...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