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


JUNE 16, 2012 5:52PM

Alive Forever

Rate: 6 Flag


               Rain finally fell intensly abandoning the mind of man.














          June only, the begged for rain aftermath's humidity as though fancy, comfy language for a faster typist, one who knows where the young bluebirds live, where they think they hide, too muggy for the fair, the sea discouraged, its white worn waves perpetual, as deeply a praying head raises toward the arm's length horizontal ordinary summertime as though leveled by an aquatic fixer of the universe, the plight of cool water, the machines chained, bolted to hollow, silent decks steaming off with tomorrow's weather as news, a disappointed man would triangulate then even torch-cut steel plates, toward the blinkered edge of nippy-toe remorse, the same destination, blonde demure mermaids, tattooed butterfly rumps, where the buttock folds to the long legs of youth, there is no bad synonym for taut, nor redux wheelie delights, howabouta chocolate dipped ice cream, and mad dogs foaming up about the mouth, with snarled cruel lips, sewn by the leaps and bounds of wayward hounds, a pleasure cruise for the sweet spot of youth, girls in robin's egg blue sequined gowns, a heavy watch caught on the desk telephone, near the bold screen where the lime has invaded the coconut, too late for an artificial sun, know that in the multiplex of your soul, fuck it, I was there that late afternoon hours before dark when you tore your index finger on the twist-off Heineken bottle, then sought refuge by beating the gambler at his own matrix, toward the interlakken, those mornings when the minator whispered all language, talons upon his shoulder afore the hula-hoop spectacle, a great chorus, a finale over the dust bowl, versatile thundering rockets, exploding like an ancient column and burst beyond the far sky vista of the trembling child, look mommy here comes the fire, that same timorous terror, the earth at last commodities' yo-yo, yin-yang whoosh whoosh bang bang the language a dinosaur, the mud, the oil and the sweetest suck of cinema. 

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I read it aloud as fast as I could. Felt good. Images still aswirl in my minds eye.
Overload in and out of time...
Hey Matt Paust jmac1949 I'm pleased as punch with your comments. Though never one for poetry by committee, allow me to point out that I should have sat on this one for several years, maybe, as the 86th word from the bottom, 'interleukin' was 'kept' though it's too clinical and multifarious for my purpose here--though I suspect the poet went with in it frustrated not to know the easily spelled Swiss word, interlaken. So I may alter interleukin (which was a 'go', rationalized as redemptive for its didactic propensity) to interlakken which may or may not 'fit' the tsunami-like deluge of hedonism so coveted by electronic readers. I know, I know it's a small thought...
Hey Matt Paust jmac1949 I'm pleased as punch with your comments. Though never one for poetry by committee, allow me to point out that I should have sat on this one for several years, maybe, as the 86th word from the bottom, 'interleukin' was 'kept' though it's too clinical and multifarious for my purpose here--though I suspect the poet went with it frustrated not to know the easily spelled Swiss word, interlaken. So I may alter interleukin (which was a 'go', rationalized as redemptive for its didactic propensity) to interlakken which may or may not 'fit' the tsunami-like deluge of hedonism so coveted by electronic readers. I know, I know it's a small thought...
There was a time when driving along a certain Interlachen Road would lead to paradise, if you knew where to turn off.

This goes from a moodily cliffed coast to 4th of July surprise...
I contemplate awarding a Snorkel Wood-Fired Hot Tub to the best comment before dark today, Catch, and damn, I think you're going to lap the field!

Thank you!
I concede to Catch, reluctantly, of course.

