Up on over the path's hill standing and riding along the cliff's side, the thick limbs of ash trees and beech drawn sideways for dark trail shade grown huge from the earth below and higher finally than the hawk who lived nearby powerfully gliding its shadow crossing the boy's route, the bicycle's speed wonderful yet perilously close to the graveled edge --- you had to lean into it and squint into the wind going down as it was too steep for nothing but out--of-gear coasting --- and leaning away from the cliff-side as grasshoppers could pelt you like sparks, the water for his minnows already half gone, no matter, you'd need to know that the turn below, when the path dipped not gradually enough away from the lakeside back into the darkness, you had to take your chance there as you travelled more like a diving bird suspended a realm solitary falling beautifully LOOK OUT he yelled before him that full-lunged adolescent bellicose warning while the lovers in swimsuits turned their faces in, their eyes started wide, frightened and simultaneously they just jumped and fell out the way HEY WATCH OUT YOU LITTLE MOTHER FUCKER the guy burst grabbing dirt but the girl clawed the tattoo of a stretched panther over his forearm and he dusted his hand on his ironed pants, the speed demon and splashing minnow bucket careening-then-perfectly balanced gone disappearing swiftly as though an apparition, while not before yanking the handle bars back toward him for an instant only on the high back wheel and then silently down the power and grace of his baseball heroes motorizing his flight, the curved trail banked, angled just so toward the final right sloping traverse before the beach: an oiled man in pantie-like trunks with his thumbs stretched on the small of his back; the boy braked and then ran briefly then walked alongside his bicycle as the promenade was nearly as crowded as the Fourth of July, the sun worshipers already reddened playing volleyball, a dog, like a greyhound only thick, its tongue lolloping, the boy with his rod and reel carried parallel stationed on the bike's seat, he laid it down drinking like a thirsty goat at the water fountain after the girls his age meandered away looking back at him, want to giggle, turning away, the gulped water as cold as a handful of crushed ice, and then he held the fountain's button tight with his knee, drank from his hands and then doused his minnow bucket as much as he could from the glimmering stream of water through which you could see the entire curvature of the earth, the clarity swirling washing over the rust-chipped silver drain enclosed in grey and tan composite marble.

Views: 107

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 25, 2019 at 4:04am


Plenty of room here at the Hotel California. Illiterately I remain riffing on Sinatra's ...That's Life.

At once: Tinkertink69 has disconnected and can't receive in instant messages.

...that's what the people say...

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 25, 2019 at 7:03am

There had been a lady whom I never met though I first saw her as I clanged passed the pond where she was in a straw hat behind a large easel next to the tranquil green mirror of water where only a swan and soft breeze floated before the willows, as she turned toward my racketing bicycle: the boy in a dark shirt balancing his rod and reel, his knee nicking the minnow bucket during every second rapid stroke of the fat-tired candy-apple red Schwinn fluttering baseball cards of Roberto Clemente, Ernie Banks and Luis Aparicio, along the 'rained earlier' asphalt of the path on passed the lady as her blue eyes paused, smiled looking over while I sped along and I could see, especially the center of her lips colored like the scarf or ribbon that banded the blond straw of her sun hat, her hair the color of the bird's outlined eyes and at a glance the watercolor landscape held the faint yellow light, morning, while I coasted just before the rise of the narrowing, thinly layered walkway where cattails stout as cigars hid redwingedblackbirds and cobwebs with their blue, transparent prism patterns, on passed the woman sitting there studying the gentle bird, and I think I remember telling myself to remember that she wore a summer black-blue 'faintly' polka-dotted dress, and next to her bare foot resting on a black leather shoe, there was a thermos, tartan plaid, though I just noisily rushed riding up toward the hill, and even at this stage of the game, I do not see any relevance nor trustworthiness to my recollection, though it is certain to me that she attempted to create a painting within a moment, and even now I wish that I would have skidded to a stop wildly sliding and then inventing something to say to her such as wow, I wish we were alone, a dinner & show?

{last three words altered from 'naked'}

Comment by Robert B. James on May 25, 2019 at 12:03pm

No fish? 

Comment by catch-22 on May 25, 2019 at 5:55pm

I’ma miss this type o’ typing, amigo.

Bet you’ll like this one:


El Wanabi by Fiel a La Vega

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 25, 2019 at 6:39pm

'd a lure, a pink feathered white jacket walleye jig, that pinky with its back up in my Levi's watch pocket. Barbed minnows. On shore rocks bigger than a

John Deere bucket, the boys shoulder from time to time yet clicks-cricks, if he sleeps on the wrong side, yeah yellowfin jumbo perch 2-3

pounds or gently resubmerged for next year---awesome throws with that Zebco as though from short center field powerfully blur-lining from shoulder height

toward those head first opponents, those dust clouds runners sliding--diving at the plate. Dauntless: near perpetual high delt casts,arching the monofilament-

-like the boy disappearing, those thrilled full force strikes, deep deep yanks cranking fighting back just as fast on that U-bent vibrating fly rod...yeah

from deep bottom dark lapped cold wave water only, wayfarout! The bucket filled in no time, whereas the area granddads 50 and more years prior, those old

timers would walk their wide fish throbbing nets wading, struggling toward shore that coarse weave rope filled with incredible heaps of fresh back-flipping

half-ton weight jumbo yellowfin perch, for those coaster wagons way-loaded back up the cliff trails...fresh perch! fresh perch!...loudly they yell like corner

newspaper sellers--foamed custard rootbeer float money in no time. Maybe new shoes for back to school...

