James Brantingham — The Monarch Review
Writing Poetry – James Brantingham
Wednesday, January 15, 2014 15:04 — 3 Comments
Not so much a writer at a desk
The City Impounded The Red Ford Pinto – James Brantingham
Monday, August 19, 2013 15:14 — 1 Comment
Bud’s 1980 paint-peeling Ford Pinto–named Diablo after The Cisco Kid’s horse—gently slowed to a stop on the south side of the Ship Canal. Bud pushed Diablo off the street onto a grassy patch. The Pinto held everything that Bud owned—hundreds of empty plastic bags, stacks of newspapers and his collection of unwashed socks. Bud was out of places to go. Right there on a grassy shoulder was the place called “The End of the Road†and with it a state of mind John Barth called, “cosmopsis”.
Bone Chill – James Brantingham
Tuesday, July 2, 2013 22:51 — 1 Comment
The bone chill factor    5 below on the chatter scale
Vacant Sky, Red Dirt – James Brantingham
Monday, October 29, 2012 13:23 — 0 Comments
I first smelled death
A Writer’s Dream – James Brantingham
Monday, September 3, 2012 11:57 — 1 Comment
August in Stuttgart, one day on the road
The Woman At The Bar – James Brantingham
Tuesday, March 13, 2012 14:45 — 0 Comments
The bar at the restaurant was busy. The gentleman asked the lady if he could sit in the chair next to her—the last chair to be found. She mouthed a quick ok—the kind of ok that says that she’d rather be kissed by a belching camel but that civility dictated politeness. He ordered a beer, careful not to look too long, or longingly, at the woman next to him. He did sneak a glance in her direction, though, when he asked to sit next to her. She was plain, no cover model for sure, but he did notice a sparkle […]
Memories Of San Blas – James Brantingham
Wednesday, January 25, 2012 13:24 — 5 Comments
I first hitchhiked to San Blas, on the west coast of Mexico, in December of 1964. At that time it was a quiet village with no paved streets—though I remember some cobblestones. There were Mexican tourists getting away from the Americans, a few Americans trying to get away from America, and there were a few ex-pats, usually ex-military. I do remember an ex-air force sergeant who was most delighted to see an English speaking human, so beers were on him. That worked well for our poverty struck wallets. We stayed at a little hotel on the beach that had barely […]
The Turning Point – James Brantingham
Monday, January 2, 2012 13:53 — 2 Comments
At the still point of the turning world.
Guido In Hell – James Brantingham
Tuesday, November 22, 2011 13:38 — 0 Comments
It was the morning of the spring equinox, a Friday. Guido’s room grew dim. As total darkness filled his room, a light appeared. It was not the sun. His apartment faced west. The light beckoned Guido: “Come in, come in.†He sensed that his life was being drawn slowly towards the light–a warm, soft and tempting light. The light eased his fears. Then his heart stopped. At once the warm welcoming light faded. He saw shapes, shadows surrounding him, restless souls left to wander an empty, skyless world. Murmurs and desperate sighs drifted without purpose like cigarette smoke in a […]
Just Once Before I Go – James Brantingham
Monday, August 8, 2011 12:23 — 1 Comment
Just once more before I go
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
