radio is free: 2009

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

the medicine

won't let me cry

i feel nothing

until the scraping

on my hand draws

blood

(i stare until it stops)

the hot kettle

makes the hiss

of a burn

but i want only

for it to burn hotter

and deeper

longer even

it's never long enough

i cough under the sneeze-shield

at the salad bar

and throw caution to the wind

when i grab an unsuspecting

door knob or gate handle

that cold metal and all it harbors

as danger is what feels good on

my skin

had a man once

that liked me

this way

but it got old to him

too frustrating he said

i was "whack" is the way he put it

i slapped that bastard so hard

he couldn't breathe. he ordered me

out but i'd already left him i decided

his little pissant outlook angered me

often.

i cut his plants into little bits

after i said goodbye. i waited for him

to go to work and i carved up those beloved

bromeliad pups into little origamis. wonder

what he thought on his return. i made my way to

the trestle and that song

my mom used to play me

when i was a child

kept swirling

caliope-like in my head on the way down,

"...billy joe mcalister jumped

off the talihatchee bridge."

Untitled (for Shonnie 2)

what did i like

and how did it feel?

although it's been some time

ages actually

i can't say i've had a lot

of activity between

the ears. i must be the same

if i still recognize what i know

to be what it is. don't argue

just kiss me and say you don't

remember me just the way i was

i've got an arrangement with the clock:

he doesn't question my choices

i don't stare at him for quicker

hands

the hair about her face was

first loosely curled

and she wore sweaters

jeans a locket or two

she was sweet but turbulent

tasty but fizzy too - there was a bite

at the end - like a special trap

to be sprung

i was in her orbit

and waited with

quickened pulse

at the prospect of a glimpse

or a brush of her hair

a wave of her hand

she tended not to listen

to compliments

like she knew the truth about herself

and refused to be out-argued

i knew my own truth of her

and i would cross no line

that held her back

held her to vows

both private and public

what was it about her that

propelled me to respect her honor? could she

not see and know that i was like any other

man: salivating, sweating, hard and panting, lying

through curled lips

and all the rest.

what kept you out of my arms

out of my bed

but wrapped in my heart like

the most expensive candy - unopened

exquisite. why did i weaken and refuse to

fight for the freedom of your choices

was i not a patriot - pledging allegiance

to all that i perceived as your wishes

and autonomy. sovereignty, shonnie,

and all else,

was always yours.

untitled (for no one)

it's been awhile

since i called you

a whore

and made it stick

i paid for a fuck

but you charged for a lick.

i see white skinny legs

in the little red skirt

stacked heels

and some sort of fur stole.

your sores were like jewels

and didn't offend

on you, they looked like foreign

reliquary placed there by clergy.

you called me names

as you stormed past

the po-leece found you

hitching on the canyon road

'round dusk. talking out of your

head like someone else controlled

your voice- like a liquid marionette. i posted bail

but didn't escort you out. once on the street

you gave a guy a blow job for some change

i think then you called your mom

months later you got clean - again -

and studied

the quaran - or however you spell it

i think you even vowed to kill cat stevens

for derailing the peace train, there was no

turning back once you made up your mind.

it's like the script-writer that penned all your

episodes

had a thing for pussy

and controlling people with it

you kept the knife as a back up

in case you couldn't talk your way

out of the trouble. i think you killed that

guy only 'cause you heard that johnny cash song

about killing a man just to watch him die.

whatever code propels you in your pursuits

it's not of this world. your windows look out

but no one can see in. when you died

it was like the angels had turned into bikers

and jesus had a softtail for a donkey. whatever portion

of heaven has been saved for you, please remember

to acknowledge the landlord. He likes that.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

untitled

the winter

is witness

to the wideness

of an expanding

slumber

that stretches

its nap into

spring.

untitled (for)

soon i'll see you

in the waves

and in the air

your hair

will choke me

and i'll like

the moment

as it was

when the devil

left only

his tail and staff.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

untitled

My Bible

has a hole

where Jesus

goes in and out -

like the breathing

of His Father.

Mary seeks

sanctuary, and has

chosen

to reside

only in the spaces

allowed by God -

between the believers

and the non.

Hers is

the home where

the pictures above

the hearth

are fuzzy and faint

and signed by an

unknown Hand.

People still

bow and pray

to her as the Mother

of the Son - forgetting

and offending -

the Chosen

and the One.

untitled

you look for the tracks

of my

southern culture

on its last skid

past the row-houses

and shotgun shacks

where we once hid

my trademark medallion

under layers of gold

i've got a chestful

of expansion

giving you the old

heave-ho.