Comment by Anna Herrington on May 25, 2019 at 6:54pm

Caught on 'pantie-like trunks' which, while evocative, makes my skin rather crawl while my mind keeps querying, "You mean speedos? Men's bathing suit? Briefs? Water-entering gear of serious swimmers and Non-American-men-not-so-weird-about clinging-garments?

Have a good evening, James, hope all is well your way.

And how lovely to see you, catch, dropping by more often here at J.P.s ... I agree, catch, will miss this type o' writing also. Many kudos to Lorianne for hosting us. Her note does reek of 'past our welcome' ~ hate to be that, for her. 


Although we might, each of our virtual sides, meet somewhere else and write and read.

Weird to meet minds, hang out for years here and there and then poof.

Such is the online world. I'm kinda sad, today, so many folks now gone who kept great company around the campfire who really will disappear into the ether now that their typed words will....

Comment by koshersalaami on May 25, 2019 at 7:59pm

I’m wondering about the threads. I might copy some posts, but I wonder what to do about threads. There are conversations with people who are no longer with us. If I look through my old stuff I have a lot of James Emmerling. 

Comment by koshersalaami on May 25, 2019 at 8:00pm


Make sure Tink is listed as a Friend. IM’s only work here between people who are Friends. 

Comment by catch-22 on May 25, 2019 at 8:02pm

Halló, Anna! Great to see you, too. Yes, many kudos to Lorianne. This space has helped me, healed me. I send Lorianne glowing appreciation for showing us how to do it, even as, especially as, this part ends. It never fails to amaze me what can be created when folx share strength and power like Lorianne did here. I love how you put it; words are ether, transparent...the connections they forge and break, though, that shit gets real. 

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 25, 2019 at 10:56pm

RBJ 10 hours ago you asked: no fish? I replied 3 hours ago.[
catch-22 I was plyin' to RBJ when you graced hereon with your musical interlude 4 hours ago. Graci though I enjoyed the cool music my language skills are limited my typing skills oft inhibited within these little boxes. Translation would be appreciated. Apology interior rhyme last sentence: limited-inhibited, typing the night away LO;}
Anna HerringtonProtag preadolescent was startled by bodybuilder in the shade along the trail. That summer of '62. Speedos weren't in his vernacular and 'diving trunks' would have been a better descriptor, true. The flamingo trunks were well trunked.
koshersalaami Immediately after I hit publish I checked members on line and pleasantly so amused, I tempted to prompt the elusive house cat. Alas, he'd posted a blog and scurried back into hiding. Often I 'thread' nudge with a comment after posting and maybe got too cute with the cut and paste you reference. I did reach out for the friend stamp request but Tinkerertink69 apparently scampered beneath the porch. Not long ago I'd fried a hard drive with all kinda OS & OS stuff and the programmer I worked with admitted reclamation was beyond his expertise. However I do have email blog files. That burnt disc may or may not be salvageable. I'm told there's only 1 or 2 experts who could refurbish. Neither of whom are nearby. I've actually even printed a lot of my work for surety. Here's an interesting albeit somewhat mysterious hitherto unpublished bit from the day:

Wonderful reflective pause in this digital upstream survivalist circumstance, DB. I have forgotten the IM story, but not the man and his prose. Retrieving my copy (shelved between Dover's I Ching, Emerson's Select Writings, buffeted by Life and Times of Freddy Douglass (from Slave to Diplomat) afore Willie Mays As told to Charles Einstein, braced by duplicitous paperback Willie Faulkner's The Unvanquished, certainly feeling somewhat 'prepared' for apropos discussion. Another random flip to the start of IM Chapter 10 wherein he enters a paint factory on Long Island beneath the sign: KEEP AMERICA PURE-USE LIBERTY PAINTS. Note that Louis-Ferdinand Celine's Journey to the End of the Night--published in France in 1932, let's say fifteen years prior to IM, focused upon entry into a GM plant in Detroit, observing that if he stayed, he'd never get out. More to your point of 'floating'- what? That the 'person' is not--rather a flesh and blood mammal whirl-winded by an oppressive sphere of socialization forever prohibitive to self-actualization? Post IM, Saul Bellow concludes his wonderful premier novel Dangling Man with, "Long live regimentation!" Strongly told missive, Mr. Biddle. From whence we are. Excellent paragraph 'At their best, all of this country's great writers provide us...'
Righting wrongs, hearing songs. One conceivably must excel beyond continued DostoevskIan
savagery as it will break your heart every single time. Homage to what or whom? To thine own self...


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