James Norman assumes the open road would recall his name. Musician, part-time lover—a heterodoxical historian of the forgotten, a half-assed Buddhist in his concrete monastery. Contradictions are the meat on the bones that construct him. James Norman was born to a Navy Man, and the sea never quite left him. His mother was the son of a preacher, though no God has ever claimed him. His mountain is too tall for flags anyway. He has lived in cabins, in that steel onion called a ship bobbing across the Atlantic, and in squalid houses owned by unscrupulous men chasing the Almighty American Dollar far past the point of no return. He owes everything to the women in his life, starting with Jean. He is a lover of animals (even the human kind.) He hopes you enjoy his musings about Armageddon, though he believes that inevitably we make it out alive to tell the story ourselves. I suppose he believes in the story more than anything else. Most of his poems are instructions for how to survive the desert of self for long enough to understand the thirst that drives us, and he wrote them solely to make it through till morning.