radio is free: December 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)

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Sunday, December 6, 2009

© 2017 by Jim Hill

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