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


JANUARY 27, 2014 11:21PM

Rustbelt Winter

An orange yellow lit V plow bigger than Rib Mountain thundered through curbside. What must have been a frozen solid stag tumulted - hoofed stick legs and mossed antler rack toppling snapping - a blur of blood, slivered bone points and creased fur skull split to the blood-balled nostrils in a strRead full post »

Jake Blake ate
baked Christmas
he did partake
wound up with
a bellyache,
for crimmeni

Girls in blue
frosted air
sparkly shoes,
all the news
near lion lair

Skipped-… Read full post »
DECEMBER 17, 2013 9:11AM

Leopard, Shepherd {POEM}

Alive and cold here, snow covers all horizontal. Windless dawndark. A great silence like a speechless child. Heat machines spark, burn and ravage flame. Pent up warmth, a leopard prowls through tin, then its fog wisps a moon walk, vanishing, words unspoken. Slant snow too high for the tongu… Read full post »

Verbatim without consent.


What is the Peace Corpse? Whoa. Wrenched thumb hereon.


What is the Peace Corps? {Back Cover of .50 paperback 1963}

Copyright 1963, by Paperback Library, Inc.

A Paperback Library Original First Printing, June, 1963

Printed in the United States of America

What is… Read full post »

NOVEMBER 10, 2013 10:56PM

November, November ---POEM

they will know you by your staying away
 a hall hook, spare, where is your hat?
 on plank bowed peeled paint porch, vacant chair
 toward gravel mud along glistened brook
a boot heel, then 3 now 4 all 4 then 3
NOVEMBER 8, 2013 4:07PM

Long Time Passing


.... OS Fiction Club...









Before the child’s internment, it happened like this, before all else:

He madly raced to the ER the opposite side in the revolving glass quad behind  ____,  her

mama’s  big b… Read full post »

NOVEMBER 4, 2013 10:49AM








                          This space reserved for Harley Fischer






dank of wet forest

we feared she'd lost

the brash


rosey with silk scarf,

another… Read full post »

for Jackie Wilson. Missing Di

Ann + JOann and yeah yeah yeah.

Clement Zablocki VA center,

MIA flags.

A gal named CeeCee, O' Susanna, Dale Evans, June Lockhart

Fundamental problems patients, Absolute Rum.  Why did JFK jokeabout

an Abomb in the Russia Embassy....kareokee deep purpled at ____

ATT c… Read full post »

OCTOBER 29, 2013 11:08AM

Something New, Something Blue

Klever!  Frankly I haven't enjoyed this time of year since I wore this excellent life-like ape rubber ape mask and mom's heavy black fur coat. 6th-7th grade or such.
No, I wasn't held back.
Is that true what they say about you and fish-net stockings, Carney
(nasal snicker, full snort laugh)… Read full post »
OCTOBER 10, 2013 12:07PM

Today a Marine,19, KIA, Comes Home

His mom was on TV, and you sensed she could not say how she felt. She said he was just home in June, and now he's coming home already. 

She wept. And could not stop weeping.
She said now she would never see him again.
The camera panned away.… Read full post »
SEPTEMBER 26, 2013 12:07PM

Praying Mantis//Motionless

Rhyme he thought… Read full post »
SEPTEMBER 8, 2013 3:56AM


During J.P.Hart's university years, he was encouraged  to  discard most erstwhile endeavors- most 'products' of his creativity.
Prior to his disappearance, source has it that he'd taken to googling
random phrases e.g. Why is J.P. Hart great?
Winding up with a preponderance… Read full post »
SEPTEMBER 2, 2013 4:47AM

Fee Fi Foe Fum NANO

                             Insert Harbor Image
                           that's where the fun is 




                             This Space Intentionally Left Blank

                              O.S. Fiction Club, Nearly Autumn

&… Read full post »

AUGUST 17, 2013 11:00AM

Fifty-Five Words, Snappy Poem

  A case of Saturn rockets
a flotilla of sprockets
need I a wrench
for theft of duplicity
a knawed phrasology
a vagrant e for the
signifier stream
yet I hear the saw
Saturday, new wood
all things squared
not one star
plumbed, nor punked
a free thing here
unless one… Read full post »
AUGUST 10, 2013 11:43AM

Leave It Off


[Odd the machinations of the dank jungle tunnel, a broken sleep.  A certain eye itch. Time is an agreement at high noon, a concurrence that most love Paris every moment.  A glimmer of history, too humid for a new golf shirt, qued behind honeymooners from Saginaw, shuffling elbow to… Read full post »

JULY 17, 2013 6:47PM

Aerial Stasis {Poem}

  I'm checking the clock.

Certain dreams to punch out.

Inaptly, a furious sound, distant motors and
gears, shrill solitary bird, an inhibit
ion of  Y-s fading to I-s, an electric moment of deep ety
mology, despite the digitized, the group of
ten, that pitch and toss, my quiet dreams
Read full post »

JUNE 26, 2013 5:43AM

Time is Now--A PoeM

Allow the waking

when still dark

when the birds

how they sing

how the wind

who alone

who swoons

what happens

what feels

where the light

where the night

rejoices the




prayer  Read full post »

JUNE 13, 2013 11:33AM

Once Upon a Sunday 30NOV69

It’s Sunday morning 6am.  I’ve been up for an hour making beds and sweeping the floor.  Breakfast is at 6:30 so I’ll try and get out a few lines to my favorite people.  How’s everyone?  I’m half way through so I’m feeling pretty good.  Trai… Read full post »

As I Lay Me Down To Sleep                                     &n… Read full post »
MAY 7, 2013 10:45AM

Hart's Open Call

MAY 4, 2013 9:17AM

Parade Rest

Yeomen poets might be intimidated, the editors apparently at rest, but from what I know, none of the above, then a teeter-totter, a twix yet twain, what about the balance, a stasis of motion, a leveling of circumstance wherein art is not history, art is the future, a sculpture: two people,Read full post »

Let me die running.  I was overdue @____, the fog inhibiting even the rough inkling of a thought to drive riskly.  Before too long, though the park was littered with compost, the shop was cold and the door locked with OPEN vs. CLOSED, the brass antique handle somewhat grimy as though… Read full post »
APRIL 21, 2013 2:51AM

Spirit In The Sky - Norman Greenbaum




     d0 not idly think of crossing my bow at this moment  Read full post »

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APRIL 16, 2013 1:00PM

Please Come to Boston

I take exception to callous bloggers' reckless endeavor to argue vague ethnocentric agenda at the expense of grievously harmed people. 

The other day, one of the OS resident historians downplayed capacity and range of DPNK's missile delivery system.  

Such loosening of the genie'sRead full post »