OVERTURE OVER TRURO

From his now

Heavenly precipice

Edward Hopper looks out

On his former haunt

In Massachusetts.

Odd, he thinks, to be

Humming the song with the name of that state

By The Bee Gees - the last song he heard before he died in '67. "What

The hell is that?" he wonders to himself. Jo, his wife and long-time diarist/accomplice, having joined

Him at God's left hand, can hear all his thoughts.

The spirit-realm confounds him as all is light; there are no shadows. Edward seems lost. No corners

No edges in the fog.

No solid-forms

No architecture

Except, perhaps, the Pearl-like gates themselves.

Edward finds himself

Longing for a hell

He'll never find -

Bound as he is to matronly strictures -

But he conspires to

Manifest a Christian Revelation:

A return to easel &

Brush;

A summer home

On Lake Afire.

-jim hill (1-13-2017)

MISTRIAL OF A MINSTREL

MISTRIAL OF A MINSTREL

They gave me a banjo
When I was young
But I refused the cheerful
Songs of the South;
The minstrel's claw-hammer strum.
Instead I fed 
On a steady
Diet of dirges
and funerary urges.
They seemed to go with
My mournful accompanying voice, 
Said to mangle
If not murder
A melody. Judged
By some
When I'd venture too
Close to a tune:
Hear what he's doing? He's deconstructing with bad intent.
"The banjo is 
A string of accidents," 
I'd swear, with 
Innocent, yet
Predictive prescience.

-jim hill (1-13-2017)

HERO(ES)

I. Bowie

Mars -

May as well be

San Antone.

A man's man no longer.

His remains - 

ashes.

War burial

In a mission church.

An abstraction - 

a hero's

Welcome.

Knife and heart

forged for

Fighting - good fighting -

Still a volunteer

Still sick

In bed. 

II. Bowie

Shook off the fever
Laid it down for good.

Doctor was a friend

Said he could sing like a thief

Carrying a 45 record-sleeve.
Rocking
In my bedroom - 

Having it on good faith -

His was a legend

Borne out of 

A nation's need.

Myth

And disproportion

Seen through

Heroic eyes:

normal/blue

Offset by a playground 

Mishap and permanent

Dilation.

-jim hill (1-20-2017)

63 WITH A BULLIET

Spoke her name;

Ruint my tongue.

Burned those pages;

Watched it snow on-screen.

Those from past 

insurgencies 

Urged by future 

emergencies.

I take down 

the apartment shrine -

In the dark -

No light to shine

On a man's past

Primed.

-jim hill (1-20-2017)

HIS STORY SUNLIT

I've become statuary -

Motionless for the remains

Of us to adore. My footpath

Is customary 

As in the fashion

Of a city park.

I dine on Cream

While I shave in

The dark -

Making straight-razor stabs at love.

Someone calls;

I don't return

The buzz

A rumble in

My pocket signaling a

Telemarketing ploy. Such

Are the stretched out days

Watching an aerator's 

Ripple on golden pond.

I'm but a stain

On cluttered pages

Someone's mistake;

Another's happy

Accident. Have decided,

Though, to forgive myself

As if I were at fault

For being the spawn

Of misplaced and

Ill-timed

Ejaculate.

-jim hill (1-20-2017)

THAT POEM

THAT POEM

I’d had it with that poem.
One night
I told him I’m the one that
breathed life into him and i
could sure take him out
anytime I damn well pleased.
I couldn’t care any less about
how sensitive
he had become after being
bullied in public school
or that, now that he was
older, he still couldn’t survive
on his own. maybe I just
wanted some recognition
for what I’d done with him:
taken some spent gas
and bile and whatever
was left over from
middle-class living and
providing for others
and made something
resembling me in a way
(but, honestly, looked more
like my father and my children).
anyway we exchanged some
really harsh words and me being
drunk I knew I wouldn’t remember
most of it nor take back anything.
that damned poem must’ve
gotten pissed and had his pride
jostled into action. the next morning
the box where he’d lay up
days on end
and point
himself toward the tv,
coasting along on my
magnanimity and largesse,
was now empty.
I could see that he’d had a restless night;
the other papers that shared space with him
in that box were all wrinkled, wadded, and torn.
he left the front door open too.
no telling where he’d gone or what he would
do but I was sort of proud knowing that he was now
off on his own and would be judged for what
he was – with or without my input or endorsement.
I felt sorry for how we’d ended our relationship
After so long together
but I can’t say I was upset or that
I wasn’t already thinking of a new
project -  not necessarily his replacement – but
shape-shifting words into a more improved and honed
configuration -
something grateful
and gracious.

                                                                                                -jimhill (6-12-2015)

OVERTURE OVER TRURO

From his now

Heavenly precipice

Edward Hopper looks out

On his former haunt

In Massachusetts.

Odd, he thinks, to be

Humming the song with the name of that state

By The Bee Gees - the last song he heard before he died in '67. "What 

The hell is that?" he wonders to himself. Jo, his wife and long-time diarist/accomplice, having joined

Him at God's left hand, can hear all his thoughts.

The spirit-realm confounds him as all is light; there are no shadows. Edward seems lost. No corners

No edges in the fog. 

No solid-forms

No architecture

Except, perhaps, the Pearl-like gates themselves.

Edward finds himself

Longing for a hell

He'll never find -

Bound as he is to matronly strictures - 

But he conspires to

Manifest a Christian Revelation:

A return to easel &

Brush; 

A summer home

On Lake Afire.

-jim hill (1-13-2017)