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


NOVEMBER 6, 2011 11:52AM

Unforgettable Nam Era Hippies (Purple House Vignette)

Rate: 6 Flag


               this is an excerpt from my Big Wheel Trilogy, specifically from Leftover Nam Era Hippies, which began appearing sequentially from             21 July 2010 on Open Salon.  There are something like 30 chapters throughout Hartscape since--this Purple House subchapter includes a little bit of flooring 



Johnny Karpinsky and Dog hid several hundred feet behind the demolition work crews that ravaged th PurpleHouse where the wet honeysuckles had overgrown years ago surrounding the paint-shorn rusted Hudson, on concrete blocks in his back yard without tires, now the big yellow Dog circling the car then wetly nudging over Karpinsky. Then back again in and out of the car from where he, the evicted man, sat at the open car door with his knees drawn up, puffing a cigarette he held European style, and subtly rocking, a nervous, depressed rocking in the pale morning, the moon still awake--contrail laced--and again he brushed away a fat, passive late summer cicada that recurred upon his right temple, them sumbitches he mumbled.


A heavy knife-sharp pincher tri-claw chained and boomed down on the ruined, discombobulated splintering roof and the rear wall flattened backward in one piece, hinged momentarily, and the wall cantilevered down slicing porch lamps, dragging conduit tentacles and raising dust which rose in thick smoke afore the sky, the sky left to right layered red, yellow with filtered sunlight behind rolled grey white-edged clouds, the Rembrandt-brushed horizon incongruous, tranquil, to the destruction of Karpinsky’s Purple House. Cars with parking lights on slowly passed and impatiently veered around the orange mesh construction fence stapled to white iridescent taped neon orange barrels.  The giant claw greedily grappled old glossed maple floors, wide purple clapboard, composite siding and when heaped-up--pivoting almost dashing the scrap haphazardly over and heaving the tangle of planks down into the first of three lined trucks.  All of the trucks idled diesel fumes through chattering lids on blackened chrome exhaust pipes.  Dog scrunched aside Karpinsky and you could hear his nails on the trunk as he scampered and then in one motion flew to the rusted car roof and after fiercely barking twice, Dog bayed soulfully. 


The man put two baby aspirin in his mouth and studied the sunlight illuminating a crystal-bright water drop off center in a splendid spider web strung amidst the dank ochre-tinged honeysuckle.



Purple haze swirled before him above the overgrown shrubbery and parchment-like bark of river birch trees down the narrow yard before him the purple haze and flaked debris drifted in a wasted translucent reddish smoke clouding the crumbling, rumpled purple house right before it really started to fall apart. The cream city brick chimney already stark half-cracked above the first floor swept down abruptly sideswiped by a pendulum stroke of the claw impacting the entire first floor with a tumultuous whoosh of beamed flooring that V’d from the center of the halved house cradling the ton-weight of chimney brick before the floor caved in stabbing with its severed, blown-up planks, its wavering tedium then imploded: pastel plasters and nail-spitting dusted lath pulverized, its random oval framed, square gilded, rectangular pewter outlined pictorial histories of black and white gabardine clad warriors, and old aunties beneath taut umbrellas, their laced high-tops glinting sunlight from where they stood pictured with sailors or soldiers on plaid picnic cloths, an abandoned bric-brac shelf with salt and pepper shakers Made in Japan imaged like feathered burntsienna faced Indians with Wisconsin Dells, delicate black lettered and embossed on silvered labels, a wall plate with a rouged Mimi Eisenhower on it, a brown Aunt Jeremiah syrup bottle, a 12x12 glassed John F. Kennedy portrait, a 12x12 portrait of Bobby Kennedy, a 20x18 non-glare plexi-glass sheathed Dr. Martin Luther King I Have a Dream speech expertly hand written-out and archived by Roberta, impeccable save for a slight hesitancy smudge on the first cursive F of the initial ‘Free’.  And then the old Bell and Howell projector-apparently left tethered to a ghost circuit-kicked in flipping double fast grainy images of Johnny and Tommy Karpinsky dressed in blue Cub Scout uniforms or like little tin-starred cowboys it seemed, before a tinseled Christmas tree, Tommy mockingly sighting the white, golden haired electric angel at tree top for several seconds with his new blue-steel BB Gun---by this time Johnny stood on the car’s roof, dangerously sagging and denting the thin, rusted roof of the Hudson, perforating a brittle, jagged-edged crack in the metal, now able to see over the honeysuckles, and beyond the birch branch with a cowered, quivering Indigo Bunting, Dog now howl-yelling, toward the final crushed wall of his disappearing purple house as it collapsed inward, its final bang and slap-bang kablamming and ricocheting louder than the ferocious rumble of growled wrecker machines.




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The tag states fiction, but I'm afraid this very thing is more real than most of us want to believe. Welcome to Fiction weekend.
I can't read it, but I love you.
Dude, this IS poetry. I felt swept up in a torrent of emotions, one blurring into the other, like life itself. I feel like I just lived someone else's life.
R+a link to Facebook, fans.
Thick, dense, riveting. Just the way I like it.
The machines have no heart.