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


FEBRUARY 6, 2013 2:57AM

Two Haiku

Rate: 4 Flag



                              Things were essentially okay, but then violent winds burst snow out of a fog bank that may have been a cloud swiftly rolling past ground level. The low cloud was intimidating. Charcoal smokey colored rising dank fog with big snowflakes the size of tin soup lids whirling out of it swayed the big trees to and fro.  There may have been simultaneous dervishes entrapped in the the undergrowth, but it was impossible to be certain. The foggy darkening cloud rapidly traversed and had to be hundreds of feet higher, darker up as far as you could see. The wind was oddly soundless as the squall  took on a power of its own somehow gaining speed.  Some weird micro-burst windshear event that cut visibility at once immersing the forest with heavy giant snowflakes. I wondered if I would be compelled to overuse ly words in describing the snow fall.






 gifted wonderlust

the big cozy:tracks of thin
wolves, hidden days

delicate breath, air
reflecting crystalline drifts
pale shadow sunlight


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thin wolves/hidden days ~

makes me shiver too
Wonderfully evocatively wolfishly ratedly
do the flakes take hitchhikers
[r] so much wonderful here, but you had me at snow flakes the size of soup lids. What a daring poetic comparison! best, libby
I wish the internet was 30 years younger!
Fucking A Eddie Eagle has landed THAT/S
for galldang sure and this just in from the
Paris Review Faulkner chat: Writers at Work
" " interviews edited x Macolm Cowley
Viking Compass Book--Francoise Sagan 1969:

'“It's a shame that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day is work. He can't eat for eight hours; he can't drink for eight hours; he can't make love for eight hours. The only thing a man can do for eight hours is work. ”
― William Faulkner

Now in preparation of comment, I see that the WF quote was originally spoken in PR interview in 1956. Also, I just learned Faulkner's middle name was Cuthbert--so one might assume he was a fan of Claude Brown as well as Johnny Cash. A tough, passionate actor. [Upstairs the children were crying. I mean sobbing. Wildly.They were pointing at that War Horse scene--when the horse was tangled in barbed wire...I tried to console them. But all I could do was hold them in my arms]. Melissa arrived home spilling the groceries on the railway bench--the door still wide open--yelling, panicked, "What the hell is going on...!"
well yes, yer haikus are
"multaneous dervishes entrapped in the the undergrowth"
big fat dark cloud above.

in hidden days, we are pale shadows, yessir!