SONG REACH

Were you never
To hear my song
Again
Would its melody reach
You anyway -
Transcending sense
And sensibility -
Toward six degrees
And telepathy?

-jim hill (12-12-2016)

TOILET TOP STILL LIFE

On a bottle 

That has,

Wrapped 'round it,

A ribbon threaded through a

Fake pearl,

I see a Playboy bunny. If it

Weren't a bottle but

Hugh Hefner's neck

It would be a befitting

Bolo-tie of branding.

He could wear it 'round 

The Mansion

Dressed as he wants

In robe and slippers,

Refusing to age.

To remain 

The adolescent boy

Preening in the sheen

Of magazines

In wealth 

And comfort,

Joined and

Held together 

In an empire 

Of sticky pages.

-jim hill (12-2-2016)

BUSY HANDS SWIFTER FEET

You say Jesus

Like He made 

Your lips; like Muhammad

Guides your steps. My

Myths are more random,

Less informed by sacred texts

More thy word of

Mouth. 

Buddha wore your bridal veil

Like a bib,

feasting

On your homemade vows. Glory

In numerous virgin births

And ascending saints, better now

For what they are than what they ain't. 

-jim hill (11-14-2016)

THE UNFOLDING CHAIR

It spread out before me
A vista
A view I hadn't seen
But I'm not one to really look.
I mean really look. All I
Know is what I've been led
To believe:
Cryptic messages de-coded
And interpreted
By smarter brains than mine. I
Mean if I do see things
They don't connect with
Larger dots
From a bigger picture. They are
Like little vignettes
From domestic scenes:
A maid pours milk
A man lights his pipe
Contemplating, it seems,
What he cannot know
Has never seen.

-jim hill (10-28-2016)

NUMBERS

1.

I live in the here and now;
You, the there and then. What
Happens happened -
Is, in fact, happening. But what
Is, was, and is again
Between us 
Has only the sparest
Relation
To time 
Or its segmented systematic
Constructs. It is.
That's all

2.

If this were a song
It would disrupt
And violate - your world
Whose world? You ask 
In a sing-song voice
That I not sing again
Sign again - after all,
You say - keeping a 
Sort of peace between us -
It's all been sung before and
I'm tired. Go back to sleep
Sing in your dream
If you have to.

-jim hill (10-28-2016)

GIRL SECRET ZERO

Her secret zero was such

That anything void of value

Resided in a register: a complicated accountant's ledger

Where red 

Battles black to a draw. Nobody wins nor do they lose as nothing is ventured towards capital. Suitors find

Her calculating, not cold - 

distant - at a safe remove -

An overlook where she sees

All sides and leaves nothing to chance. 

As days grow into quarter-centuries, her vetting

Takes on a studious fervor. There are height v weight ratios, lies 

Discovered during the interview processes, with the barrage of questions more probing and invasive with each successive candidate.  Her life has now become Fort Knox, a sandbagged battery where she reigns as administrator, work-drone, and CFO. No product is made , but security is upheld as a corporeal goal, no wage; rather evaluative sin. Fortresses often die from the eroding of infrastructure, the walls too high to remain upright. She was her own Fed, Fannie Mae, and other stalwart pillars - too big to fail; not to fall.

-jim hill (10-5-2016)

MORNING IS A LONG WAY

As a boy I dreamed, I think, just to dream.

I've learned that now,

Instead of breathing to live,

I live in a paralytic's paradise - 

Luxuriating in the labor to breathe.

If it's true Someone said the dash on our 

Tombstone is all we have, then a mad dash is what I'll be.

-jim hill (9-1-2016)

DRUM CIRCLE (TO A SQUARE)

We paired off

Shared our thoughts

Spared no expense

Offered no pretense:

So far from the beating heart/

Its manifestations/

Birthing new and 

Inglorious rhythms.

-jim hill (6-20-2016)

STRANGLE HANDS

My hands don't work

In strangulation mode;

Aren't you glad I've 

Assessed no blame? My

Shortcomings have only

Become shorter with age

And no longer wear the

Short-pants of youth. No,

They have all got long, 

Grey beards

And are curiosities 

Only for

The circumspect.

-jim hill (4-27-2016)

ONE DAY

One day 
all is well: 
the flowers are blooming, 
no dogs are nipping 
at your ankles 
as you ride your bike 
fast and hard. The wind is just right; 
your homework is done 
and there's no school tomorrow. 
The days last 
as long as 
you want them to.
Friends test and tease 
until the light dies out 
and the night games begin.

-jim hill (3-23-2016)

BEAST

It's clear you were a beast
Until unsolicited civility came to bring
You meaningless manners
And etiquette for eateries.
All you ever needed,
Though,
Was a predator's zeal
At finding
A delicious
Solid meal 
(of men).

-jim hill (3-11-2016)

UNTITLED (FOR A ROSE)

I want you

In my mouth

So I eat

Your words,

Savoring each

Consonant

Vowel

And

Turn of phrase.

A digestion

Of sorts

Poignant and pure:

A delectable

Challenge 

To my pallet.

They swell in me

Your words 

And

Show to me,

New promises

To vow;

Perhaps to

Keep.

And yet

The miles I've come

The miles to go

Can only then 

Allow me sleep.

-jim hill (2-28-2016

DOG DAYS

From the back porch

I throw rotting fruit

And vegetables

Into the NE corner

Of our backyard

Behind the cluster 

Of Plumbago. This

Corner is also where

My daughter's dog

And my son's dog

Wage an ongoing

War with a neighboring

Adversary - through the

Spaces in the wooden 

Fence. By this time

In late summer

The blue flowers 

Are so thick we can't see

The dogs anymore;

Can only hear

Three distinct barks

And growls and see

The shaking blue flowers 

And green leaves.