Untitled (i heard a song and thought of it)

It’s like your

Scissor-hands

(your scissor-hands)

have cut me

down to size

they hold me

at the throat

and bend

the notes

of every sigh

every bullet’s

bark

and trigger’s

spark

lurk like danger

in the dark

the saving

grace

of sparrow’s lace

feathering

the park.

I walk the path

Just out of sight

The bush around

The bend

And tirelessly

Await the next ambush

Set at

This journey’s end.

untitled

i hear

the bird

wings flutter

away

from the familiar

i'm left

with

their home -

to hide myself

in the sticks and spit

of their abandoned

detritus.

untitled

i was a cowboy

rode your ghost

hard to the north end

i left it

heaving

and foaming

under saddle -

to die alone

in a drift

i hitched

back -

in time

for yule

and foolish gifts

sadder still

to be left

with no

than a ghoulish

notion -

faded red

bleached blood

drying in the

arctic sun.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Saturday

I didn’t know I was bored

Until I saw what others

Did with their time

Didn’t know I

Couldn’t do something

Until someone spoke

Through me

Of impossibility

These are not

Words

To entertain/

My song is in sync

With the whoosh whoosh

Of the needle

And in that space

Between the grooves

The record

Finds my voice

Full and rich

In the palette

Of the nearly

Retired.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

twist sugar

Twist, sugar (in the wind)

Turn, toward me (in my mind)

Shake the last of leaves

And step inside

This may take awhile

I know it’s cold

And I apologize

We shouldn’t be here

But where else?

Ah, what is it –

You shouldn’t…

I know I know

Nothing can be taken back

How did it get to this point

Were we both looking the other

Way

When time robbed us

Of ourselves

And mocked what we were.

to dorothy now dead

for my mother

who didn't make

it this far

i've walked after

you couldn't

and should've walked

farther but didn't

these are regretful tears

and no joy of man's desiring.

you misplaced the grave early

on and when i looked twice

you weren't there to give me clues

to find the sister i didn't know.

lady parts

touching

lady parts

i'm thrilled

to be included

the parting

and pairing

sharing what

seems like the

end to me.

i will

i wheel

roll over

your ocean

and stick

in mud

in shallows

and swallow

nothing.

should i?

miles are

nothing

space. time.

they are just

obstacles

destroyed

by will

wheeling

into israeli

strongholds -

walls wailing

in ancient solitude.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

THE PRESBYTERIANS

He had a look of complete surprise

When they called his number

His hand clenched

The wheel so tightly

The metal car horn

Shattered in two.

His daughter cried

Quietly –

Made no mention

Of her intense sadness –

Rather passed on the denial

Like a bowl

Of shelled peas

At Sunday dinner.

ANGEL

My Angel

Walks softly

Through my sleeping heart.

In pink velvet toe shoes

She peddles

A quiet revival.

(WHAT) YOU SAY (RSVP)

You say

It’s bad,

Yet it’s worse.

The degrees by which

You stretch

And bend

Your own rules.

My, how the liberty

Asserts itself

Enough

For you to vacate

The idea’s

Very expansion.

The paper will

Remain white

And therefore

Free

To extend this invitation.

WOLFIE'S BLESSED FORTUNE

We walk together

Hand in paw

I thank God

You’re not a carnivore

Anymore.

The love of the countryside

And starvation

Keeps this anorexic man

At your feet

Picking scabs

Hoping for something delicious to eat

UNTITLED (I DIDN'T ASK)

i didn't ask

how she lost her fingers

she forgot to say thank you

when i told her of the jail

i took it out while walking

through the parking lot at walgreens

don't know what made me do it

other than offering the excuse

that it needed air

i know that before the cop arrived

all was well

she, on the other hand

sang a different tune and rode on the fame

of being afraid of the moon

which brings to mind the notion

of saying goodnight to that familiar satellite

see how all is connected and all is well

the kingdom survives with every remembered tale

we look this way and that

but should offer nothing but a tip of the hat

to the one that thought it all up for amusement

UNTITLED (TRANSLATED FROM THE SPAMISH)

Those though,

rest ye

by way of a thousand forms.

Dry deeply

For one minute of sound sleep.

Red, dark among

The overcast skies

The sun morphs into a visual lullaby

For insomniacs.

Any leg would object to the moon’s ordered walk.

Or she

In the gun room

Answer ye. Answer please.

Every pay day in the city

Separates us more by layers

of love

and oceans a’plenty.

UNTITLED

The words take shape

Over the empty page

That once reflected your shadow

Back at me.

In the instant you left,

Your void was filled by words –

Unspoken, only thought.

They fought to crowd your ghost

From all the rooms

You once called home.

