James Hart / Fiction

If fiction is dead, reality is not far behind.

James Hart

James Hart
Be Home Soon,
December 31
Hart will have maintained this blog for One-hundred-sixty-nine million, nine-hundred-forty-eight thousand, six-hundred seconds through 31 May 2014. Times two (roughly) deep in the Twenty-Fifteen. ******************************** ******************************** ******************************* A carpenter's level designs a calm sea. ******************************** ******************************** Violent movies and prime-time TV shows ought to have disclaimers as reality checks during curtain calls. The cast could gather for a bow and civil handshake and or cheek kisses in order to demonstrate (to the least sophisticated among us) to let us know that the aforementioned carnage was make believe. A fiction. An entertainment. Such reality checks (and stage craft tribute) would well serve a fairness to the deranged among us who are prone to confuse the fantasia of entertainment violence as 'acceptable reality behavior'. There are legions of empty vessels awaiting sustenance about 'how' to react. With sure-bet frequency, the ubiquity of guns and conditioned criminal reflex results in aberrant behavior with subsequent ruinous acts of violence. We see it along the road. We read it and see it and hear it in the news. Such a paradigm! Odd that bow and bow and bow and bow are the same word. One for thank you, one for protection (?}, and the other to stay off the icebergs ... and of course there's the shoe tie, and gift wrap and that bloke from Saginaw, reading USA Today on the Greyhound. Here's a limerick from my Average Guy series: Of all emotion, the grin 'n frown, the best among us, stand down. ******************************** Here's a paragraph from my Average Guy: a couple of satiate dinner guests had ensconced themselves on the living room sofa.* * Whoops that was an abandoned paste, thanks, Merriam W. }One Moment{ Like all boys they wanted everything: the wild treetops and Tarzan hollers, then back to the soccer game on Channel 9 with their buttered microwave popcorn and tough-guy toothpicks. The painted fancy news ladies, in high skirts. Slivered clapboard was a place to carve initials. Not far, canaries built their own thatch nest, hunkered and still against the wind from all directions. An onyx black crow its wing tips torn of feather like a shrapnel-wounded plane, stood watching. Until it was yellow and black, a flurry of woven grass and fallen scatter of shadowed ruin. A swooped escape of yellow dots and the black clawing predator of powerful wide wing, its bright beak triumphant to the sunshine, the white fluff chicks burst within merciless gripped coil. A quick flight toward 3 o'clock backward through nascent Linden buds. An automatic trick spiraling, a mystical bullet, the motion at once there and gone to stellar over soul of weathered naked branch. Its prize of canary chicks: a satiation to the endless March blue. ******************************** (more) Average Guy Then the Old Spiced Fuller Brush man shows up blowing Lucky Strike smoke rings, Dinah Shore had her own hour, and ol' Ike poured concrete, coast to coast. Sundays? Victory at Sea, Archbishop Sheen, Groucho Marx, I'm never sure, such awhile back, weren't the Commies about to attack? Then who'd blink first, Nikita or Jack? ******************************** She spoke of life she did. I'd a fascinating 'eye in the sky' riff' invoking the richly named Auden, at midnight: A to F, clamored-clack of generous muse, nearly always helmeted faces appeared, dusty in white powder, an encounter along the parallel hedgerow , of dog-eared tome, her lips an alabaster meow: some kindling, Edward R. Murrow, the who, what, where when and howl Another magnolia time, first daffodils, another year from June, cold-level ferns as white knuckles; O the color of yellow sugared Chuckles. a sow with piglets, upon the soil: where oil prisms the mud, A new day, so near insane, this autumn an abject postpartum; O bacon, o eggs, why did I start'em? Now I have to eat, the ceiling fan, an aeroplane prop, a yolk slurp, one more word, perhaps a fast break, maybe a dark hour, nothing but cake ... a belly ache ... cooler by the lake. &ah:It's a bit early, Oxford level though, as I'm left, in our adage: truth may vary. If only Aynie would have used "Atlas Mugged", as real utopian form. Keep those Dreamliners rollin'! Until greed and fear return to the dictionary, beyond the zone of human nature. Operative words above: OXFORD & ADAGE &/or: PEOPLE WE GOT THE POWER


OCTOBER 8, 2011 12:57PM

Champagne, Stadium Mustard and Milwaukee

Rate: 2 Flag

On National Ave. the Clement Zablocki Veteran's Memorial Hospital overlooks the autumn woods and steel girders of Miller Park; silver-golden fireworks as loud as a drop forge echo on through the timelessness and style and swagger of sweet victory.



Again, the sweat of passion, reserved for October, when it was 1957.  The hickory sea of painted chairs in the Milwaukee County Stadium are history now, and the dome of Miller Park can hold back the night rain or yawn wide like an observatory to heaven.  Over the haloed fusion of stadium lights there again it's 1982, by then the boy watched it all far below the Uecker seats, almost on the field, the numbers and names and even the team had changed faster than 25 years all compressed tighter than a horsehide seamed with red stitches--high and inside.  Holy cow, get the net and cast it on these memories: on over the Kiplingesque-Kafkanian-Keoroacian transfiguration--blink again a lonely face reflected on the bus window--home again whatshisname and number? As darkness pans to fade the solemnity and supercilious bursts of euphoria; what it means to me to have had a glimpse of Willie Mays when he hit four home runs on that Sunday, impossibly we all stood, "No it's four!" the game lost as history before mine eyes, Say-Hey the enchantments went, once upon a time Willie McCovey hit one over the scoreboard, and once Earl Gillespie said, Willie McCovey (excellent crowd mic, tumultuous ovation)                         > just hit the scoreboard and you could hear it<



Years earlier, the Cardinals arrived and it was Andy Pafko (summersaulting gosh darnit) at full speed in from centerfield just behind second base, coming up face first with the ball and back to his feet he held it above like a jeweler’s eye might apprise an awesome precious stone.

