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)

Tumbleweed

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)

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)

(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)

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)

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)

I PREFER YOU

I prefer you

To quiet food

 

I’ve fed

On you

 

Quite enough

To satisfy.

 

Blood

On the tongue

 

Is all the urge

I need

 

To compel

This gastronome

 

To the limits

Of his linens.

 

 

                        -jim hill (4-26-07)

A COMMUNITY OF WALLS

came in

drew devils

on the wall

new house

dictates new routines

threw

her arms

around me

a choke hold

of love not regret

she tires easily

mistakes

mine for other voices

i beg to differ

and wind up 

on my knees

all night long

who's easier

on the eyes

than i

this pale form

empty

of broken baggage

unclaimed.

-jim hill 

WAR = BALLET

a saw for the legs

a happy face under

helmets of pink and lace

camo.

we are the happy

and dutiful

soldiers

in our holy battles,

fearing

none but a

familiar enemy

who looks

strangely like

us.

"kill them,"

the worshipful master

said. "humiliate

the ones you've captured."

"torture, without mercy," until

they either admit the truth

or adapt to yours."

"da da dadaa... love one another.."

i sang.

-jim hill 

LITURGY

i found god in the little pill;

His Son in the wafer

and whine.

you fight the good

fight

in all you do.

if He is in the very air

around us

why is the static charge

shaped like the devil

when i say "horny"

you know what i mean.

Every day

i forget to pray

satan laughs

and says, "you see?"

when

i walk,

the star of david

is my template

i ricochet

from the corners -

a spiritual pinball

succubus

swineherd.

 

 

                                    -jim hill (6-6-09)

WHAT'S LEFT TO SHOCK THE CHILDREN

little book

of big ideas

written small

and coming fast

the effect

of chewing gum

wrapper art.

the spindle-arms

of all night market

haunts

and fast-food

parking lot attendees

a spree of empty, tasty

calories

and fair-market

memories

when sundays

closed the door

on commerce's

battle with the Lord

for domination dominoed.

our kids

vie

for the mystery

solved

and die for what the idea

became.

the partnerships 

of blood-thirsty

men in suits

and money-hungry

jute-jumpered mommas' boys.

-jim hill

BURNING ROPES

we burned ropes

to make the suicide knots

remind us of

the  family barbecues.

just as soon

hang a snake

and call it art

or bring it to the altar

and call it the

pentecost.

strange tongues

rattled by boredom:

how to make the

unutterable

palletable?

vast horizons

belong

behind the eyes

not wizened

nor brazen.

-jim hill (6-26-09)

WOOLY COVER

Wooly cover

 

Hidden and wooden

Words

Undressing beneath

A cover of wool

Textile froth

Breathed in the mouth

The lint causing a sensation

And revolt.

 

I don’t care

What you think

As long as you do.

Think

About me

As I about you

I bought a ring

And hid it in a tree

Followed my heart

But didn’t bury it

When I wounded my knee

If I were the mercenary type

And found myself in a funny hat

Taken a franc for wage

A euro for the cure

Of forgetting

I would.

I hesitate now

To say good luck

And let fortune be on

Your good side; rather

Choosing a romance-stance

And softer look inside.

-jim hill (10-12-09)

TV FOR EYES; RADIO IS MY HEART

Tv for eyes

Radio for heart

 

I clawed and pawed

To merely

Pick your brain

But those fine hairs

Finding their way into

My li’l pink pouch

Gave me pause

And a reason

To care about more than

A synaptic itch to scratch.

 

Mini works

And many methods

Form and function

Finding abundant unction

 

 

                                    -jimhill (10-24-09)