the season

down

'til the child's

book

took me by

ked-straps. i was,

and for all times,

apologetic but

not regretful.

fearing and

loitering

resting on laurels

on shushes

and don'ts:

a bather

with fewer

options than

a dry martini.

(c)jim hill 11-19-10

guitar variations no. 1

i became,
for a time,
acquainted
with the absolute
but in that,
the blues were
ruined forever:
the ugliness
of pleading
with imperfect
string strangling.

(c)jim hill 07-03-01

sugar ray

you don't agree

with the wind i decide.

i find you in the closet

in the spring

when the devil storms

blow through

leaving dust a quarter inch

thick on the sills and tumble-

weeds pinned under our cars.

i think i caught you crying to

match the howling yowping. i wasn't

scared so much

as unnerved by your fears. i felt that

same sense of creepiness

when you introduced me to

bathing in the dark

and insisted you tag along.

i discover only now (or think i do)

your ploy for boys.

when i write your

history/epitaph i'll call you "moped"

as you had no penchant for manlier machines

and i see you riding side-saddle through

those gates to houses

inside those mansions - rejoicing

(only) at the lack of wind

but small piles of (angelic) dust.

(c) jim hill (08-01-10)

untitled (giacometti)

you said

living with me

was like having

a giacometti sculpture

in your back pocket. that's hardly

a compliment

for an accomplice. am i that prickly

and artsy that you would have

me limned as a linear

exertion?

i don't need to go over

and over, revisiting the lines

of you as i inscribe your face in my mind.

it is a sad one, your face. i hate to think

that i've made it that way, but so be it. you'd

rather hear it from a stranger - that color

is incidental and washy - not something

defining your world; not really even enhancing

what has, for you, been determined to be

so black and white that there's no room

for the grisaille.

(c) jim hill (07-10-10)

untitled (today anyway)

it's different than

the way you told it

i'm fine with that

what time did you say

we were finished?

is it that your eyes

can't wash away

what you imagine?

is there no reconciling

vision with what i know

to be real?

i look out on a

lake

and see the darkness

underneath

whole towns

and villages

swept under

a wave of progress; you

insist on seeing the reflection

of the clouds. who gets the most

out of the truth? is it the surface

that tells us the most of what

we want to see? if you learn

the answer leave a message.

(c) jim hill (07-10-10)

nobody pacific

screen door leaks

(obviously). it's a yellow

submarine afterall,

that (apparently) we all live in.

it's more ark than originally designed,

but the rain won't/can't let up. el nino

and his foster dad, Al, will it.

if what i've said

is a wealth

of something you'd consider

relevant -

if from a more credible source -

would you say, "i'm sorry,"

then fight hard for its pop-significance?

we'd paired off - back then -

then pared off what was left

when all species' subdivisions

were placed on the grid.

we took what was left -

no greed, just need -

after history had been

re-traced

then re-written

back

to front.

(c) jim hill (5-27-10)

this poem

I.

this poem was caught
outside your window
with his pants down.
after his needs were met
he was quite content to watch
despite his shame.
he knew that you sang,
for instance, "julia,"
while thinking of raul julia.
that still baffles the poem,
but he's careful not to judge.
as they haul him away with all
the lights on and the reporters flash
cameras going off, he pleads nothing
but collects his pants
and his pride, justifying his
actions as servants of his art. would it
serve you to press charges? does he
belong with the hardcore among the
recidivists? what would be his penance
to justify a sentence? how would he explain
to the rapist gang that he wasn't after anything
but a particular type of closeness encased
in a cadence?

II.

the poem became

a letter

to be read to all family members

admitting shame and guilt

and a characteristically generosity

toward those that, given the circumstances,

he would understand if they chose never

to visit.

III.

the poem became

graffitti above the sink

in his cell. his "cellie" called

it "perfunctory," whatever that

meant. his cellmate was no stranger

to the written word offering, in its

way, an avenue for understanding

and compassion. he claimed to have

been a preacher "in the free world." the

poem had no reason to disbelieve, and with a

swollen "S" he wrote his cellie's name

emboldened by scratch-marks and the rubber-soul

type that has become so popular amongst de-facers

of all stripes. when the officers found out

about the graffitti, they "wrote up" the poem,

giving him his first official "case," which

he discovered, could cause him grief down the line.

IV.

the poem has

now gone through a Christian walk

of faith and is proclaiming all his words

to be for the LORD. from now on everything

will be a psalm, a hymn, or a contemporary song,

extolling the virtues of mercy and grace.

V.

the poem now thinks twice about

what it means to observe

and to be observed. he admits

no passivity and that, though forgiven

for what he represented at the window,

he must continually petition for the understanding

and forgiveness of the "victim." he relates to the

victim for the first time, placing himself in her shoes,

and though ill-fitting, continues on his pilgrimage/his walk.

VI.

the poem is a letter, to an attorney

a letter to a felon's ministry

a letter to a sponsoring church

a letter to his brethren back home -

all poems not meaning any harm,

but still harming despite their admitted

impartiality. a letter to his editor

to his agent, to his parole-board.

VII.

the poem is tired

of rejection

of perceived heresy

of the pretense of

brotherhood. he vows

an overthrow of something. he's

done all the right things and walked

the straight and narrow path

but nobody seems to see

the righteousness. it's all for naught.

this is a conspiracy he thinks. he's ready

to throw in the proverbial towell and live

for today. he constructs a shiv and vows

vengeance and develops a construct for

a personal crusade. his cross is his sword

and vice-versa. he wants to be heard:

GODDAMN you fucking unchurched.

I AM is what He is called and i feel the same.

VIII.

the poem sees the errors in his logic. he wants

forgiveness (again) but knows he's already forgiven.

he's sorry for offending the Son for asking again for

the gift he's already received.

IX.

it's time

it's nearly time

i've paid what debt i owe

he thinks. he becomes a

petition

resting on the heart

of the descenting vote

and he becomes heavy

then heavier as the

time nears for the parole board

to convene. they hear his case

and it comes down to this one

vote to determine

the fate of the poem. has this been

written in the posterity

of the Lord's will. can he be released -

to be read again and understood

can he unite with some music

to make the words more pallatable?

can he, once again, become the sweat

and toil and troubles of all mankind. can

he hope to one day lurk under a window

again to see and understand the inner workings

of a woman? has it been too long since he's seen

her crying and wishing for understanding

and passion. can he be her link to the romance

of which she dreams? can he be her rescue. can

he unite his uniqueness with hers? can he read her

heart like a medical chart and render her human?

can he, through her, write for all men and women

in the world and know that they are all alike:

scared and unsure, wanting only to be heard

and understood? can he?

X.

would he develop an aversion

to all sensitive things and learn to adapt himself
to the pulpier of the fictions that make the rounds
in the jail-talk around the tv in the day-room? would
he become friends with fight club, and anything
by elmore leonard? would
he get one of those tattoos that line the arms, neck, and hands?
would he renounce all that had come before, kneeling in
supplication and curse the filth in which he finds himself.
would images of you sustain him as
one of those correction officers gets caught
with his pants down outside the cell?
as they drag him away, the poem
is heard to whisper, "i understand."

(c) jim hill 3-19-2010