Geez, the smiles of that uncle from out of town on vacation and my old man looking at me, wow, my eyes so wide, good graciousness--bopalouowhoa: life!  Coca-cola on a rayon black and red Milwaukee Braves jacket, the cap not sized!  Or that time Wes Covington jumped so high and nabbed it at the yellow rail topped wall, even though his ankle broke.

Close line homers and ‘it’s in the wrists’ they'd say of Mr.Henry Aaron.


And from the right field extension the boys yelled, "Henry! Henry!" Until Hammerin' Hank Aaron would finally glance once between pitches--on 3:30'd long-shadowed afternoons--and subtly almost secretly he’d wave in our direction, his great glove paused on his knee, his eyes would somehow acknowledge us keeds but always on the batter.

And there were a Red Schoendist's pivot and leapt throws above second base after the falling over soft toss from only one Johnny Logan as though simultaneously and likeoneword it was over to Big Joe Adcock at first base with that spiked shoe tippy-toe stretch: doubleplay!

 Or as Eddie Mathews' glove puffed the dust from the third base bag, another line shot to a Gold Glove who'd a gift to knock one out especially if men were on--far away up and out way-wayouta here 'bout halfway up the left field bleachers.



I don't remember if we always won, but there was never a losing day.



While on a summer's morning the boys carried their own gloves off the bus and joked along those asphalt trails beneath the trees in Veterans Park; when the sheriff in his patrol squad motioned them over; NOW WHAT? "Do you boys have tickets?  Here, take these, here, they're good seats...." though years later you'd know there ain't no bad seats.  And you'd reflect now if even after 55 years how over that rise some parkscape architect would angle the walking path just in time to break 'ore a panorama of white crossed grave markers with a perceptible grace and awful foresight to allow for cemetary expansion up, over the next hill and the one afar. Batting practice viewing and timed arrival were obligatory, and you didn't need a scorecard because you always knew all dem players and even now remain on-ah side of all that's sacred of the moment, to snap your fist thumbs up and time the yell, Play ball!


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Great post JP and congrats and have a great playoff Brewers deserve every bit of it. I love baseball posts even if today I am a little cranky.
Love the title.
starry, starry night
send your baseball to the sky
makes no difference to you & I
we were dreaming of first flight
yeah I was a girl. but in order to throw to Dad after my two brothers, he told me outright no softball. But hey dad, that is what the team is playing.
Ok lefty side arm, and sometimes he would admit I had a good arm and I did not throw Like A Girl
but the shades of the field the click clack of the wooden clothespin cards on my brothers loaned bike, the oiling of the glove with the ball smack smack.
thanks Rita, thanks Damon--always makes my day when poetic aficionados stop in to set the world right.

Seriously considering Planet Hart souvenir mugs; Stella Artois still chilling (hurry twelve o'clock, please)!

What is:

1) Metuchen Ford plant assembly line

2) the aviation accident death of Roberto Clemente (New Years Eve, 1972)

3) "It's about syllables, Dick. It's about how many beats there are." [sic]
Paul Simon to Dick Cavett regarding how he originally used the name Mrs. Roosevelt instead of Mrs. Robinson--something a writer just learned while referencing Joe DiMaggio. Cavett had asked Simon why he didn't use Mickey Mantle instead of Joe DiMaggio in that famous song.

4) Are aphorisms of 19th Century Russian novelists the root cause of insecurities and subsequent impoverishment of contemporary American poets?

5) Codex Dresdensis--an odd scholarly word combination revealed in an article about Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing. Something I just viewed while attempting to search for the name of that whatamacallit internet culmination machine I saw mentioned on the History Channel during its feature about the apocalypse. Apparently there's a 24/7 device that reads and stores the entire internet for so-called trend clues--this purported thing-a-ma-jig has an inhuman propensity for the accuracy of its predictions.

6) Has anyone out there actually read 'Letters to a Young Poet'?

7)While this reply to comments on Open Salon is in progress I am watching television and to my left outside a tattered thorn tree leaf- in the still, early autumn day-suspended by a nearly imperceptible spider's silk. However the sunlight angles inopportunistically and one must shield one's eyes in order to perceive the strand. Otherwise the leaf is one hell of an outlier of a tropical bug that's swaying pendulumiously. a] is it a food source for a spider hidden too high up in the tree? b] is the spider hidden in the hapless leaf pulling its way back to a branch? c] do spiders have more perseverance than failed short story writers? c] is the initial so-called silk strand the first element of a grandiose web (understand this now, patient reader): the incongruous suspension of the dead crumbly leaf--in my humble estimate--is 4' down from what must be a 9' high thorny bough and yet 5' off an austere Anton waterier bush, the bush crimson (potentially a sited target?) and while 'it' (the leaf too big for a spider) occasionally twirls, there's more of a gentle sway to the leaf surrounded by nothing, and 'it' probably shouldn't be where it is. Why is it there, then? And the key thing is that there's a losing struggle going on. I say this with some authority as the distance appears roughly the same as it did ten minutes ago. Yet the spider hasn't given up and for purpose of this discussion is invisible and entertaining on some level. Perhaps Thoreau would relish the moment. I just turned the channel and magically I hear a Classical Music sound track well sound-tracking the motion of the fucking spider. Now the bitch is spinning. No shit this is soliloquy (thank you, spellck) level stuff!
what whim prompted the spider. Your comment rated for the inclusion of Stella Artois whose green crisp companionship has occupied these last twenty minutes. and the posts too.
hope the Stella went down well.