And there is no small thing in poetry, I've been told. The example being Pope's wrangling all day to add a word, then struggling mightily the next to delete it, feeling virtually orgasmic with each decision. One can only gape in wonderment.
Pope 'wrangled all day,' huh? Matt, I shagged for an intelligent quip but have not read Pope other than learning something of 'mock-epics' just now. However, I invested a tad of time on Sylphs, something else I did not know, and somehow fell into this news article:

Natasha Trethewey Named 19th US Poet Laureate

Yes sir, 'One can only gape in wonderment...'
Again, I am in over my head. Thanks for sharing this with us.
just phyllis, for now:
There was a theoretical prize awarded earlier-- my pleasure to share; thank you and you're welcome!
I did not experience nippy-toe remorse reading this piece but I watched the movie "Thor" last night and felt the sweetest suck of Cinema..or maybe it was the swedish suck of cinema. I love the way you put words together...as refreshing as a Heiniken. R
Gerald Anderson [anyone who hasn't seen this man's superb fiction go there now prepared for entertainment--the guy's a genius of word wizardry] neat of you to stop in and say some stuff. Analogous to your point--recent sugar expose defines an exasperated self-perpetuation of the enzyme craving. Perhaps the entertainer relies on a subconscious formatting of what the 'audience anticipates' and says that or pirouette's appropriately to fulfill the expectations of learned behavior. I attempt discussion how literature is learned. For the life of me [one who has neglected the classics, the bible, most aesthetic theory--not through slothfulness or arrogance, I contend, blaming happenstance (I well remember punching through a coffee tin with an ice pick in order to make a bait can and puncturing my thigh (thank you tetanus technology) or you know of course how the sun gets in your eyes just after evening tide, what a Spalding can do to the the eye socket) blaming happenstance, then, and now continuing emphasis on post WWII literature as the perceived relevant habitat. That is, the genie has left the bottle. Whatismore, if anyone hazards the debate: NEWS FLASH THE ATOM HAS BEEN SPLIT that the Manhattan Project is not the turning point, may God help us. It is the end-of-the-world as 'we' knew it. But at the same time I would absolutely love to audit a course on Shakespeare, or certainly the Greeks, maybe even learn ancient and pre-time history as it's too easy to lapse (just where 'they' want us?!) into this ADHD/DSM riddled apocalyptic nihilism. Indeed, you know, creativity: the double edged sword. Sorry to ramble here like an old Nash. Just that if I would have known it takes so damn much money to put your feet on the floor every morning I certainly would have been wiser with my money. Ah, enough about it.
I wish a wonderful Father's Day to you and yours, Gerald.
I think I'll do some bait casting with a Silver Minnow, where the sun bakes, where the ships roll in.
"the figures I sent this morning are in Alphabetical order" - a quote from my boss in her last email. I am lost.
We all don't have the Olympian discipline of, say, Michael Phelps, do we? Damon, a simple grid code: numbers 1 through 26 aligned with the English alphabet, may be a logical point of departure. As an example, 451 becomes DEA, Area 51: 1,18,5,1,EA--ETC: 5,20,3--
Do Not Pass Go: 1,15,14,15,20,16,1,19,19,7,15; e.g.g. or 5,7,7,
For Whom the Bell Tolls: 6 15 18 23 8 20 8 5 2 5 12 12 20 15 12 12.
However, if this perceived confusion persists, you should be ALERT
(1-12-5-18-20) for sequential alterations or omissions in the boss's system or any code, as it's an easy to 'slide the parallel integers', say, every Monday wherein A takes the place of G, G=N and so forth (a 7 symbol 'slide' every Monday) N becomes U, U logically slides back around to F....On the other hand, boss lady may have gotten a resume from a MIT graduate, and she's stirring the soup, suffers from megalomania, or endured one too many staycations at the Mall of America.
If I had any answers, would I be watching a PediSpin foot callous remover commercial on a rerun of Rachel Maddow right now?
When will California Dreamer be done, Damon?
*Interesting. I searched the web for boss's or boss', learned the rule and then committed the error. This from YHOO! ANWERS:

Best Answer - Chosen by Voters

You are correct. Grammer Rule follows:

2. If a singular common noun ends in s, add 's—unless the next word begins with s. If the next word begins with s, add an apostrophe only. (This includes words with s and sh sounds.)

The boss's temper was legendary among his employees.

The boss' sister was even meaner.

The witness's version of the story has several inconsistencies.

The witness' story did not match the events recorded on tape.
4 years ago
I did research that, but went the cowardly way - boss's email (not worth the third s). The Dreamer may face twenty years on the R. C. Mountain line if he ain't careful. If WV is almost heaven, then he will make the other side of Paradise.