And over time,

They came to be

All that was left of you.

And I inched my way into their acceptance –

A familiar face, like an old drinking buddy.

And, as I’ve spent more time with them

Than you, they are now more real

Than you ever were.

Why look past yourself for proof?

Are the ghosts conspiring

An impassioned return?

TREFOIL OF THE DADA KING

A lace cuff

Yes

A commanding view

Of Gala’s back

(with a violin’s f-hole inscription):

to my lover

in her castle

I’ll be back

As a madman

Someday.

TOUR (THROUGH THE VANITY)

The tour

Through the pictures

Startled me

I believe it was

The shock

Of knowing

There are no repeat performances

Her dressing table

As it was

Empty of my image

Seated next to her

The reflection of her splendor

Is now missing

from the closest,

friendliest

Eyes

Ever to have watched her.

LOVE STORY

A guise gusseted

In rustic fashion

The desert carved

In a skull’s formation

Rich man’s furtive

Complicity

Carved and cavernous

In the echo of a wish.

YODEL MOUNTAIN

A sad refrain

Comes back to me

In echoed

quarter time

To mark the spot

where I fell

in a holler

Far behind.

THE PSALMIST 2

The vast assembly

Part of a much vaster array

Of humanity

The sum of my parts

Equal to

The potential

Of each part

To live

Up to its blueprinted mandate.

THE PSALMIST

As leader

I’m sustained

In the word

To vindicate

My cheating heart

To compromise

My place in

The loins

Of God.

UNTITLED (FOR A MOTHER)

Archaic

By your standards

The hint of amber in the color

Of the skin

Dusty –somewhat

Like Oklahoma

In my mother’s earliest days

As I recount her time there

Here

And beyond

It occurs to me

I never really knew her

Nor would she allow intrusion

Into her misery

Her knotted limbs

Reminded one

That

The growing things

Are often off-limits

In God’s carefully tended

Garden.

THE NEWEST LANGUAGE

The newest language

Requires the least

Attention

To history

This sound

That sound

Conjugate

What?

Nominative

Accusative

All Cases

For sissies

I’m in it for a way

To express

The drumbeats in the brain

No codex

No indeces

Forward

Or nowhere

Is my creed.

SHORT VERSION

Drinking all night

Has got you all mixed up,

Hasn’t it?

You don’t know who you are

Where you’re going

You take each moment

As a blow to the head.

SCRUFF TERRIER

The evil twin

Eats your bed

Your sheets

With relish

The folds of the night sky

Give shape

To a hooded, horny gesture

The strut is forgiveness

Turned inward.

SCRIM

The outline

Of the tree

Takes on the breadth

of the sky

In the wake

Of the afternoon’s

Rush

to conclude.

RECONDITE MAZE OF THE WISH BOOK

Black stroke trestle falls

As optic forces stride

Through figments

Of phallic thumbs,

Poised for a vertical hitch-hike.

PROTECT YOUR PUZZLE

As organic an assistant

As you could ever want.

The time to tease is past.

Jewels to win you?

I don’t think it can be done.

You’ll die alone

As each of us do.

PRETTY POISON

It's how you look to me:

The reddest of inedible berries

In a love-starved world.

SEASON

My nesting phase

Is complete:

Soon the winter’s

Branches

Will leave traces

On the blank faces

Of summer loves.

MY IDEA OF THE WEST

First you travel

(in that direction)

you bend your knees

and take that first drink

you hitch as far as you can

sleep under the tables

wherever necessary

you play the guitar of course

else where would the songs

come from?

MISQUOTING THE MADDER PONIES

One of the “itises”

I forget which

Perhaps one of the phobic brothers –

Claustro or Arachno,

Or sister Agora

Anyway, something or somebody is scaring me

And it can’t go on.

It’s time to root out the evil gene

Crush the weak chromosome

At the very least find someone

To prescribe something

make the voices stop

keep my hands from lifting the shop

Keep my pulse from racing the clock

After much thought

And a conversation with the angry combatants

I’d best be served by reason to

Kick against the covers

At thunder’s signal - chew up all the fences.

Bury the hatchet

deep

into the split-tail lovers.

CURIOS

Little curios

A bit of a knack

For bric-a-brac

I fold

Into

Your lap

At nap time

And foist

My cat-like loyalty

On your unsuspecting

Skin.

HAPPY

Happy? and

As you ask me

That same question

I deny the real answer,

Content

As I am

To have you examine

Me from this great distance,

A prisoner

locked

In the confines of now and then.

PARADISE

Given up for dead

In a surrealist’s paradise

The backstroke leads

Some back home.

The found objet d’art

Is no place for comfort

Rather confronting

The mind resolutely.

