complex

i can't like him

anymore

because of his stature. he

is short

and wears a curiously

anachronistic waistcoat

with hand tucked inside. is

he pulling a pistol

perpetually? is

he channeling a great

leader, and at

the proper moment,

offer victory,

surrender?

(c)jim hill 12-09-2011

myth fire

One could say we were
All like that: violating
The sun and its
Perfect light. Dead branches
Indicating defeat at the hands of a merciless
And punishing fire.

I say that, in the face of such
Tragic ends, we seek a different fortune. Become
Glad in the shadows ; delight in the dark of
A dense and muffled beat of a heart
Pouring out its purity in healthy doses
In little acts that all people do:

According to the hint of a plan
An execution of an ideal, not content to scratch and
Forage, but to establish histories so rich
One would have to believe the mythology,
Mistaking it for fact.

(c)Jim hill (11-10-2011)

slip and slide

you say

water transport is

a major theme

and afterall

it was water that led me here

and out of the birth canal -

the "grand canal" as i like to refer to it. i

frequent the water in gulps

and hydration during the hot times

(in the old town tonight).

we look

at boats and imagine ourselves

privy to private islands and ferry-crossings

but then realize we like the dry land under our

feet, the blazing sun refusing to let us grow

old gracefully, instead offering those characterizing lines

that distinguish us from our younger, ignorant

colleagues. they with their pretty, vacant

outlook and refusals to look past tomorrows

nor their parties.

no, i'd say we don't

even like the dry land. could be

we like nothing anymore

or any less than we did

when we emerged from the

dream that had us and hid us

in the clouds hovering above those

treasured institutions:

birth, school, work, and death.

(c) jim hill (9-16-2011)

dr stingy

the doctor was

stingy

with his treatments

i want ponytails

he suggests inserts

and walkarounds. with this

i put on the right shoes

and step away from

the program's

ledge.

(c)jim hill 9-16-2011

a father looks back

even the mistakes (his)

seem to be art. there are the

drippy little dabs of insight

and breadth -

each containing something

for which we can all relate. if the

genius loves company then he sold

himself to a high-bidding firm, then said

goodbye at the sign of the first gold watch. his

children thanked him for the selfless

sacrifices (which bubbled underneath

the discourse of life-lessons at holiday meals) and

countless contributions to class projects

and his signature "love yous" without provocation.

through it all gold spattered

and spit upon already gilded recollections

of childhood recalled for the posterity

of a hint of a chance at residing near

the relics on cool, white, unvisited walls.

(c)jim hill 07-24-2011

baby book

i wrote a baby book once
hoping one day for it to be full-grown.
the words were small and few -
more pictures than text,
yet i wonder,

as a small thinker,
if i would show up in your sonogram
as i wish you carried me around inside. where would i be
if not in the cortices of fallen lovers
and flowing water
off your back and square shoulders.
cherished memories of training wheels and roller-skate keys
pigtails dipped in students' ink - writing off
days
one
by one
by one.

(c)jim hill (05-30-2011)

sketcher sketch us

advice in a column
scrambling for a row
telling a friend
it's not to late,
ever, to eat crow.

you said you were sorry
that i ever said you looked
like liv ullman,
preferring instead, to be my
tracy ullman
(more characters? more humors?) i have
doubts that you laugh
in your current world: of cramped spaces
and a baby's nick-nacks
and snack-packs in a drawer. there
are seasons to be sure
there are reasons also
to be back home
within the familiar country of mothers.

(c)jim hill (05-30-2011)

it goes until it doesn't, this machine

i've stopped thinking; instead

give in to a reason. the highway

ends exactly as it began:

someone's idea of project, be it

started or stopped. a committee meets

and then others are committed to a

completion. this person

that person

signs off on the deliverables. there is pressure

to excel in the execution. there are beers to drink

and letters of congratulation given. the press

reports stalled progress and a congressman

is implicated in an unlawful exchange. i can't believe

that it's come to this:

that we care nothing more about the details

than we do the general scope.

(c)jim hill (04-08-11)

what you do is bleed out

I paste never cut.

Speaking of which,

I’m off the scissors,

And have been for about

A week. Your pictures

Thank me for it.

©jim hill 4-03-11

The Slow Jams of One's Golden Senior Year

There’s talk of taking

Turns

You read about the short

Turn-offs

And turn-arounds

These are only

Too familiar

To those who

Can concentrate

Crucially

And emphatically on the moment

Not for those whom

The word moment

Comes slowly

And revolve

Around

The self-inflicted

Fantasizing

Of a peach-fuzz face-down

On the floor

Of an elder hostel.

We must be better

Than we let on

There are witnesses

Who’ve seen

Us exhibit

That happiness thing

I’ve seen films

Of myself

That don’t allude

To the history of modern comedy –

Too late for the asymmetry

Of my face to make the same

Claim.

Today is such a supreme

Example of the ordinary

How to describe:

Man wakes up to find

His daughter’s cat has died next door

On the eve of easter

Actually this is no better

Or worse than any good Friday.

Would that the cat rise up

And come again

To beg food

From the neighbors

Or purr to forget

Misery

At having no caressing

Arms to hold

No one to assess the mystery

Of such beings

Unworthy of saving

Nor starving.

Do we convince

Ourselves that all our moves

Are our own

That we are wholly self-taught

And beholden to none

That we are self-starters

And willfully acting out

Our own plots

This patch of land

Is mine and only mine

Over my head

Six feet above

I see the soles

Of the watching and standing,

Mourning a day or two

Forgetfulness comes

Slowly and,

As the ashes are spread

And spiral upward

In the cyclonic action of the wind,

Dad’s memory

Grampaw’s stories

Auntie’s pie dough

Recipes shredded

And buried

Later to be found and swallowed

By a circling gull

At the ‘fill.

(c)jim hill (4-10-09)

Simply Epic, My Antoinette

When I scrawled your number

On my door post

I didn’t know that the calls would

Lead to anything specific

While you lay in a hospital bed

And waited for me to find you

I’d given up interest

In someone as disassociated as i

With myself.

©jim hill (3-27-09)

Someday in Two (Axe)

No way to celebrate now

The end is nigh we’re told

Stanzas double up on us

The old mind

Can’t decipher codes

Like it could

You have an ancient

Antique quality

Not seen in any

Roadshow. What may

Have been lost

Is now light.

As if we vaporize

And all the we were

Can’t be substantiated

Nor remembered. Doesn’t

That (my dear)

Make you sadder and sadder.

To take these ideas

To the tracks

And find the end of your perspective.

(c) jim hill (3-16-09)

untitled

she somehow

coaxed the shadows

back into their origins

as if there were

no darker side.

she was like this

omni-directional beam

offering relief to sight,

making it lazy without

having to distinguish

good from bad. the

hard work of differentiation

left to someone less inclined

to unleash

their swallowed smile.

(c)jim hill (2-10-11)

untitled

you

were the very end

of my parade.

the soiled ticker-tape

and burst balloon

flaccidly pulling at

loosened ropes.

pooled hydraulic fluid

from a leaking, curbside

low-riding car.

you

were the broom

and cinch-sacks

of a reverie-less

crowd of

domestic illegals

making

an hourly stab

at their version

of the dream.

(c)jim hill (2-9-11)

untitled

what if we

had nothing

to mark our

days.

no number

over which

to make an X.

no increment

or division

separating old

from young.

i don't imagine

so much as wish

for the ability

to see time as

god does:

one long -

no infinite -

extraction.

(c)jim hill (2-9-11)