You have entered the realm of a writer.

Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Monday, February 28, 2011

The Serious Face of Inspiration

The air was mischievous as we waited in mock silence for the presentation to begin. Boys sprinkled themselves far and wide, leaving space to conjure some semblance of individuality, separation, pride. Girls huddled together in sets of two or three, conversing in quiet tones about whether the snow was to fall or what Eula Biss was going to read from. Few people came in groups and laughed about their harrowing day at school where teachers raked their minds and marked wretched disillusionment on their souls. Conjured food beckoned to the hungry with a casual display of crackers, cheese, grapes and coffee. How very French of the organizers. Others didn’t notice as they vehemently grabbed for what morsels drew saliva from their gums. All the while, center stage remained untouched by a speaker.

I watched. I listened. I heard what the mass seemed incapable of touching. Perhaps it’s because this was my first time, my virginity palpable through my excitement, but there was a sense of relaxed tension filtered through my film of anticipation for Eula Biss to appear magically before us. I didn’t know what to expect, but I wanted to hear something profound, moving, influencing -- something extra-ordinary, sublime, and ignorable to shift me out of my delicate balance in life. I knew I was expecting too much of someone I didn’t know, had never seen or met, and probably would never see again after this night.

Finally, a man stood at the podium, that offset pillar of import fabricated of artificial wood and papery finish. His intro was poignant and made me feel closer to the room. Words echoed playfully, like childhood friends dancing in the rain of a bright, sunny day where the clouds mystically trickle miles away from their shadows. I couldn’t help but smile at his own fascination and unbelievable acceptance of the accomplishments of his long-time friend, Eula Biss. Part of me felt a dream open its eyes, peaking out at a tale unfolding, a history colored with possibility. I was captivated, as I had been the first time I read Catherine Asaro’s first novel, Primary Inversion. Here was a real person, a tangible entity to admire, to aspire to become, to engage in mental playgrounds because she is real.

Then Eula Biss took her spot, comfortably with an edge of nervousness. I can see in her shoulders the worry. I can feel her downcast eyes doubting whether her new audience would appreciate what she was about to read, about to share, about to express: intimate words drawn like piercings through cartilage and scar tissue in a blissful catharsis of passion. Words ushered forward thoughts of diligent introspection toward race, a subject I thought well out of her means and yet poignantly relevant in such a homogenized society. Though she spoke of essays and structured, researched, studied prose, her speech carried like poetry telling tales of carnivorous moments tearing down the safety locked within her mind --

And her point was made about fear and constructs; but I felt she missed a schema running through her language. All her experienced plagues, whether of another era or simply months ago with her neighbor on a beautiful summer day, centered around communication, played with the sense of language, juxtaposed images with words to invoke the necessary realization of race issues manufactured through our daily speech patterns. Perhaps she dives deeper into this possibility in other portions of her poetic essays, but it became startlingly clear when she equated lynching to telephone poles. Though her discourse throttled my perception, it drove into me the beauty of time well spent.

Time ticked on to a detrimental moment when the pages of her life closed and came to rest upon the podium. The aforementioned man rose and craned his neck toward the audience once more, declaring that Eula Biss would be accepting questions as time permitted. I had none for her, but the islands of patient awe divulged their timid inquiries with relish. That’s when her words of wisdom truly sank in. They weren’t about race, or her family, or her trials at becoming a published poet. She said, which had been echoed prior to this moment, “You have to take yourself seriously as a writer.”

My amazement crumpled my doubts. Something snapped in my head. Snow began to fall outside, unbeknown to the dimmed room. Moments before the reading, I was struggling through astrophysical equations of spacial relation between majestic gods and the illumination they provide for the nights and imagination. Moments before the reading, I was stressing about my physics homework and the supposedly simple concepts of Newtonian physics. Moments before the reading, I was pouring over calculus integrals determining the area of a graph as it spins around a certain axis bound by equations of meaningless relationships. I was taking myself so seriously... as an Astrophysicist.

But I’m a writer, and Eula Biss just told me a secret I had kept away from myself. I’m a writer. Now, I’m a serious writer, and seriously considering serious changes to ensure this serious realization won’t be wasted in moments of stressful attempts at a separate passion.

The Moments Before Falling

It's the smell of nature trapped in a jar, released only by flames. it's the meat laden toothpick thrust in your hand in a mall. It's the warm, rain-heavy breeze on a sweltering summer day.

He rubs his hand along the seam of my pants as his lips tickle my neck. I shiver with subtle thrusts against his solid body. Fingers slip under my head and press me upward, holding me as if my motions quenched an insatiable desire. He moves his free hand around my body and grabs the small of my back.

Movies forget the physical touch. Songs forget the warmth of hands. Books forget the smell of two sould longing for release.

We forget how good, how easy, and how needed falling is.