I’ve found that testing

Your courage

Saps my strength

Daily:

The mind no match

For a sweating

Heaving muscle.

GARDEN

Overgrown now,

Paradise has the look of ordered action

Becoming stilled

The words of the world – of people –

can describe

Action that has become stilled,

But there is a more pressing desire

For the garden

to return to its natural state.

i want a simple life

when my

garden has found its way to ruin.

i want to live always in the late afternoon

in the spring or fall –

to hear church bells ring for the last time of day.

to watch the shadows grow longer,

then disappear, yielding themselves

to darkness.

FOX MUSETTE

In this light

She sings like

A toy

Chantuese,

Her arms

Mechanically poised.

A wounded dreamer

In song

her words

Are edicts

Of an empathetic

Raisonne d’etre.

FIRESTARTER

I’ve still got a pulse

So the rumor’s true

The boy

In the man

Wants to leave

All that silliness behind

He counts to ten

Before stuffing the rag

And stiking

The match.

FALLING BOWLERED GENTLEMEN

René sank into

Georgette’s arms,

Hurt by the damage

Of raining men

And the world

outside his

perfectly rendered

Dada umbrella.

EVIL ROBOT KING

The mercy killings start

In the heart

The house in the photo

Is an indicator

Of what we know

Of the land

The strength it takes

To build and maintain.

Something happens

To the stories

We tell ourselves

Late at night

They become longer

More thrilling

We liken ourselves

To be the heroes and heroines

We urge darker skin

On the unsuspecting

Victim

In the mirror.

ENTER THE DARK

I offered myself to her

As a man would:

Extending himself

In the warm dark

Ready to do the calming work

Of settling the nerves

Of straightening a course

Too long serpentine.

Too cold to speak

The words would just stick

And we’d forever catch

Ourselves

Naked in the barrenness between speech and thought.

ELEPHANTVILLE

Limbs heavy and

Tired from storming

The sleepy villages

The mad elephant

Let loose in his car

Bound for bulimia.

DOCTORATE

Now that the registrar

Has logged you as missing in action

It’s up to me

To determine

Where the benefactor

Wants the nameplate.

CRAZY HORSE ON CALIFORNIA WINE

The green days

Have all passed

The east sucked into the coastline

Cinched at the throat

By an over-zealous halter –

lassoing the foam

on the beach.

ARTIFICIAL DUSK

Solid but ethereal

The forms

At the lake

And on the road

Beyond the fence

And in the wind

Are scarecrows

From your past.

You see them as

Signposts for your future

But yours is the way

Of always.

Denying them would be your

Ruin.

And your shadow would sink

Into a community of darkness,

The bodies piled in ever larger

Black clusters.

CAGE

And as she takes

Her meals

Sucks as a bird

On the smallest of worms.

Her path

Marked by stars

And shimmering planetary

Alignments

The day is beginning

To grow tired

With the motions

Of the rocking matrons.

STAR CLUSTER

But to straighten

the folds

Of her dress

Circling

The nape

Of her neck

with my tongue:

Could not take

My eyes away

From skin

So white

It shone

In solid star-like

Forms

O, to rename

Her constellations.

BOOTLEG MUSEUM

We heard the song

Then cursed our ears

Discordant murmur

Not our cup of tea

But with time

And all that passes

We came to like

The sound

And bought

Its brilliance

To surround

Our thoughts.

1997

I don’t remember saying,

I’m a natural man.

I couldn’t pretend (and make it believable)

Something so grand.

The course of my days

Run counter to my dreams

I think I see them wave

At each other in passing.

There’s now no fierceness

In my sneer

When I find the energy.

Most often I’m in the nether-world

Of clouds, drifting between

Remembering and forgetting

Hoping and dying.

I often find myself

Waiting for magic

To whisk me away

To some paradisaical habitat

A climate of my liking.

All my mysteries

Have been revealed

Bringing to level ground

The curve and course

That marks me.

-jim hill (4-23-03)

Saturday, November 28, 2009

UNTITLED (FOR SHONNIE)

We were alone

In that crowd of two

We hungered but

Of course never

Ate

Together.

You were too young

To know that going

Against your vows

Would’ve been only

A momentary pleasure.

In that small town –

Small enough

For hungrier eyes to see

And waggier tongues to wag.

I wore the trinket ring

You gave me from the gum

Machine for years beyond

Would like to find it again

As if its restoration

Could blow life back

Into my now

Deflated old days.

For long years I passed

Biker chicks and wondered

If you’d become one

In your anger and defiance.

