

as luck would have it, 

my schedule allowed me to work him in. 

 

Before you get too alarmed, 

this was way back in grade school, 

and geez, 

extreme acts of violence don’t count, 

‘cause these are our 

formulative years and I 

was merely helping to 

formulate Kevin’s attitude. 

 

So what’s in a name? 

‘Jack’ equates to ‘pounder’ 

and the name ‘Kevin’ equates 

to ‘poundee’. 

And me? 

I always thought I’d amount to 

so much more than that. 

Anyway.      

       Again. 

What’s in a name? 

 

Listen: 

I was once traveling the backroads 

of far west Nebraska when 

I came upon one of those 

large brown historical signs. 

 

This sign commemorated a running battle 

whereby a band of Lakota Sioux warriors 

engaged some of Custer’s Seventh Calvary, 

and there on that brown board 

were listed some of the names 

of those Lakota involved. 

 

There were no Bobs or Franks; 

no braves named Steve or Gary. 

Certainly no Kevins or Jacks. 

What we did have 

was some homie named 

‘Pawnee Killer’, 

someone named ‘Pole Cat’, 

another named ‘Fire Lightning’ 

and the one whose name truly fascinated me: 

 

‘Man Who Walks Underground’. 

 

Dude! What’s this cat’s story?! 

How the fuck do I get stuck 

with some pathetic name of ‘Jack’, 

while this hombre gets to 

strut to the bar and spout, 

“Hey baby. 

The name’s 

Man Who Walks Underground”. 

 

Yes girls, there with someone’s 

face buried deep in your lap, and 

with you at the moment of orgasm,  

wouldn’t you rather moan that name 

instead of something blah like “Kevin”? 

And as “Man Who Walks Underground” 

comes to mount with 

his little big horn and therewith, 

proceed to skewer your Custer, 

you may find yourself flashing back 

to thoughts of June 25th,  1876. 

Lo, but there stands George Armstrong 

and a bunch of pitiful peons at his side 

of whom I can only presume 

to go by the name of Kevin. 

 

All of them, 

yes all of them,

destined 

to go down.   

 

©05 Jack David Hubbell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    ...Survive Eyedelic...

Visual vomitous; 

glorious disgorgement. 

His inner mind spewed forth to 

there drench my stale sight orbs 

with psychedelic must 

shroom-o-rama. 

 

Psilocybonic mush in a 

room o’ morpheus lush. 

3-D X-ray wraparound 

sling-shoting my 

planetoidal cranium in 

an effort to break free of my 

humdrum soaked in rum 

gravity ladled cranium. 

 

Oh I know what you thunk ‘

bout dat lysergic acidic bunk. 

Step aside. Yea, step aside.

Let him lettuce take a ride.

For his feet are ten feet 

high baby you want some of 

what’s ear in my eye? 

 

I’ve got the hole of his soul 

and there’s nothing left 

to fill it with ‘cause 

most o’ it am blowin' like 

eye flies somewhere here 

in front of my venetian blind I lucids. 

 

And I and eye wants to sleep. 

Eyes wants each two slumber,

but he’s got all ought double ought 

o’ me video-balls in his 

queasy colored cuisenart, and

his thumb is on the button blend. 

 

And my cortex gonna rend. 

And it may just never mend. 

And I should never, ever 

have let his cornea pass over 

my trip too tonic tongue. 

 

Ó05 Jack David Hubbell