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


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  

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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

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.