...Lacking Reflection...

That asphalt scrolls as avenue 

does not compel ones 

course be constrained 

‘tween curb unto kindred curb. 

No... Rather I would 

here choose to chicane from 

guttered dreck unto dross and 

there with camera to eye, 

record that bounty to be found. 

Said heaven’s presence 

   resplendent. 

 

Now listen: 

We all have our sordid 

   assorted opinions, 

and would that we avert 

these covetous eyes 

from our reflections 

there in shop window, 

we might there notice 

what has soaked the 

soles of our shoes 

and souls there reflected 

   in sewage. 

 

Upon reflection, 

I did not realize he was speaking to me. 

This for the fact I often fail 

to reflect in the eye of 

those who there pass me by. 

Yet he of a curious tone 

here comes to utter, 

   “What is it…? 

What are you photographing?” 

 

I turn to partake of an elderly man 

most likely in his Seventies, 

and here the cliché of 

‘grizzled’ come to mind. 

Grizzled, old    and yet 

   effervescent. 

Eyes that glisten like a child’s. 

 

“This plant,” I reply whilst  

gesturing towards a large concrete urn, 

it’s presence crowned verdant 

   via bloom o’ gladiolus.

And I lift my camera towards the leafy foliage 

yet covertly focus upon his face there beyond. 

 

“Oh yes!” he exclaims. “Yes. 

It’s so wonderful the city has done this. 

   They’re everywhere!” 

Who would have thought 

the existence of mere potted flora 

could bring such exhilaration? 

 

He asks me where I’m from, 

and when I tell him of some 

small town in Missouri, 

he comes to act as if this is 

one of the most astonishing locales 

   in the entire world. 

I would argue different, 

but who’s to say his astuteness 

lacks in divination?

 

The man is naught but 

   a conversationalist; 

he who would here exchange 

words with a reciprocal other. 

No mere echo of monolog rambled 

whilst standing before 

astute mute audience (ahem).

No, this man requires your 

   simple vocal reflection. 

All that he needs of you 

is a mirror to himself.

 

“Excuse me,” he says, 

“but may I ask you for a favor?” 

And here he conforms 

to a default expectation:

that this has always been about money. 

But there, just as I’m reaching for my wallet, 

he steps in closer and asks, 

“Do you have a phone?” 

 

I respond yes and here he continues, 

“Is there a chance…   I mean, 

    would it be possible… 

Could you dial a number for me?” 

 

Momentarily befuddled, 

I come to ask him whether it’s long distance, 

yet within my mind I am already so enamored, 

   I have chosen to grant his desire. 

 

“Oh no. No. It’s here in town. 

No, I’d just like for you to dial it.” 

 

From memory, he tells me the number 

and as I punch them in, he adds, 

“It’s someone I haven’t talked to 

    for a very long time.” 

 

With my phone on speaker I hold it forth 

and as it rings, an ecstatic smile 

begins to form upon his face. 

 

The ring gives way to 

someone’s bodiless voice 

recorded there as message 

and its male tone comes to 

transform his reticent smile 

to that of giddy excitement. 

It’s at just that point where 

he might leave his own message, 

when he says, “That’s okay. Turn it off. 

   There’s nothing I want to say.” 

This from he who perchance amplified 

would choose to address 

the whole of humanity. 

 

Puzzled, I move to put my phone away 

and as I do so, 

he yet again moves closer and says, 

“You know, 

you’re a very nice person! 

You didn’t have to do that, 

   but you did.” 

And just as I move to turn away, 

his voice chimes forth with,  

“Excuse me, but 

can I ask you another question?” 

and yet before I can respond 

he with a whisper continues, 

“Are you a Christian?”

 

To this I sedately respond, 

“No,” and pause… 

“No,    I am not.” 

And this confession ends with a smile, 

all whilst the prior expression 

now collapsing across his serene face 

gives way to a muddled disquiet. 

 

Stepping away and down the street, 

I part by saying aloud, “Have a good life,” 

and though I truly mean it, 

I full-well know that some 

perceived aspect of brotherly love 

has just now been vandalized. 

 

And here my resumed chicane 

brings my path to cross that of two women—

they of whose presumed hallowed course 

in turn forces them to pass someone 

who’s grizzled and infernal accursed. 

 

“Excuse me. Could I ask you a question?” 

This to which one of the women 

gives a gruff rebuff of     “No!” 

 

He, a man merely looking 

for some form of validation. 

That which neither woman, 

nor a simple phone call to heaven 

are willing to provide him 

   blessed reflection. 

 

Ó2021 Jack David Hubbell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OMAHA, NEBRASKA, USA

 

OMAHA, NEBRASKA, USA

 

OMAHA, NEBRASKA,  USA

 

BROWNVILLE, NEBRASKA, USA

 

 BROWNVILLE, NEBRASKA, USA

BROWNVILLE, NEBRASKA, USA

 

BROWNVILLE, NEBRASKA, USA

 

 

 

OMAHA, NEBRASKA, USA

 

COUNCIL BLUFFS, IOWA, USA

 

    ...Jism Solipsism... 

She empties me, and 

as with most men, 

I am okay with that. 

Cue   caveat: 

It would sadly appear that 

said fluid depletion has 

herewith rendered me 

   utterly invisible. 

Please note that this affliction 

is generally deemed 

an impossibility. 

 

Yet as I pull myself from within, 

it becomes rather obvious 

that I no longer exist for her.

Sure, I will admit that my 

corporeal absence may 

very well be due to the fact  

her eyes are currently closed.

This and that my presence 

has failed to sustain 

an arch to her back. 

 

Indeed, though we both 

began this act of sex 

mutually  conscious, 

I would appear to have 

rendered love as lullaby,  

and rocked her womb 

unto a slumber  purr.

 

Or…

Or has she simply passed out? 

This a copulatory etiquette 

  gone in flagrante delicto. 

 

She was in truth besotted 

when she came to pick me up 

at some rank roadhouse there 

deep in the California desert.  

Hopefully less so when she 

drove me out across the Mojave 

to her gonad implode abode.

And now with dick dismissed, 

   an obscene unseen, 

I wander this stranger’s home 

as flaccid phallic phantom—

spermatozoon swoon less 

   erector gone specter.

And ectoplasmic antic 

now deboned and quite alone, 

I step out her front door 

and into the arid night.

I, the seed of all mankind, 

spewed forth unto 

   desiccation. 

 

Or maybe… 

Maybe it’s only the Mohave 

and I merely a man minus 

   auto-mobile mojo.

Phallus forsaken, here afoot 

I roam alone and boneless atone.

Leaving the glow of this house’s gloam, 

and following the road into darkness 

I am there transfigured transparent; 

   a fate castrate transcendent.

 

A mile from the house the darkness clears 

and the Mojave blooms as 

the invisible me is illuminated 

beneath a star canopy 

of nurtured neon novae.

 

And I cast my eyes upward 

into a Milky Way galaxy 

full knowing that I cannot 

see it as whole, 

   nor it see that of me.

Of course none of this galaxy above 

should be deemed of any more import 

than the milky way of me which 

I left there at that hollowed house.

 

Thus everything above and 

everything within begins 

to equally whither and wane.

That is, wane in relativity to 

a roll of illumination 

travelling at the speed of light 

less the deceleration of 

the cosmic pickup truck 

currently providing its source.

A twin-beam wrought road-radiance 

slowly edges by to the side, and as 

this truck creaks to a stellar stop,  

the driver leans his head out its window 

to there astro-ask,  “Say hey…  

Where you heading?”

 

With this question I come 

to the sudden epiphany that 

I am once again visible and that 

my great existential quandary 

has come to its   a priori   end.

 

Clearing voice of nihilistic angst, 

I respond, “I’m walking back to town.”

To this he chuckles and replies, 

“Well, it’s three in the morning 

and that’s easily a good fifteen miles. 

Why don’t you hop in the back 

   and I’ll give you a ride?”

Nodding yes, I step to the rear, 

climb over the gate and settle down 

   with my back to the cab.

 

Shortly we’re hurtling along the highway, 

I with the glow of the truck’s dashboard 

filtering through the rear window to 

veil my face with a shade of blue 

not unlike that of the 

blanket of stars above.

 

And as we all as one 

again achieve the speed of light, 

I look down to notice that 

I can no longer see my feet.

Indeed, that my legs are fading away 

into the truck’s bed and 

the blur of asphalt below. 

That when I hold hands 

   before lucent eyes, 

I see nothing   

but constellation.

 

And me? 

I am embarrassed 

for the truck driver. 

 

Embarrassed for he 

who drove me home, 

only to find how I 

was no longer 

   there.

 

Ó2021 Jack David Hubbell