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