Argentina, stop flirting with Panamanian penguins, someone holds your keys; lose control, dance a jig and boogie down Silk City’s Main Street, the haunted avenue of Jacob Cheney, George Marlow and the coolest of the cool crying for you — James M. Emmerling. Yes your way home is in all directions directed. Walk with me, talk with me, play your guitar, sing a tune and make it snappy, the throng of thongs and literary lunacy are sure to swoon, breakout in tears past the straight line of all the years. Dig it. Groove with it. Snap your fingers; curl your toes, so it goes in the search of James M. Emmerling. What goes? We go and you go tracing foot-tapping foot-dragging footsteps – James M’s, not mine.


Yes, I heard it through the grapevine. That’s how I knew in the gray of the morning the road to choose had two lanes of miracles passing each other within the secrets of the soul. Wow, Argentina, it’s not in the way you say, it’s in the way you deliver the answer to a thousand living questions. James M. Emmerling: What’s he like, does he smell, can he dance the two-step? H’mm… well a man ain’t supposed to cry over scrambled eggs.




Ladies, throng of the thongs and the birds in the tree, there are mountains and rivers James M. knows; he eats rattlesnakes for dinner and his years ago are now written words of where time is nothing but flowers and you got it if you get it in triple scores and duck pins rolling on the floor. Take time Argentina. Dance to the possibility and fermented fragments of folly while rebel yelling past the Tasmanian crossroads and riversides.



Ordinarily human with human plans and robot dreams, James M. is a honky-tonk man lost in Dylan and chocolate chip cookies; he nature’s way of telling you to the listen to the music while shuffling your feet looking so fine like a night owl in morning’s flight. Yes, he runs naked through the park, stops at stop signs in the dark and meows with the best of them. When he talks, munchkins listen. When he cries, rivers stop flowing. 



Hush… hush… that’s James M. Emmerling singing your song. He’s rock star cool on a Goodwill budget. And how he writes, pure genius mixed with Carver and Blake. So don’t cry for him Argentina, his wild days and mad existence are nothing more than fodder and plot twists. As he told me, “Chuck, it used to be so easy to give my heart away, but I found out the hard way, there's a price you have to pay… so many years… now in the empty space of my heart… I found out I should have known time after time… and I still got the blues for balloons.”



Yes, he's a man who's paid his first subscription with all kinds of condensation measured in sentimental value stored in a cool dark place. 

Views: 576

Comment by Zanelle on December 14, 2012 at 1:49pm

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale Open......thanks for opening this pathway to James.  Suck it up and exhale we got a long way to go together. 

Comment by chuck a stetson on December 14, 2012 at 1:50pm


James is a peaceful oasis and a generous soul whom I call "friend".

Comment by JMac1949 Memories on December 14, 2012 at 2:16pm

Hmmm... that guy looks kinda suspicious to me.  R&L

Comment by chuck a stetson on December 14, 2012 at 2:19pm


our hometown, once of silk mills, is a low-keyed suburban teetering on utopian nightmares and marshmallow fluff. James M. is a dapper sort, funny man with a wit reminiscent of Wilde.  

Comment by chuck a stetson on December 14, 2012 at 2:34pm


James is a rolling stone finely leveled and oh so cool

Comment by alsoknownas on December 14, 2012 at 2:35pm


Comment by Emily Conyngham on December 14, 2012 at 2:38pm

Main street, epic, hydrogen peroxide, tongue twister, child, transmogrifier, all around nice guy. Thanks for the song about James, Chuck.

Comment by James Mark Emmerling on December 14, 2012 at 2:52pm

condensation measured in sentimental value stored in a cool dark place


jmac, ya think i am suspicious? you gotta spend time with chuck. yikes! i expected the cops to pick us up for Public Absurdity at any time.

Comment by James Mark Emmerling on December 14, 2012 at 2:53pm was the full comment, wrapped in glory, my friend:


YEAH, that is all I wanna be, man! A peaceful oasis.

All this other stuff, well, haw! If you say so! Who am I to defy you? (see my post)



 An oasis not without ulterior motives. I delight in opening people up and letting them spill no matter how messily all over me. It is kinda what I am “here for”. That, and a good smoke.


The pictures of me I gotta say are darn fine. They capture my nonchalance and indifference and inability to pay attention to anything for an extended time. Fidgety, they call it.


I do indeed love the Condensation process.

“condensation measured in sentimental value stored in a cool dark place”

That could be the key to some huge mystery.


Readers beware ! The writer himself is a fine scrambled eggs of a man, the kind that actually is..kind. And fulla artistic pretensions (like me!) that he has something or other to say to the world before he is dusted out. Returned to dust.


He eats eggs with more voracity than anyone I ever met. Chuck is a man able to avidly consume eggs without a pinch of anxiety.








Comment by Jeanne Sathre on December 14, 2012 at 2:55pm

Nice. I think you captured him.


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