He calls out my name
in a whisper
a vulnerable echoe of the mind.
He knows not the power
conjured so simply,
my eyes close wit his and accept the dark.
He fights to lose control
arcing, grabbing, flying --
I am locked to him in motion.
He grabs my ear with his teeth
we release -- sigh,
and fall consciously to the sound of comfort.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Undecided, Partially.

Undecided... the unbelievable complications surrounding an emotional state we assume is fragile, especially in turbulent times. An age surpassed, a decade gone by, a state renewed in contrast to the past. What hasn't happened is simply what shall, and everything in between is lost in complicated revivals of unseen disillusioning. Well... that's an over-simplification of something unknown and undetermined as of yet. Joyous wrappings paper the floor, crinkling the footsteps delicately, beautifully, even though it's a dissertation of detritus in artistic formats. Unfortunately, it's how my heart feels when I desire something society tells is vastly inappropriate after such short stints of la seule fois. I enjoy rejecting the blue sky and the green grass. After all, flames can't be deterred by human hands bound by the gods.

So the mound of impossibility is what I seek to surmount. What I believe is tragically build by our own minds because comfortability strokes the gentle member throbbing for release is the absolution of the self when we find steely ambitions, wanton fantasies, and truthful bliss. Thus we stray from the heap, ticking away. I don't leave it untouched. I'm transcending, believing, and feeling what I desire as the release I need to move forward with me. Unquestioned, partially.

Sitting in his room.

Glaring white boards outside tinted windows
soft Blankets curling around legs bound together
sheer fingers clasped in longing Intensity
Colored moments
dissipate like Vapor in the mind
contagious sinusoidal Throbbing
The light shatters reality
darkness invades Fantasy like wildfire
tingling lips unfurl          enter Joyfully.


Simple kisses fray
Belts undone with gentle fingers
World forgot in light

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

The Last Minutes of an Age

I'm not ready. Island plum candles make me feel sick. The count down began ages ago, without my consent, without my knowledge, without me. Alas the pages of the hanging wall decor shift endlessly as the impossible heaps surmount all regard. Smoke rises from the pipe: tendrils swirling, mists unfurling, cages encasing --

Dreams falter without regard. Uncanny superstition of the ticking movement within effervescent space-time analogies call to the undying reality, shifting heartened illusionment to undesirable plays. Yes, undesirable.

The sun is set, the moon awaits its turn; darkness shifts under candle-lit eyelids. Emily would have said something about forgot. 36 minutes in this time of 24. Alack. Alas. Hark. Amok! I care not, for caring is all I have. Cough drops soothe some forms of ailment.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Responding to Desnos

So this French poet, Robert Desnos, held a radio conversation a long time ago in which he discussed dreams with several poets. The dreams were fascinating, especially in the way the poets described what they were seeing in a surreal world. Desnos goes on to request his listener's response to his dream in particular. He wants to see/hear our "dreams of my dream" through any written means necessary. Thankfully, my poetry teacher has introduced me to this wonderful conversation and has 'demanded' all of us to write a response to this beautifully meaningful dream of Desnos'. Just as a reference point, Desnos, in his dream, is moving or has moved into a new house with his significant other and while there he discovers this strange floor between the first and second story. It's typically dark, but not spooky or threatening. It's more like an invited place calling him to sit and write, to explore and exist, to remain and thrive. Here's my response to Desnos' dream:

A space between spaces, between the first and second of all: it’s an interesting place to put space, and places that render a call. Do you shelter your eyes from believing even with sight you’re judged on perceiving as dreams circle round the reality creating infinitely curious curiosity? And this wandered unearthing above and below centered being shouts for desirous absence from the structured building of essence. It’s justifiably a necessity of encouraged depravity of distancing society from our unformed reality in order to feel gravity toward our uncensored fantasy in quiet places so darkly shaded for lack of immortality. It’s obvious to know the state of dreaming ends when eyes lie low. The shades, the places, the darkness yet weightless; however, dear Desnos, you dare not go? Footsteps have fallen and the walls are but calling, possibility knocks in your dreams. How daylight in dreams filters shading in seems sought roughly about in spaces of eves... in the places of spaces lost between the wastes of form.

That’s what it does, this floor between floors; above the head and lower than feet, where the gods and the conscious do meet. It breaks away spaces and invites the creative and asks you to linger though moonlight’s abated. Now my hopes are invested in jealous attraction to this seemingly impossibly possibility between the stories.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Private Sunrise

The sunshine bellows in the face of bitterness. Something about its smile chases away delicate strands of imperceptible decay registering in the deepest recesses of the heart. Sunshine: a beacon of understanding, of life, of joy, of infinite possibility confronted by jealous darkness. The clash is almost always won by the daemon of day, even when blankets smother the skies with sodden moods. There is and always shall be the complicated balance of shadows and wakening, of which waking even in dim solitude persists just as the sun rises permanently in the east; and with mourning morning’s arrival, the dread of moments past must diminish in the west like violet tendrils spotted with glitter.