I starved myself

Inside your wishes

But even the shrunken

Me was no able

Opponent to

Your dreams

There are those that know

More of you

Than I ever could

But what I know is

Specific enough

For its own history

Which is stored in all its

excruciating detail

in the confines

of a distant memory

-jim hill (11-27-09)

VOWELL

O reluctant worshipper

O late mourner

It’s late the hands say

(hands on a clock-face – we couldn’t

make THIS up).

I’m dropping all consonants

From this day forward

It’s like anti-russian

At this point:

Only soft sounds

My speech will be like

Cooing in your ear

No hard edges to define

Us – I’ll take the easy way

Anytime.

Now the ground rules

Are that when you want

Me to talk dirty

It will be nearly impossible

Because what you want to hear

Is dependent on those shafts of sounds

That pierce and penetrate

The air – the space between us.

Perhaps we’d better just say

Goodbye now – I don’t see a happy end

But then if I make a prediction

About how we’ll be

Eating small portions of food

From a can – trying to find

Something to talk about,

We’ll just completely forget

About how physical

We once were

The separation of two

Into two living quarters

Now when you turn in the night

I won’t feel it nor care when the nails

Haven’t been trimmed

I’ll be in my own bed

Cooing with only the soft sounds

Of dying. I’ll ah my way forward

And oh when my bones creak

And ih when I’ve no memory

Of an if.

-jim hill (11-28-09)

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

i read about those
motorcycle diaries
and then how to repair them
(there was zen in all that -
and maybe a little xenophobia too).

i was scared
and you pulled me
out
made me think i was
some kind of soldier in all this

the money that flowed in
made me feel less effective
as a soldier; more like
a mercenary -
in it for only
what i could bleed out
for you.

don't get me wrong
i reaped part of the reward
but i'm taking my cut back
to the land
that created me -

rolling on -
to the exit
lane in the west texas
dust.

-jim hill (11-25-09)

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

THE HAPPY BITS

It seemed to me
A notion

A time to reflect
On the nature of looking

And what we actually see
With our eyes

Feel
with our hearts

was it an ancient city
or dusty mother-boards
the artist tricked us
once again

into believing what
wasn’t real

and we’re so grateful
for the opportunity

to be fooled
by one so gifted

what the lie
taught us

was not so much
what to see

but
how to look.

-jim hill (4-03-02)

Fingering the Prayer

We climbed on the wheel
And gave our two cents worth
Private little petitions
For salvation

I feel funny making
Public
My private demands
Making motions
In the stirrings of the heart
For congregational consumption
Is it not enough to mock
The benefactors
Of a peaceful existence
By calling attention
To the inadequacies
Of my own devotional life
My own failings
As a witness to god’s mercy
And benevolence?

No, the order of the most peaceful
Heart is shattered by
Surprise.
Disrupted in moody
Meditation
By the continual,
Relentless
Encroachment
And forward march
Of man.

-jim hill (4-22-02)

PURITAN

Ever
The watchful

Puritan
The epic

Written
Out

Tapped out
On an old smith-corona

The need
To exercise

The speed
At which

Thought overtakes
Action

The impurity
Of movement

In its
Solo singularity

Hilarity
And its blushing

Cousin,
Necessity.

Away for the weekend
shit-faced and forgotten.

In the trailer-park
Of the mind.

-jim hill (2-20-02)

UNTITLED (DREAMS ARE YOUR PILLOW)

Dreams
Are your pillow -
Cradling your
Head
Where your
Heart has borne you

Your bed
The transport
The vehicle
For change
Where hope
Makes friends
With furry demons
and childish
Whispers,
Impeding speech
But conveying truth.

On a bed
Of wonder
The silken sheets
and warm
flannel
Try to
Cover and smother
The shape
Of the girl
On the wire
Try to become
The nighttime salvation
The security and
The safety net
In the cirque de parfait

-jim hill (2-15-02)

Curry House with Concrete Crow

Time and marriage
Changed the belle
Of the ball

Tight, ill-fitting
Brassieres and a
Penchant for pain

Make her
The maven
To watch

She’s come
To understand
The basic

Differences
Between
The sexes

As if the
Arm hair
Weren’t

Enough
To keep
Them separate in her mind.

There are those
Who’ve come
Too late

To understand
The differences,
Which are plentiful, planetary, and final.

But there is a must to avoid:
The shrieking, shrill thrill
in the dark,

patting the backside
of Venus
encircling in orbit,
the meadows of Mars.

