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. }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.

MY RECENT POSTS

APRIL 28, 2012 9:34AM

I See You Are Old

Rate: 13 Flag

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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
 
due to rain
 
wet as you are
 
tired of lipstick messages
 
and silent shopping bag
 
statues with thoughtful
 
large eyes
 
forecasts, pneumatic glass
 
bright black drop bouncing
 
water-beading leather
 
tranquilized, morose idiots
 
beneath a couple of three 
 
agitated newspapers opened
 
vertically to day-glow 
 
smithereens, the words
 
so suitable, the chrome
 
as sticky as the new disease 
 
asleep, asunder,
 
a serenade  

Author tags:

j.p.hart poem

Your tags:

TIP:

Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Recipient's email address:
Personal message (optional):

Your email address:

Comments

Type your comment below:
Yep, that's me: tired of lipstick messages and morose idiots for sure. You have captured the world weariness of old age perfectly. R
"I see you are old

and your thoughts young

that you miss the clack

of a taut-ribbon typewriter"

Love your opening act here JP, your word choices; morose especially telling. But how can anyone be sick of lipstick messages?
As old as I might be, the ease of word correction without messy erasure or equally unfortunate white-out to defeat typos and re-thoughts easily defeats the clack and the whack of an old fashioned typewriter. Some nostalgia is best quickly dismissed.
"morose idiots
beneath a couple of three
agitated newspapers opened
vertically to day-glow
smithereens"

loved this.
this creates all kinds of images and thoughts
and leaves me wondering
to whom it is written.
We should bend the Sears Tower over and whisper this one in its ear.
Much memory and familiar tone here, J.P. I couldn't have said it better from my reluctantly real vantage. I even agree with Jan on this one - to a point.
What Gerald Anderson said.
Oh thanks for the comments! I was away from the screen tuck-pointing and now I've got cement in my eye...and there's cement on the PRTSC SYSRQ key...whatever the hell that is...^over 6 just found!


Ol' Paint!
",,,as sticky as the new disease "

just one of many images to love in this
Even better when read aloud.

I said something like your first two lines to a smart phone salesman, who might have been 20, the other day. After I told him I was only old on the outside, he stopped talking down to me. I told him I needed the 4G so I could take better video and play Words with Friends with my children.
Having just flipped through some Anne Sexton and Charles Simic, I'd take you in battle royale poetic arm-wrestling contest on the strength of this one.