James Allen Hall
speaker
2,199 appearances
11 recordings
1 series
first heard May 2026
last heard 10 Aug
James Allen Hall’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.
Trend
recordings per month · last 12 monthsRecordings per month over the last 12 months — 11 in all, peaking in Jul 2026 with 4.
Appearances
That's why I'm reading it, girl.
I love this poem.
I do, I love it.
All right, strap in, lucky bitch.
Chiffon.
Fever, downright dirty sweat of a heat wave in May turning everyone pure body.
Back of knee, cleavage, each hidden crease, nape of neck, turning steam.
Deep in last night's vast factory, the secret wheels that crank the blue machinery of weather bestowed this sudden cool, the lake misting my morning walk, this vacant lot lavish with iris, saffron, indigo, bearded and striated, a shock of lavender clouds among shattered brick, like cumulus that sail the tops of high rises clearly.
Clear evenings.
Surprising as the Iris garden I used to linger in, a girl distant from me, now as a figure caught in green glass, an oasis gleamed cool with oval plaques, naming blooms, Antoinette, my blue sunset, festival queen.
This morning's iris frill, damp, as fabulous gowns after dancing, those rummage sale evening gowns church ladies gave us another hot spring, nineteen sixty seven.
Joanne, who soon leaves school, fourteen, pregnant, Valerie with her straightened bouffont hair, that endless rooftop season before the panic and sizzle, the torched, divided cities, the
They called me cousin on the light side.
Camphorus awash in rusty satin rosettes, an Organdy, chiffon, we'd practice girl group radio hits, Martha Reeves, but especially Supremes, Joanne vamping, Diana, me and Valerie doing flow and Mary's background moans, my blonde hair pinned beneath Joe's mother's Sunday wig.
The barest blue essence of evening in Paris scented our arms.
We perfected all the gestures, Joanne's liquid hands sculpting air, her fingers graceful cupping, wrist turning, palm held flat, stop in the name of love, pressing against the sky's livid contrails, a landscape flagged with lime.
of laundry, tangled aerials and billboards, the blackened railway bridges and factories ruinous in their fumes.
Small hand held against the flood of everything to come, the savage drifting years
I'm a lucky bitch.
Engulfed in the decades' riotous swells, that lovely gesture, the dress, plumage electrifying the fluid force of that young body and
Showing 841–860 of 2,199 · page 43 of 110
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