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

The Slow Jams of One's Golden Senior Year

There’s talk of taking

Turns

You read about the short

Turn-offs

And turn-arounds

These are only

Too familiar

To those who

Can concentrate

Crucially

And emphatically on the moment

Not for those whom

The word moment

Comes slowly

And revolve

Around

The self-inflicted

Fantasizing

Of a peach-fuzz face-down

On the floor

Of an elder hostel.

We must be better

Than we let on

There are witnesses

Who’ve seen

Us exhibit

That happiness thing

I’ve seen films

Of myself

That don’t allude

To the history of modern comedy –

Too late for the asymmetry

Of my face to make the same

Claim.

Today is such a supreme

Example of the ordinary

How to describe:

Man wakes up to find

His daughter’s cat has died next door

On the eve of easter

Actually this is no better

Or worse than any good Friday.

Would that the cat rise up

And come again

To beg food

From the neighbors

Or purr to forget

Misery

At having no caressing

Arms to hold

No one to assess the mystery

Of such beings

Unworthy of saving

Nor starving.

Do we convince

Ourselves that all our moves

Are our own

That we are wholly self-taught

And beholden to none

That we are self-starters

And willfully acting out

Our own plots

This patch of land

Is mine and only mine

Over my head

Six feet above

I see the soles

Of the watching and standing,

Mourning a day or two

Forgetfulness comes

Slowly and,

As the ashes are spread

And spiral upward

In the cyclonic action of the wind,

Dad’s memory

Grampaw’s stories

Auntie’s pie dough

Recipes shredded

And buried

Later to be found and swallowed

By a circling gull

At the ‘fill.

(c)jim hill (4-10-09)

Simply Epic, My Antoinette

When I scrawled your number

On my door post

I didn’t know that the calls would

Lead to anything specific

While you lay in a hospital bed

And waited for me to find you

I’d given up interest

In someone as disassociated as i

With myself.

©jim hill (3-27-09)