Let's get them all out in the open

ERECTUS AMERICUS

The genus
Of genius
In all those games
Where the winner
Crowds and crows
Out the loser
In fashionable pity

I wait for the memories
To secede
From the union
Of my mistakes
The short turn-offs
That become overnight stays
That lead to life-long
Inhabitation

In this fairyland
Of open piety.


-jim hill (1-11-09)

ERIC FISCHL PAINTS SUBURBIA

Stumbling from the cab
Wearing backward T-s

She tripped, shamefaced.
We love clambakes
And visiting the Tastee-Freez (sic).

We’re not too proud of our small town;
Rather we like to hide in its
Shameful shadows

Spying
In windows
In widows’ yards
And learning to drive
In video cars

Gobbled up like
Movie scenery
Thrown out to die
in back lot shots

The earnestness
Of primetime slots:
Forbidding
The boy by his mom
To steal a purse or two.


-jim hill (9-24-08 and 1-21-09)

G_D

I have no need to be in wonder
Rather to lie in state
To remain upright
In case you look this way again.

I don’t want to appear
Weak or to remain in
Your past. I want to look strong
And viable. I want to look like I’m an artist
That doesn’t rely on sentiment
Or any old ideals. I want to be so far into
The abstract that my pictures cannot
Be interpreted by anyone who conducts
Himself in concrete terms. My work
Will be applauded on the merits of its disconnection
And discord. I break no bread with those who want
Easy answers. I commune with the unutterable
I live in the shadow of my maker
Who cannot be called by name. in fact you may now refer to me
With apostrophes, ellipses, and hyphens. With no life-lines
Available, I ask only that you use discretion when you
Wish to buy a vowel.

-jim hill (1-20-09)

OLD ENEMY

Praise you for keeping me hidden inside
What could be construed as your memory

With me locked in and protected
I have no need to fear old enemies

I have time to reflect
As I live in the shadows of your past

What happened before is
Not important

Not when the hands have stopped
And I’m determined to continue breathing

In no time at all.


-jim hill (1-20-09)

THE LAST OF MY SUPERSTITIONS

When I ran out of salt
I threw sugar
Over my shoulder

and my luck changed.
All reds became green
Fences were mended
Old friends
Were forgiven
And vice-versa.

One trip
Turned into many
As the horn o’plenty
Never seemed to empty.

Dice were putty
In my hands
And
I could crap no more.

I became – for a time –
Friendly to nature
And even that was lucky –
For her and me.
As the globe started to warm
And the rains began
The seas started to rise
And I could see beyond
What the gift had given
I saw the whole thing start anew
And the smell of a brand new planet
God and I were like this:
Buds to the end.


-jim hill (1-11-09)

THE RAPTURE

i list myself
as a patient man
while describing in great detail
the things that make me anxious.

I anticipate the end for no one
But the end times – if there is in fact something so final and resolute-
Begs me to reconsider
The Rapture.

If we are to be held
Accountable
For the ignorance (not bliss)


-jim hill (1-21-09)

YOU SING

You sing
Like you’ve sung
A song or two
But the notes
That are bent and twisted
By your mouth and tongue
Are an acquired taste
That few would endure
To happen. I say it with all
The love and respect I can
That you torture the song
And carry it to places
That contradict the words
I wouldn’t call it a melody
That you sing
Because it bears no resemblance
To anything uttered by human breath

However,
It could be such an advanced approach
To song and singing
That mortals will never approach
Comprehension/digestion
We must wait for someone to tell us,“this is magnificent,” “spectacular,” etc. I don’t
Worry that I’ll not belong to the special group
Who’ve been blessed with the talent to hear such
Special gifts and talents. I worry though that you may be
Misunderstood to such a degree
That you’ll be murdered
By the low-born son
Of perfect-pitch.


-jim hill (1-21-09)

Jah Rule

No rule
Is written on a whim.
There is a reason
For the no
And the do not. There are
Forces that
Dictate the charges
By forging a path
For the righteous man.
His way
Is perhaps the high way
That everyone talks about
But few venture to enter.


-jim hill (12-23-08)

Blue. Period.

FAITH

No one believes that it can’t happen;
In fact they believe that it can

A hungry man can walk
A sightless man can feed himself

An ageless sinner
Brought to her knees for a feast

The bright
The bushy can be tamed to obey

All these things
Are written

And what is erased
Can’t be put into words

Nor
Works.


-jim hill (12-17-08)

What You Do Around the Campfire

What You Do Around the Campfire

Pig on the spit
A feast

For
All.

Wearing out
Our welcome
In funny beach comedy style,

We swig
Cheaply
And break the zipper

‘round midnight

the coyotes come to
feast and scare

us
to death.

The fog rolls
As Grady

Dons a fat suit
And sweats

Out yesterday’s
Dr Pepper and Vivarin

While Margaret
Drives the midnight blue Vega

And watches
Me with the gulls

It's back
To swim
With the youngsters

Afterwards treat
My scalp

For “classic staph”

I call you
From a wal-mart phone
And leave
Cryptics that night

You promptly
Pre-empt an intercept
And tell the Englishman to hike

I was young then
I should tell you

Crayons were
My instruments of choice.

I work hard
At putting these together
So you can read
And meditate how you fit in
Which pronoun is you
As in which she am i.
Things are getting ugly
With the swirlies and the ADD
Kicking down the doors of
My sanctuary.

Just know that
I don’t dream of you
At the beach
‘cause I never saw you there

there is no sand in the li’l pink pouch
(which I’ve misplaced).
You gave me a book and a pen
And a bottle of wine
For Xmas –
Which I read, and used,
And drank. Thank you.

(These are
The things
That I found washed up,

Encased in
Beach tar, which no
Amount of scrubbing
Can remove).


-jim hill (12-17-08)

Even the Electric Songs are Ballads

Even the Electric Songs are Ballads

My fingers bleed
As my eyes are raw
You’re gone
And you've left me

Hearing
Voices

The walls
Move in
And i
Stay out late

Trying hard
Not to stray.

The sound
Of you
In my head
Is lost to erasure

And i
Dread rewinding.

-jim hill (12-17-08)

Untitled

Smoked radish
When I want
To say
I love you

Sun-dried Tomato Hummus
When I step
Out on the stoop
And bare it to the wind

Fondue and Feta for
A rush of that
Redness to the head
And heart
(but hide at home)

Cheese-blocks carved on butcher-block
Dovetails
Make me cry.
The craft and the hope
Of solidity
And permanence.

Your lips
Parted -
I recall
When they said my name -
Then bitten
By the host
Of this most
happy meal


-jim hill (10-17-08, 12-11-08)

The Met

The Met

i’d like to
Be
the cool drink
Of water,
Quenching her,
her hydrophobic
Pallette.

a cat
To her burgled
Drawers –
Sniffing
And pawing and chasing
a phantom string.

A clutch bag
At her operatic
Position:

Full-throated
When
She ends the song –

As the singer stops –
Just as the singer stops singing.


-jim hill (12-11-08)