-jim hill (5-8-02)

Crucified For the Benefit of Nails (unfinished)

Taught to look
At all angles
Of looking
To know
The backside
Of light
And how it sneaks up
On a sphere

Taking the course
Of completing the non-sequiturs –
Plaid and polka
Dots and squares
Bald-heads with hair

The strain of finding
The hero
Outside the home
Of the mirror
To stretch out the arms
In suffering and supplication
To anoint oneself
With upended ejaculate,
Hoping to miss the mouth

To love oneself
Without the obvious
Pressure of performance

The dust in the street
Is the right vehicle for viruses
The tread of weary travelers
Mocking themselves,
Riding randy and shoddy
Over shame,
the pirate in the pilate program
condemned to preside
over a zealous father's
ever-flattened, fatuous
world-view.

-jim hill (4-2-02)

Crèche (unfinished)

The figures were
For a long time
Stiff and wooden
As if there were no
Bones or blood
In the saints’ rather
architectural bodies.

Then along come the geniuses
Of marble and painted flesh,
To personalize
The joy
And wonder
Of iconic taste-making.

-jim hill (4-17-02)

THE CONTINUOUS POSITION OF PRAYER

If it starts as an asking for
Not an acceptance of,
Then what I’ve done
Is avoid the notion altogether.
God speaks through
The mirror’s reflection,
The image forced against
Itself
as the enemy
awaits surrender.
On one side of the inward-flowing river
Satan and his troops
Laugh and smoke
Around the campfires of hell.
God looks puzzled
As his son is tormented
And jeered at
About his current mistakes
And his youthful misguided missteps.

The heads of saints and sinners
Dot the clotheslines along the river bank
On wash day.
I dare not cross myself
While He (the body catholic)
is yet still hanging.

-Jim Hill (12-29-01)

CONDITIONS OF DREAMING

That which is
Is.
That which was
Is past

In projecting
A truthful side,
I stand as
A by-stander
Does
In the street
After
A terrible accident
Or a violent
Death
Hands in my pockets
I grab
A scrap of paper,
Hoping
That words will
Come to describe
For me
The connection
With the event -
The humanity -
The suffering
Will lend itself
To me
So that I can
Figure out
My own path
And learn
To stop short
Just short
Of daring
Of dreaming.

-jim hill (2-5-02)

CLUE SPRAY

I spy
And kill
With the eyes
Of the hunted
They know me
When they see me
Coming
I catch a glimpse
In the rearview
Of the cops that can identify
The killer in me
Who I’d like to
Who I wouldn’t
Want to see dead
All that have wronged
And sinned
I’d wear the black robe
Of the white judge
And hastily
Weigh the evidence
with
Chalk-lines
And DNA

-jim hill (4-03-02)

China Wall (for China Doll)

The doll-face
Cracked like
Water-less soil
The tears were glass beads,
Faked sadness
For the masses
Who could be put off
By the artist’s intent
To let the forgotten –
The least of you
And yours –
experience
Pain and sadness

To be honest,
I’m a little put off
By the idea
Of staging emotions
For the benefit
Of my experiencing
What’s left of my interior life,
Vicariously.

I look with special interest
At the photographs
Of velvet boxes
And silk hangers
Tiny clothes and special playthings
For the privileged
Children of loving parents
In the garden of the kinder.
What the pictures convey
To me is the intimacy of childhood
As expressed in the private world of play
Tactile sensations forming
Memories
Of velvet and satin. silk
And wood
Nick-knacks and notions
Of bounteous, but close-quarter
Living
In the dark closets
Of parents and pardons.

-jim hill (4-09-02)

CELEBRATION

A deliberate pose
At the wall
In this case
The art of camouflage
with my
Road-rage Jesus.

-Jim Hill (11-15-01)

Cannes Bronze

The man
Of the tireless
And windless days
Out and empty

The figures
Stacked
Against
The minimal staging

Weathered
And worn
From the sun
Unite uniquenesses

Forging
A metallic
Stronghold
Of North African sensibilities.

-jim hill (5-15-02)

BRANCHES OF MISFORTUNE # 2

I mean he called
Them by name,
One against the other,
Riding rough-shod
Over ruin.
No less
A battle-fiend, my friend,
Than the jousting
Windmill -
A soldier,
Fighting fatigue.

-jim hill (3-06-02)

BLOODLETTERS

With all strength
And hope
The smile is reversed,
Muscles flexing
But only inwardly abiding
The dictates of the narcissist

These little letter scraps
Can’t bind you to me
When the decision’s been made
For my release
From your tight grip

I think back on days and years past
And vow
A silent pact
With only a diagram
Of your movements.

-jim hill (4-11-02)

Big Like House

Chewing scenery
like a hollywood
starlet –
she
strode
the road.
Asking,
Never getting
the right words
from the mouth
of god.