Isn’t that the truth: a sparkling warmth of torture. It is easier to remain in darkness, easier to chide the day-lit faces of others, easier to lay your body down, easier than pulling back the suffocating curtains and adjusting your eyes. The night appears infinitely more beautiful in its anxious moments spliced with worried faces and tender words juxtaposed to the brightness and clarity of our waking hours. Ultimately, we mistake the comfort of cold for the cozy warmth necessary for life to proceed.

Days go by, the stars shine in their attributed luminosities, weather changes regardless; but until the crest of smiling breaks the visage of our essences stagnation will prevent the morning glories from greeting the Eastern shores. Benevolence exists within ourselves for ourselves without the sun, truly. Day crests with or without the fiery intensity of our own happiness; but the night will remain unless something is changed.

Today is one of those moments when it feels impossible to redress the overwhelming possibilities of failure. Sub-zero biting chills swoop like bitterns with piercing eyes. Even the sun can’t warm the skies, can’t melt the slick Road before our doors, can’t awaken the mist-filled forest before our hearts. Herein lies the challenge: What to wear in the face of such harshness?

The answer circles around, circles around, and circles to one point, just like the sun’s warming rays: a smile.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

the Name is lost

Like the face of light splintering off prisms,
reflection disillusioned in the face of
disembodiment from reality.

When does the decision set in?

Snow falls peacefully upon my eyelids,
heavy with tears
frozen in my already fragmented

Can I lose this one without?

The heavy befalls the simple: where am I? The
of father falls from my tongue, sinks to the floor;
how grand it goes without my words of in my soul.

Does he know the thumbing, the beating, the loss I feel?

In not knowing lies the terror
choking the spring flowers under static
The help of the white must achieve.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

The Hardest

This corner, home - lost, beckons dark light into the pool of ever-after-now: shrieking lullabies, whispering of loathing, hugging torment, crying support... it mounts the impossible heaps.

     --Selfish! Candle lit daemon, insufferable pleasure!--

Window breaks; then gusts banter with the ornate chandelier swinging in perfect parabolas of wanton amour. Tears burn with soot lined breezes shot like white elephants pawing at tangential strings connected to the shattered beats of the always-past-here. Truths are virile acid puncturing the umbrella, reigning in stead of widowed nuns; however like a long time waiting under off-white sheets drenched in cold allusions to spring days in heat. The room illuminates the dawn, broken after the final chord soaked in exhausted reverie.

     --I am resistant: Untouched, Spoken, Believing...--

A lake forms from eyes barricading angles into forests lush with hidden, twisting - comfort, riddles on Roads of errands meeting that undeniable secret of diverging tracks toward commitment or abortion. The chosen denies the built future vision-constant-present; but we fly and color the reaches of the wood extending over the delicate wounds of our hearts. Do we cry songs, embrace in honesty, whisper goodbyes, and love these last times?

     --Love is not for reason, but I in Me shall know--


Justified in bold irresistance
Onlookers to the wise
Harold chance encounters with
Nothing less than
Mortality in his presence, beauty, supreme
Obtainably like verse in the iris
Usually seeing behind veils of
Lost illusion to cores bounded,
Tangled like he with roses
Only bested by the transcended kiss
Now treacherously placed in different bounds.
"If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air
Quaint little villages here and there..."
     I am, I truly am:
- quiet - relaxing - sensual - familiar -
          that which is long longed for
          ever desired within -
               treasured in golden hue
               beaming like nightly pictures -

     But what?! What...?
- left in condition - no clause -
          closure left with notes
          seeping the dream to contemplate -
               snow outside mindsight
               ice straight to my heart -
Fond are the challenges you leave me here
I can't even sing of loving without despair...

A grievances

A grievances
a grievances
I grieve in sins
agree aunt says
Anger eve blanches
a creed'f chances
a dream dances
a bunch of ants is
a brief stance's
of breeze answers
a grievances
a grievances

Nightly Haiku

Rather than put all three of these Haiku in their own blog entry (though part of me thinks I should...) I'm condensing for your reading pleasure. :-) I wrote these tonight, in the midst of utterly dismal customer traffic and an extreme lack of chores. Enjoy!

I want to reach out
Grasp and hold, kiss the touching
Awaken myself

Truly felt single
unlocked treasure gleams anew
Stars light passioned eyes

He drives the same road
Webs veiled beyond stops and curves
Deliver passage

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

I write Pretty

I write Pretty
handsomely -
     with lips parted
          and fingers tracing
arcs and curves
on the pen's shaft:
     twirling, flicking, grasping
at images thwarted by
               I long in desired longing
                         to dive
to depths mirrored in vacuums



                  in my mind -
to see in ink infinitely invariably sound treasures
            with speechlessness: