Yellow Mama Archives II

Damon Hubbs

Acuff, Gale
Ahern, Edward
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
Aronoff, Mikki
Ayers, Tony
Baber, Bill
Baird, Meg
Baker, J. D.
Balaz, Joe
Barker, Adelaide
Barker, Tom
Barnett, Brian
Barry, Tina
Bartlett, Daniel C.
Bates, Greta T.
Bayly, Karen
Beckman, Paul
Bellani, Arnaav
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc
Beveridge, Robert
Blakey, James
Booth, Brenton
Bracken, Michael
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
Campbell, J. J.
Cancel, Charlie
Capshaw, Ron
Carr, Steve
Carrabis, Joseph
Cartwright, Steve
Centorbi, David Calogero
Cherches, Peter
Christensen, Jan
Clifton, Gary
Cody, Bethany
Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
Cumming, Scott
Davie, Andrew
Davis, Michael D.
Degani, Gay
De Neve, M. A.
Dillon, John J.
Dinsmoor, Robert
Dominguez, Diana
Dorman, Roy
Doughty, Brandon
Doyle, John
Dunham, T. Fox
Ebel, Pamela
Fagan, Brian Peter
Fillion, Tom
Flynn, James
Fortier, M. L.
Fowler, Michael
Galef, David
Garnet, George
Garrett, Jack
Glass, Donald
Graysol, Jacob
Grech, Amy
Greenberg, KJ Hannah
Grey, John
Hagerty, David
Hardin, Scott
Held, Shari
Hicks, Darryl
Hivner, Christopher
Hoerner, Keith
Hohmann, Kurt
Holt, M. J.
Holtzman, Bernard
Holtzman, Bernice
Holtzman, Rebecca
Hopson, Kevin
Hubbs, Damon
Irwin, Daniel S.
Jabaut, Mark
Jermin, Wayne
Jeschonek, Robert
Johns. Roger
Kanner, Mike
Karl, Frank S.
Kempe, Lucinda
Kennedy, Cecilia
Keshigian, Michael
Kirchner, Craig
Kitcher, William
Kompany, James
Kondek, Charlie
Koperwas, Tom
Kreuiter, Victor
Larsen, Ted R.
Le Due, Richard
Leotta, Joan
Lester, Louella
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Luer, Ken
Lukas, Anthony
Lyon, Hillary
Mannone, John C.
Margel, Abe
Martinez, Richard
McConnell, Logan
McQuiston, Rick
Middleton, Bradford
Milam, Chris
Miller, Dawn L. C.
Mladinic, Peter
Mobili, Juan
Mullins, Ian
Myers, Beverle Graves
Myers, Jen
Newell, Ben
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl
Nielsen, Judith
Onken, Bernard
Owen, Deidre J.
Park, Jon
Parker, Becky
Pettus, Robert
Plath, Rob
Potter, John R. C.
Price, Liberty
Proctor, M. E.
Prusky, Steve
Radcliffe, Paul
Reddick, Niles M.
Reedman, Maree
Reutter, G. Emil
Riekki, Ron
Robson, Merrilee
Rockwood, KM
Rollins, Janna
Rose, Brad
Rosmus, Cindy
Ross, Gary Earl
Rowland, C. A.
Saier, Monique
Sarkar, Partha
Scharhag, Lauren
Schauber, Karen
Schildgen, Bob
Schmitt, Di
Sesling, Zvi E.
Short, John
Simpson, Henry
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snell, Cheryl
Snethen, Daniel G.
Stanley, Barbara
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Taylor, Richard Allen
Temples. Phillip
Tobin, Tim
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Varghese, Davis
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Al Wassif, Amirah
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
Weisfeld, Victoria
Weld, Charles
White, Robb
Wilhide, Zachary
Williams, E. E.
Williams, K. A.
Wilsky, Jim
Wiseman-Rose, Sophia
Woods, Jonathan
Young, Mark
Zackel, Fred
Zelvin, Elizabeth
Zeigler, Martin
Zimmerman, Thomas
Zumpe, Lee Clark

Job Requirement


by Damon Hubbs


the guy my wife hired to do the job sat in his van—

Heating & Sons, a white number with rust creeping

the wheel well like phlox —fucking around on his


phone and watching the neighbor’s daughter do

cartwheels in the yard. The daughter has really

grown up this summer so I can understand his


interest. The guy in the van doesn’t know I’m

watching him from my desk on the second floor

but I’m pretty sure my neighbor has caught me


watching his hot little daughter too, a blossom 

in our princedom by the sea where watching is

a neighborhood event like a block party or school


raffle or a Saturday bake sale for Mrs. McKnight’s

cancer recurrence. The doorbell finally rings around

10:20 AM and when I open the door I think to myself


really, a guy like this can’t fill the job requirement.

And I’m right. As soon as he reaches into his tool

bag for the taser and lead pipe I’ve got him on the


living room floor half-choked out. In hindsight,

tenderizing his frontal lobe with a marble ashtray

might have been too much. But my wife loved

that ashtray. It used to be shaped like a turtle.

Year of the Rabbit


by Damon Hubbs





& burn



St., chasing

a rabbit

with a strong jaw

& a foot

like a gun

that doesn’t jam


I watch




the midnight



try to


the angles

on the best way

to cheat




Marathon Key


by Damon Hubbs


from the back cabana

the sun drops like a doomed voyage

by balloon


we disrupt leisure

with danger

on the edge of the continent


salvage work, really

but who owes what

to whom


autopsying in the glare 

nothing connects,

it coincides


a bellwether

for the imps & iguanas

to hold high carnival



by Damon Hubbs


eight yrs old & hawking pretzels

on the corner of Aldine St

for his father, The Roofer


pretzels the watchword for tickets

to Newark’s East Ward street races,

The Roofer the guy who fixes those races


father liked a straight shot

never drive a crooked road, he’d say

little good it did                          


he ended up touge

like sourdough in a trash

compactor in Little Rhody

Times Argus


by Damon Hubbs


the paper isn’t the hundred-eyed

Greek giant its name suggests 

and that’s how Jimmy

got away with it for so long


he’d worked the sports beat for years

covering Double-A games

down at Damaschke Field.

Jimmy knew the park well


he knew where the high school girls

got picked up for soccer practice and 

how long it took their parents to get there.

Jimmy knew the way Umbros fit the leg


the touch

the dribble

pink high gloss and matte

rubbing the sheer afternoon sunlight


he knew if one

of the girls walked home alone

backpack over her shoulder

taking the shortcut


to a cold

mutilated mattress

in a dark, locked


Black-Eyed Susans


by Damon Hubbs


     Members of the Garden Club

meet in the Little Red Schoolhouse

every Tuesday and Thursday

and believe, like Bonnard

that decoration is the principal duty of art. 


     Last spring, in addition to sprucing up

the traffic circle with black-eyed Susans

and hosting Stone Wall Appreciation Day,

the Club put together a cookbook that won an award

from the state and federal Garden Federation.


     Sales from the cookbook helped restore

the original blackboards that hang on the walls

of the Little Red Schoolhouse

and the chimney the Historical Society

says was built from local river rock


     the dormer windows, too 

are no longer glazed and swollen

against the schoolhouse’s little red face,

shuttering attic secrets in First Period



Girls’ Night Out, '87


by Damon Hubbs


what our mugshots

in the photo booth at Quarterworld

lack in terms of a getaway car

make up for with karaoke


you singing Culture Club

into a hairbrush you fingered from Claire’s

because the guy in homeroom

called you Medusa


we roofie him

when he goes to the salad bar

at Ruby Tuesday’s

and watch as he turns to stone

Invasive Species


by Damon Hubbs


Booth & Jackie ran a con at the RMV

     smooth & tapered as the tail of a ten-foot blue catfish,

$1,000 bought a bogus test score if you lurched curb

     during a parallel park or couldn’t read a STOP sign,

the only way upstream is on a lie filled with promise

     & licensing promises was their business, saving two


bits to bank, working their Tannen’s Magic Shop

     with no sign of the trouble boys. Had branch managers

under the thumb too, collected them like an entomologist

      collects caterpillars—specimens posed on sprigs

twelve eyes, six on each side, teeny-tiny hillocks

      arranged in front of a green screen or vialed


like dying vegetation. At night Booth & Jackie screeched

    the highway half-mooned in love, eating pecan pie

or a stack of wheats at the diner on Route 150, watched the sun

     d. t. the horizon in mad rattlesnake flames, the promise

of escape fresh on their lips, the swamps & mini-malls

     & places where things are forgotten already taking it


on the heel & toe. But lovers live in a lair

     made by draughtsmen dreamers & escape


was as counterfeit as the day they met. Memory is funny

     that way, forever folding into darkness. At that party

on the rutted rivulet of road, in a house blotched against

     the river like an angry bite, their bodies wriggled


like jeweled eggs eating their own egg cases

    & after the third shot & fourth molt

Booth & Jackie left together, an invasive species.

     But now April’s flush is on & they’ve run

lovestruck through their allotment of instars—

    “hush, baby,” says Booth, his foot making


the engine sing as red & blue lights

     fishtail the rearview. Her skin prickles

like a bug zapper, hush, a rich hiss of flame

     & then it’s over— shards of windshield, a hideous

squish tweezing the thorax, the car

     unwinged, careening in the understory.

Beachwood Canyon


by Damon Hubbs


loose and shaggy up the ridge telephone wires sag like earthquakes

the sky is blue eye shadow from Hollywood to Silver Lake,

and with the wide angle of a wooden Kodak camera


they see the matinee idol in a storybook gable

and the aging vaudeville star with a powdered white smile

and the actress from Moline destined for greatness


who told the Rock Island Argus she began her career as Jesus

then posed in a beaded kimono for Cosmo

now dances to a nickel piano in the ferry's bar to San Quentin


cut to the body, the blood, the birds like bit part players in the pines.

The News Bureau’s wire reporter describes a coyote with a strong jawline

and Beachwood Canyon’s secret stairs stop

and start again somewhere

Stick Horses


by Damon Hubbs


across the board

the girls at Stoneleigh-Burnham

love the Rail Guy, he talks bullrings and bridge jumps

with the best of them


a dark horse

with green eyes like wandering guitar players;

nose, neck, and head at a starting price

to bankrupt empires


says his mother was the queen of Ladies’ Day at Ascot

says her face launched a thousand strikes on the train line from Waterloo;

says his father was a gunman in the kidnapping of Shergar in ’83,

the record setting wonder horse a ransom to raise cash for the IRA


the girls are too young to know how that turned out,

too young to know his father was just a forklift operator at Logan

with a weekend gig cleaning the backstretch at Rockingham Park


but the Rail Guy knows how

to drive a flat race, how to jockey favor and monkey crouch

strum love songs with his green eyes

to chalk the odds


he buys them accessories, brushes and styles manes

plays dressage with his hobbyhorses

mixing bloodlines

on the dormitory’s basement couch

Damon Hubbs: film & art lover / pie bird collector / author of the chapbook The Day Sharks Walk on Land (Alien Buddha Press). His second chapbook, Charm of Difference, is forthcoming in 2024 (Back Room Poetry). Recent poems have been featured in South Broadway PressLothlorien Poetry JournalFixator PressOtoliths, Apocalypse Confidential, and Book of Matches. He lives in New England. @damon_hubs

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