-jim hill (4-30-02)

ANGELS

Careful
This search for self
In the ruins of others’
Expectations
The internal screamer
Has found new reasons
To be silent
Questions continually asked
Answers perpetually avoided
The god-heart pierced
By remarkably clear and precise
marksmanship
The mirror reflects the treachery
(and survival tactics) of a beast
but the sharp horns
are beautiful in their way
the kids listen for the monster
as he draws back his bow
and fires straight up
into a crowd of angels.
Pin-feathers and harps lay scattered on the ground
White robes and golden hair
Matted with blood
No one is really surprised
As the angel slayer
Had shown the truth in his murderous heart
years before.

-jim hill (11-07-01)

Alligator Box

tied to your idea
for shoes

I hang on every
red-lettered word

there is a time
for the space

around you
to speak

in waves
in language

only dogs
understand:

sharp, shrill,
and foaming at the mouth.

-jim hill (3-28-02)

ALL TIME EQUALS

(the pantheist wades in shallow baptismal waters)

I accept the challenge
Of giving up
this search of sorts

Several times
The high wall
Asks me
To climb it

Everytime
There is a louder No

The children look funny,
their eyes
hurtful and
sad.

Faces,
long and sunken:
bondservants
to the edict
of their
life’s blueprint

jim hill (09-01-00)

how it looks from here

what was done in the golden age should stay golden
a hand extended
should risk exposure
at opportunity.

we pry our cold
fingers
from throats
not unlike our own:

to heighten pleasure
or to grapple
with beasts inside,

the outcome
is predicated
on incoming.

to unfurl
a curl or two,
perhaps unwrapping
a bedroll -
loving the one you're with

art in the heart
pain in the stain.

-jim hill (11-17-09)

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

(for) red nails

i want you
but as you are:
abstract and distant.
the underside of the bandage
(with the pins and cherries)
has me worried.
but then i'm anxious
about the little things.
you seem relatable
but only in the sense
of connecting with
the images
and text. what about
the real communication
between real people:
for example, "pass the salt."
"will do" you reply.
But what do your eyes say
when they meet that boy
at the altar rail - is he the one?
can he move with you
or will he be tied to the teachings
of the church and merely take
you as an implement of his beliefs?
to bed with the bread. with the blood.
what to make of siblings
and rivalries. are there brothers
who want your way with words? sisters
who forget who came first?
this is not a catalogue
not an inventory
i want a connection
with the stems and limbs
the stains and saturated color
that hides in the ink of the black.
you have enviable ankles
(not cankles). there is a lean
economy in the way you walk
and work. your subject is you
and in that you may have found
me.

-jim hill (8-13-09)

(for) wrong city

too close to the woman
i said
with a mouthful of hair
the victor coaxes
spoils
from an unusual vantage
i trot
out warhorses
of past embarrassments
as if the trial
were
anything but fair.

-jim hill (9-25-09)

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Eerie Occasion

The search for perfection
In a kiss:

Lips forged from stone
And hair-like things
On the top line
Were this woman
Really comprised
Of a rib-bone
And a scandalous
Stormy birth by fire,
I would not
Be witness
To the recoil
And rebound
Of a wanton
Night on the town.

-jim hill (3-16-09)

The Party at the Overleaf

Marcel, then a curator
Bandaged dog, now limp

A casket
A crutch

Silly that the picture
Of the penis
Won’t lay over
Like the real one

Call her for me:
Time won’t let go.

Francis:
Zipper down
Buttocks exposed.

America has AIDS
From taking it
Up the ass.

Lord Goodman
Looks better
In a full-body tourniquet

What I wouldn’t be
If you weren’t there

Didn’t like it
In the yard
But could
Tolerate the night
(with cold compresses)

my laugh won’t translate
into your culture
(queue the smog)
only when you think it’s safe

came leeches
into
a microwave-safe serving-dish.
The joke is a visual variant.

I held my breath
You looked away
Can’t frame that
With mere knowledge.

-jim hill (5-25-09)

Reading Something and Seeing Something Else

Something read:

"...a foot slumped free of the shroud and dangled ineffectually in the
air. Lobo Antunes decided, he said in a recent interview, 'to write
for that foot.'"

while i write for the foot
she paints for the head -
nameless
in a shroud.

On seeing
a Cindy Sherman film still:

for all the heat
she has no shape
nor fun in the bun(s)

i blame -
with aim -
all her
gorgeous geometry.

-jim hill (5-5-09)

Tomb of the Unknown Voter

I’m a voter in the rhythm
Can’t skate with the buffaloes
My horn is plenty
While the rainbow
Is quite enough
For the suicidal colored
girls.

