James Hart / Fiction

If fiction is dead, reality is not far behind.

James Hart

James Hart
Location
Be Home Soon,
Birthday
December 31
Bio
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 14, 2013 6:01PM

Open Salon: Hart's Valentine's Day Flashy Poesy '13

Rate: 6 Flag

 
 
 
            silver winter light turned his mind to song
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 




Makes me want to go out and buy dental insurance :)



of course I played Doc Severinsen's MacArthur's Park, the '77 Jack Jones version-the television 

clip-not feeling this goodwell, hot, damn:

since I got the swing away sign from the 3rd base coach in 1965; the 

conjunctive wind at X + Y knots on my cotton cloth shoulders from due west justas the Rawlings 

horsehide must have found the sweetest song-likespot between the trademark Louisville Slugger 

& unblemished blondie tip of the 34" stick.  Between 1st and 2nd he ran the blessed wind danced

up inverted oft hot June turf farouthighover leftfield. Even his parents, the colored early summer

spectacular stasis of suspended love, awe, the updraft spent, sailed the ball ever higher---strong
 
hands over brows---the pointed electrocuted gasp of people on those weather-worn bleachers 

bent up hailing on their feet: where? how high? The boy pussyfooted 2nd base, the glint of the 

pillow's cleat at 3rd--poofwide--now running faster than the yelling


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I'm glad you got to third base. A cool take on Valentine's day. R
yo, GA always a pleasure ... now if that
Tanqueray® Gin doesn't harm Mrs. Hart's
ice maker ... more technology in the kitchen nowadays than
Krushchev ever dreamed of getting his paws on!
like that Russky "meteor"
J. Ρ, glad to read you again here...
C'mon home! That ball is...gone!
I had to deduct two style points for Doc Severinsen and MacArthur.
Дамон,Поссибле ареа 54 redux; Цратер Лаке, Орегон час нвер бен эксплаинед то мы сатисфацтион, эйтхер!
Stahi-Stahi! Γεια ξένος!

Matt--alas, although the baseball was never recovered, the hit was ruled 'foul' as it disappeared through the tops of the beech and sycamore trees--the velocity was such that it ripped through the dogwood and gooseberry bramble on the bluffs--possibly impacting the wet sands of Lake Michigan. So high, far and gone, those glory days...
Laureate Chapman--you may have something there regarding style points and punts. The experiment (under kind advisory) was with search engine optimization (SEO) as a 'title' using "Open Salon", often lends itself to the so-called internet viral phenomenom. Experimentally, I'd an ice pack on my left brain. My supposition was to more or less numb rationality, in order to unleash the 'war horse-like' romp of the right brain. All the while I was tangentially 'plotting'
a wonderful circumference tour of the whole country--retracing Walter Cronkite's route. Now that you mention it, your critique is 'valid'. But my current premise is to delve in honesty of expression, rather than be restricted by the erudite factoids posited by the Beloit
College. As an example, recently BC claims that 84% of Americans adults under 30 have never licked a postage stamp. So I'm thinking that America doesn't have adults under 30!
Stahi-Stahi! Γεια ξένος!

Matt--alas, although the baseball was never recovered, the hit was ruled 'foul' as it disappeared through the tops of the beech and sycamore trees--the velocity was such that it ripped through the dogwood and gooseberry bramble on the bluffs--possibly impacting the wet sands of Lake Michigan. So high, far and gone, those glory days...

Laureate Chapman--you may have something there regarding style points and punts. The experiment (under kind advisory) was with search engine optimization (SEO) as a 'title' using "Open Salon", often lends itself to the so-called internet viral phenomenom. Experimentally, I'd an ice pack on my left brain. My supposition was to more or less numb rationality, in order to unleash the 'war horse-like' romp of the right brain. All the while I was tangentially 'plotting'a wonderful circumference tour of the whole country--retracing Walter Cronkite's route. Your critique maybe 'valid'. But my current premise is to delve in honesty of expression, rather than be restricted by the erudite factoids posited by the BeloitCollege. As an example, recently BC claims that 84% of American adults under 30 have never licked a postage stamp. I bet America doesn't have adults under 30!
Mrs. Joesph Heller:

regardless the freedom of Saturday, Monday has its own guarantee, of statues in the park, night wind northwest, 1305 miles, Denver to Seattle, then south a day or more, into the warm. Or Route 61, later tomorrow south, south south! To the Padre Islands, a drink or two in New Orleans, then over to Orange, its high waves, Navaro Beach, where Jaws was filmed, to Tampa St. Pete its excellent bridge (Bradenton, Anna Maria Key) if not warm, Naples, toward Alligator Way, to Key Largo, lets find a cove to play, south to the Keys, already the days an hour longer, another sundown bar, the fresh catch supper

wow, tamborine
Mrs. Joesph Heller:

regardless the freedom of Saturday, Monday has its own guarantee, of statues in the park, night wind northwest, 1305 miles, Denver to Seattle, then south a day or more, into the warm. Or Route 61, later tomorrow south, south south! To the Padre Islands, a drink or two in New Orleans, then over to Orange, its high waves, Navaro Beach, where Jaws was filmed, to Tampa St. Pete its excellent bridge (Bradenton, Anna Maria Key) if not warm, Naples, toward Alligator Way, to Key Largo, lets find a cove to play, south to the Keys, already the days an hour longer, another sundown bar, the fresh catch supper

wow, tambourine
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgJxpr_8eOY