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. ******************************** ******************************** ******************************* 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 11, 2013 1:34PM

More Rain

Rate: 8 Flag
      In his father's galoshes, he shaloshed the garbage cart
curbside in deep blackened winterish water and bright ice, thinking of when he was a boy, and the sound of his speed skates. Later, he would review the spelling of 'shallossed' on Merriam-Webster and re-read Sylvia Plath's story,
'Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams.' 
show me a contest
without numbers
tell me a mountain
draw me a dismay,
excite me with an ap
peace on earth
my vital nap
do me a version
of your latest smile
allow the fastest
flight with no target
no boxes of foxes
nor canvas
of drivers at the wall
get me that frozen
of gin,sin 
that old
I'll catch that line,
that bar
like Errol Flynn
once agin
now build me
a billboard
with your
+ exceptional
to hospital drinks
and rather
than lather
a soft letting
a mile's escape
for that-
good all 
while the ice
blunders heavy
with swept rain
for the mad,
and sane
nothing on time

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A fedex dude sporting those ring-in-ear earrings lime in color just left. He had labels in hand to go with vodka breath (thus the limes, I guess) and instructions to pick up nonexistent packages. Had I read the Plath excerpt before this occurred I might have told him to affix the labels to his dreams and send them down the gutter on mini-floes and sing: tell 'em I'll be there (Sue wants a barbeque. Sam wants to boil a ham. Grace votes for builabaise stew.) For sure if youngster is drinking on the job the gutter will find him.
Enjoyed the poem and if you have to do a bid in the bin do it with style like SP.
to sleep tight
dream in the air at night
fingertips on grass
nimble lips nip grace
soul sunk deep
lower than French Quarter bass

at least that's what they told me, last time I asked.
You poets. Just when I figure out it's no longer cool to rhyme, you break the rule with your lime. It's a crime, and I feel the fool!
Good Gawd. Don't know much about poetry but I recognize greatness when I stumble across it. And this is it. I'm gaping though I'll never be aping.

This poem has a really good rhythm to it.
More Rain needs some work but I do appreciate the moments of kindness and clever comments. Here is some of my older writing if you've got the time:


He'd not heard the song before, but it would not soon leave his mind, as he saw all of them and his manicured thumb nail almost sneaking a toothpick at the Waffle House while Ruby paid by credit card, then he wanted to twirl and spin on one foot, before singing Joad's song,

... Sweet Mother Mary I'm so tired...

Ruby took a black sweater from the Edsel's trunk, wearing it shaw-like.

Overhead Joad watched the three of them, just an image traveling too slowly on a traffic gridmap then moving in, swooping to fly just behind and above the Edsel, not wanting to scare his mother, yet he and his laptop sat there dressed like Joe DiMaggio, he lifted his cap then pulled it low and turned left just as the old convertible gained speed merging with the expressway vehicles. Turning toward Ruby and from the corner of his eye, he saw how the acceleration caught Fast Eddie by surprise, as the New York Times exploded from Fast Eddie's knees with more than half of the pages lifting and swirling in the wind. Double newspaper sheets blew in all directions: the New York Times Book Review came apart with the rest of the disappearing, floating newsprint dancing like hundreds of rectangular kites impossibly flying in the backseat and then up and away-aloft in their wake as Boss sped to the outside lane passing a terrified herd of cattle in a fenced truck bellowing as though sheet lightening flashed, spooked them, you smelled cow waste even after Boss'd gained a good half-dozen car lengths in front of the that old cattle trailer, and you seemed to think it was painted barn red.

Fast Eddie pressed his feet on what was left of the newspaper and touching Boss's shoulder leaning forward saying, "Canyouputthetopup!" As Boss kept going as wildly fast as he dared, what with Ruby with her eyes closed now wearing her black sweater over her head, the wind moving her eyelashes, those gorgeous lips of hers flag stripe red.

And Fast Eddie, well, Fast Eddie had his eyes closed too, the G force pinning him backward: the sunlight on the worn vinyl, the cattle stench of pee in his nose, thinking this mofo can't drive worth a damn shit.
I know. Somedays you're Carl Sandburg, the next
Charles BooBukuwski. I have revised More Rain if anyone is still awake. Here is a musical interlude calculated to be that note in a sea bottle, an asterick on the warm velvet night.
That's right, Yeats rules.

There is something so affirming about asking for the impossible ~
Sure, the heartache and pain of a free people, catch.