At night
I wait
By the stop sign
For something
Anything.
The ditch behind our house
Was fun for awhile
And when that fun didn’t last forever
I took my frustration to the street.

Seeing
Two girls smoking
Outside my window
Was enough to sustain
My addiction for a moment or two;
That too, didn’t last forever
And I was in my own room for gawd’s sake!

When we cut all the plants
And bushes down
It was dirt and dirt only
The planter-box was empty
And the neighbors likely
Thought we’d lost it
That, and perhaps that alone,
Signaled the end of childhood
For me. Something shifted inside that
Day and I knew nothing would be the same
It certainly wasn’t for the trees and shrubberies
I took father at his word
That the lawn would someday turn concrete.

-jim hill (3-27-09)

Earthquake Ave.

The chipped cup
Was just an early indicator

When the mirror
Fell from the wall you knew it was inevitable.

We haven’t
Fallen far from our ancestral tree

Scared like our parents
Were in their builder generational clothes

We hang hammers on the loops
And tuck screwdrivers in functional pouches

We fool ourselves
Into believing that we are actually working

When we pull up into our spaces
And roll up our sleeves

The cars we drive
Are fueled by the blood of our young sons

And the flags we wave
Are stitched from the hairs of the fallen Whigs

We wish we could be royalty
And ride in the parades with the wealthy

But what we have
Is a threatened neighborhood

Fires in the distance
And a low rumbling under our feet

In houses owned by who
Knows who

We have our parties
And entertain our guests

As if tomorrow forgives us.
We pick flowers and vote

We drive
And we fuck

Making children
Who grow to be us

(in spite of their best efforts)
and enjoy their own version of what this is

and perhaps what it will be again.

-jim hill (3-30-09)

Blockade (for maya)

Who? But before you go i.
The path of the pilgrim
Laid out in footprints
One in front of the other.
We speak low
But aim high.
The child
Grows to be an emblem
Of the hoodlum and waits for one of us to forgive.
He seems nice enough
but we argue about his hygiene
And his choices -
And the voices ahh the voices
I would like for one time
To hear him sing his happy song
If just one more time.

The chilly rain
Is what makes me come alive
I hazard a guess as to why.
Bundled in scarf
And birthday suit
I imagine a time when
A mother was young
And her son even younger
As I approach her age
When my son is what my age was
Could time just wrap itself
Around an already entangled mind
And compress past into present?

Her drawings say it all
And then some
They codify what we already
Know to be true
They cow-tow to no one
They are blameless
And accuse no one
The media speak for themselves
And mix it up with anyone doubting
That a woman can possess
And give it away at the same time
A ghostly voice
Is visually displayed
And a million miles away
A man responds
By ignoring his own voices
For once. This is how it is
To the war-torn
Calling out to the seemingly
Safe. Homeland security
Has the skill to build a wall only so high
If folks want in here they can just go around
What of the ladies, men, horses and more?
They were born when Picasso
Fucked his mistress and was proud of it
When sex and bravado forged a partnership
In visual art. In literature we had a Picasso equivalent
In Mailer. He puffed his chest and had on-air fisticuffs
With anyone who could fight back. Our eyes are so scarred
And we are so tragically hip as to be numb against real power
Of expression. As it was said (Eliot?) it will all end in a whisper.

And, as this lady screams, are you listening?

-jim hill (3-16-09)

Lying Tongues

Your lying tongue
Swells in my mouth
And disgusts me
At the poison.
I’ve taken a vow
Of silence
Because I actually can’t talk
While you inhabit
A camping squatter
Within the voice
Of a different reason.

-jim hill (7-24-09)

Monday, November 2, 2009

SHE WAS LIKE

She was like

A proven pooch.

A bitch in heat

Naked at the leash.

A cornered-market

On an unshaved beach.

-jim hill (5-28-07)

if you tell your story

If you tell your story

I will listen

And listen as if my life depended on it.

It’s not often that

Non-fiction

Can wield such authority

Too often

Real life

Seems dictated

By partiality

And particulars

Non-relatable.

Yours, however

Is a compellingly simple story:

Divide and conquer

Like the greatest in history

And then leave the dead

To rot in the sun.

-jim hill (12-19-07)

DADDY'S MORBID ORBIT

He’d come in the evening

When he could be gone no longer.

We children would wait for his signal

Then hide.

Sometimes he’d eat

What mom laid out

Sometimes he’d ignore

The prepared food

And just make his favorite:

Chili and eggs.

When the times were all settled

And growing up was the last thing to do,

We’d hide under

The shroud

Of those un-blessed

By their fathers

And blame his indifference

On ourselves.

-jim hill (1-23-07)

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Monday, November 2, 2009

© 2017 by Jim Hill

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