these

these are not my feet

how can they be

when not running from you

these are not my eyes

that fail to cry

at the mention of your name

i've asked forgiveness

but how long the statute

before i can't wait 

for a wink

a nod

a finger

i've taken up

with the mystics

and curled heavy metal

hoping to pass the test

of guilt

it waits inside

as a dog at the bowl

the genius of the movements

is how they take over even beyond

the recognition of the habit

i've no home beyond 

the square walls of the mind

and what lies behind the door

as a stop.

(c)jim hill (2-23-10)

them thats gots

what if i were

the man in white

creating an interpretive dance

on the times' tables

what if i acted 

as if i were seeing you

for the first time

even it had only been

five minutes since our last meeting

sometimes even the new gets

old. we want to belong

and to feel and to love

maybe have a hobby

to nuture a puppy to take

his business outside

i want what you want

but it isn't possible

to want it simultaneously

only anonymously

(as i sign, date, and copyright protect)

(c) jim hill (2-23-10)

call it what you want

this is for all the lonely

people

isn't that how it went? do you think

the song meant as much

the 500th time it was sung?

doubt it.

just as the hunch i have

is melted in the wave 

of the heat of your hand

and the beard of your man

i deflate

at the first hint of humility

how can i paint again

knowing that he

is taken seriously

and i'm like the old ladies

at the league

content in their tubes'

brilliance.

(c) jim hill (2-23-10)

wreath/garland of victor

i wouldn't take

your hands away

how could i

not stong enough

of a preventer

in the shadow of the pretender

that was then

and now too

how long HAS it been

do you even care to remember

or has the bubble overtaken

the one blowing it

when i burst on your scene

it was the last time i felt

light enough in my feet

to run the victory lap 'round you

and when i raised a defiant fist

at the first notes of the anthem

you'd fallen hard

from the no. 1 box.

(c)jim hill (2-23-10)

it seems silly

even ugly

silly to face

the facts of the mirror

and what it reveals

to be petty and pointless

i've raised a brow or two

but no one remembers past

their own second glass

theirs are not the memories

i care to think of 

fondly as a fondler

this is what i'll be in

my dress-grays (hair i mean).

i've run some miles\

and walked farther than i should've

i've won no points

and gained no favor that matters. yet you read on

in earnest. what can you discern that

you haven't before. we are the products

of the same system you and i

we have have adapted ourselves

and bent our wills around the same useless precepts

we can forgive and even forget doing it.

but who can tell us anything useful and meaningful

and mean it.

(c) jim hill (2-23-10)

Untitled (home)

the old bastard'd

be better off

in the ground.

for cripessake

he's in a fucking diaper

he's no use to himself

if he can't be himself

i'm not one of those that

hangs around waiting

for a spark to hit

me and tell me i'm worth

something; if i'm not

i'm not.  so tell me to

my face 

before i forget who you

are. use your courage

to load the gun

(that i bought you

and taught you how to

use). take your aim

then lose your pity.

i'm ready

you're ready

aim

fire.

(c) jim hill (02-13-2010)