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


MAY 26, 2012 2:00PM

ODE: No Piano Hidden Today

           It rained a good while until I thought of you
ade .000,009 yards, cloth, thumb index cloth thin… Read full post »
MAY 19, 2012 9:34AM

Kafka Woke Me





                                           raining cats mit dogs








Man pours coffee adds nothing to the stone mug.

MAY 16, 2012 8:11AM

Deeply from the Sixty-Six

                     … Read full post »
MAY 12, 2012 9:10AM

Poem Not About Poetry











                                                        rain delay 


 … Read full post »

APRIL 29, 2012 1:47PM

Dead Bird

                                    As it rains.
    &n… Read full post »
APRIL 28, 2012 9:34AM

I See You Are Old













I see you are old

and your thoughts young

that you miss the clack
of a taut-ribbon typewriter
and large cash, 10's, 20's
an assured walk over
unused sidewalks
diminished wind chimes… Read full post »

 Albatross no loss
Atlantic crossed white wave toss
Asleep a sailor
Cat rests: sun warm stone
Chipmunk faces no fancy rhyme
Chattering wind chime
Dolphin dives cold, deep   &n… Read full post »
APRIL 6, 2012 8:11AM

Fiction: Easter in Dixie 1962

[Due south on Rt. 41: a warm spring family vacation in 1962 all downward to Galveston,Texas. Parents and the boy and girl and grandmother Flannery packed tightly in a 1956 Chevrolet. The Chevy was chartreuse and black with a continental tire kit.]
MARCH 27, 2012 12:52AM

Walking to My Father's House

weren't warm
hood up,
tea candy
and just me

Hey you!

Walking to my father's house
My father's house let me be, hey


Walking to my… Read full post »
MARCH 24, 2012 3:21PM





Theater is dead

Though the matinee begins

Time knows no actor


Night's watch, and birds fought                      Gone again dark night

Even the half moon stood still &Read full post »


                                           an infinite short story 




  cross the street from the Dairy Queen I espied a sea hawk. She circled hoRead full post »

MARCH 16, 2012 6:00AM

POEM: We Are Leaving

winded days,
our sand
twelve, would it be
months, but

years bundle
ten, as seconds

gallons of grapes,
windward dust
and dauntless
mad with the insane
no compass,… Read full post »
MARCH 13, 2012 3:04AM

POEM: Contrarian

as poems
by fools
like thee
only Zorro
the sorrow
of names 
that start
with Z
as poems
by fools
for free
can be
MARCH 5, 2012 8:03AM

POEM: Really





                                               (insert image)






Out there now            Read full post »

MARCH 3, 2012 12:11AM

Fiction: Stunned Silence













There'd been a dampness through the legs up off the concrete for several days now. The weather map again swirls with layered snow squalls.  And massive blizzard.


Fast sea air approaches and flails wet snowRead full post »

FEBRUARY 25, 2012 4:16AM











there would be a tending                        wind beneath tents                           bundles of thin magaRead full post »













It is now illegal for Wisconsin taverns to distribute matches.


Who is writing these laws?




I suspect it is in the soil

  Read full post »

JANUARY 23, 2012 3:33AM

late in the eveining

                               patience  broters and sisters
                 P atience Read full post »
JANUARY 19, 2012 2:10AM

Slow Down First



Oh to be
Kingston Town
now drive past
Ian Fleming's
watch the driver
JANUARY 17, 2012 11:05AM


                                             author incarcerated 
life on earth  Read full post »
Comments are now closed for this post.
JANUARY 17, 2012 3:03AM

Gotta Love the Hour

Ive some stale dated Chantics <ck this cullminator>that' I'll grind up and snort no make that Commit, Dated 12 and 7.  A journalist friend would say 'increasingly erratic behavior'.  Con Chapman would continue to see the world through my mother's eyes  Read full post »

JANUARY 14, 2012 3:48AM

with thoughts of Amy

                                                                           R E S E A L A B L E  BRead full post »
JANUARY 2, 2012 9:56PM

running backwards with rhino virus




come now ye abe, baker, cain

cosmos for the sane

who then,

the maker of tort

a last


speed, now begger,






drummer boy



first lines only

of eyeintheskysuns,

Zap buses,… Read full post »

DECEMBER 5, 2011 1:25AM

Any Particular Day




                   from the collection 'The Servant Loves Sleep' 







Pass the paper bag, sonny

Hey ha-dada-hey

Dude, what up

well it was not only a great game,
but a valid game… Read full post »
NOVEMBER 30, 2011 6:40AM

On a Darkhorse They Did Ride

Easily the most convocative rendering yet this veracious albeit hellacious graciously winding down year.
 Granted the definitiveness necessary for creativity and the potential o… Read full post »