-jim hill (9-22-2015)

WAREHOUSEMAN

Cloudy and cold is the way I remember it, or steamy hot and humid. There were extremes at the warehouse: back-busting hard labor and coffee breaks allowing for a bit of rest and relaxation.

I remember the first time I was told to take "the '62" (old Chevy box-end with lift-gate) over to the thrift store. This meant driving the truck out of its stall across our parking lot to a narrow driveway at the end, whipping the truck around to back it in down the drive-way the 30 yards to the thrift store loading room. I was fine until I had to use the tiny mirrors to back up. No way to turn my head and look behind me as I could in a car; that big box behind the cab allowed no visibility behind. I was fine for the first five yards or so then lost my bearings. I had no spotter and had lost sight of my target: the large roll-up door of the thrift shop. After frantically looking in both mirrors for clues and man-handling the huge steering-wheel (no power-steering), hoping no one was watching this driving fiasco (did I mention it was cold and drizzling rain?), praying I wouldn't be stuck in the slushy grounds on either side of the driveway. After a few minutes of the the now established pattern of looking, steering, and praying, I got out of the truck to assess my progress. How could I be this far off the road?!? If not for the tracks I'd left in the soggy tall grass it would appear as if the truck and bed had been set into place as if to allow it to die in a field.

THE THINGS SEEN THROUGH THE NURSERY ROOM WINDOW

was upset but only upset enough to cry so the nursery lady - the pretty one - one pick me up to settle me. She'd let me, after I stopped crying, play with her earrings clipped to her pretty, fleshy lobes.

No, but this time my plan was foiled; mom was nearby and I couldn't even get the less pretty of the nursery ladies to scoop and swaddle me from whatever misery had befallen me.

"Say some Spanish...do your Spanish," Mom would say, trying to take my mind off my misery and the plot behind, and entwined with, my misery.

I remember thinking how upset I was and how inconsolable, becoming ever more upset that the pretty nursery lady would find me all the less desirable because of this little tirade. Would she ever let me sit in her lap again? Would she ever tell me sweet things about me that I loved to hear: about what a good boy I was, how cute and sweet, adorable and smart, how well I could play and share with the other children, how I could be no trouble at all. No, not me the Spanish-speaking crying boy who loved a pretty lady in a Presbyterian nursery.

THAT AGE

If I live to be that age

I won’t confine

the painter in me to a studio

to re-paint,

ad infinitum,

any elegies to the Spanish Republic.

If I’ll need a wheelchair

but have limited resources

I may not be allowed the luxury of electric scaffolding

to reach the upper limits of room-height canvases.

I won’t start playing music again.

I’m through with all that noise-making and rattling –

the old bones vying with the drums

and chukka-chukka rhythm guitar.

Hasn’t my joyful noise been joyful enough

to remain in the past,

where all those old songs refuse to go away,

where people crave to hear them

not because of what they signify

but because that’s what they’ve always done

and they refuse to get old,

much less dignified.

If I should become more the outdoorsy gentleman,

(with the understanding that I’d wear a lot more tweed),

come autumn

I think I’ll be happy counting leaves,

inventorying spider webs,

or negotiating with a pesky stump in our landscaped lawn

that is rotting at a slower rate than me.

For the obligatory strolls I’ll be having

my walking stride will be so scientifically measured

that I’ll know the exact number of steps it takes

to go the mile from my house

to the end of Raccoon Drive

then on to Fire Station #3.

I won’t need to count steps

as much as I’ll need to make mental notes

of the changes in our suburban landscape

or assess the damage sustained

by that old rusting bucket-of-bolts in the sun.

I’ll see the occasional line of cars

making their way

to the neighbors’ house in the cul-de-sac.

I’ll mark the progress of the shrubs

planted last spring

by Ms Something-or-D’ruther.

I’ll chase the stray cats that take food from mine.

I’ll fix light switches,

refinish old lamp tables,

and spray-wash the patio (again).

The light will change

from brilliant summer glare

to a softer autumnal gold.

Shadows will lengthen and shorten

as they’ve always done.

I’ll wonder about who may have cast the first shadows

on this land buttressing the bayou.

Were they the indigenous peoples

that held off the swarms of mosquitoes?

Did they coat themselves

with the clay that eventually

gummed the molds at the brickyards?

The questions I’ve carried with me

my entire life

(do I belong? and where?)

will quietly fade –

with a thought remembered

being trumped by forgetting it –

and I will fade

as all will fade

against dead then deader light.

-jim hill (3-20-2015)

YOU'LL LOG

I crave the days
Of Christmas mugs.
Of Santa shirts 
And
Gentle tugs 
On
Harp and heart,
Signaling an advent to
Call
Then to respond.

-jim hill (12-12-2016)

SONG REACH

Were you never
To hear my song
Again
Would its melody reach
You anyway -
transcending sense -
Toward six degrees
And telepathy?

-jim hill (12-12-2016)

HOW THE HOUSE FOUND THE FIELD ETC

Driving by

It looks like it just rose up

As a ramshackle varietal

Leaning out of plumb

Its wood shakes spilling

Into termite mounds.

Of course you wonder quickly

At seventy mph

But it stays with you

Gnawing and persistent -

A wound, if you will,

That bears some attention;

Else it festers.

You commiserate while

Ruminating

Coursing through your own

Life and its certain

And eventual

Ruin/Decay:

How did it (?)

How did I (?)

Will brittle bones and transparent

Flesh

Bear close inspection/

scrutinizing forensic

Pathology?

-jim hill (10-6-2016)