MOVING &
*
CHEAP SMOKES AND BEER
*
NEED A CONTRACTOR?
*
PEST CONTROL
*
--Hans Ostrom
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Carter Monroe on Jack Spicer
Here is a link to a post by Carter Monroe on the 9th Street Laboratories blog. Monroe, as you may know, is a poet, novelist, publisher, and music-expert hailing from North Carolina. I sometimes refer to him as the sage of N.C., in fact.
Spicer was one of the troubled geniuses of the Beat Movement in San Francisco, pushing the limits of poetry and counter-cultural thought as much as he could and influencing a range of writers, including Robert Duncan. In my view, Spicer also anticipated much of what LANGUAGE poetry has attempted to do.
In the post, Monroe notes Spicer's influence on his own work and places his reading of Spicer in a biographical and cultural context in the 1970s. The post includes excerpts from Monroe's "Spicer Series" of poems--great work.
Spicer was one of the troubled geniuses of the Beat Movement in San Francisco, pushing the limits of poetry and counter-cultural thought as much as he could and influencing a range of writers, including Robert Duncan. In my view, Spicer also anticipated much of what LANGUAGE poetry has attempted to do.
In the post, Monroe notes Spicer's influence on his own work and places his reading of Spicer in a biographical and cultural context in the 1970s. The post includes excerpts from Monroe's "Spicer Series" of poems--great work.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Lines for a Brief Meditation
Just breathe.
Thank you.
Fo sho.
Fuck off.
No way.
You bet.
Who knows?
Bite me.
What next?
Why? Sigh.
Sigh why.
Now, then.
Right on.
Let's roll.
Hell, no.
Heck, yeah.
Be cool.
Say what?
Damn straight.
All y'all.
Love, love.
Now, now.
How, now?
When, then?
Not now.
Do this.
Bye bye.
Farewell.
Just breathe.
[Repeat, as needed.]
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Thank you.
Fo sho.
Fuck off.
No way.
You bet.
Who knows?
Bite me.
What next?
Why? Sigh.
Sigh why.
Now, then.
Right on.
Let's roll.
Hell, no.
Heck, yeah.
Be cool.
Say what?
Damn straight.
All y'all.
Love, love.
Now, now.
How, now?
When, then?
Not now.
Do this.
Bye bye.
Farewell.
Just breathe.
[Repeat, as needed.]
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
In City Lights Books, 21st Century
In City Lights Books, 21st century, one young
cashier, trans-gendered, wears a gold silk turban.
There are tattooed Asian characters on each
finger. It is a regal performance of difference
and what's hip. A sign reads,
"Abandon despair, all ye who enter here."
Cute--and isn't that more or less Disney's
message, too? The old Beat bookstore's
a wee profit-center now--"like a library,
where books are sold," but not lended
or given away. Debit, credit, cash.
Truth is, there was as much counter-cultural
spirit in a Willie Mays basket-catch, a Navajo
steel-worker's shift, a Chinese laundry-worker's
laughter, and a Mexican's quick apple-picking
fingers as in On the Road or Howl.
Ferlinghetti's an entrepreneur,
Jack and Allen earned canonical turf,
berets off to them, well done.
In the U.S., youth and capital absorb all cultural
revolutions that can be commodified. Which
ones can't be commodified? The turbaned
cashier asks her co-worker, "Will you try
to keep this job part-time, or just take the
higher paying one?" The latter says,
"Receipt with you or in the bag?"
The best minds of any generation are
widely dispersed, hard to identify,
impossible for any one to claim, and
often not known until much later.
Some minds in bodies pass by the
bookstore in sunlight. The space once
occupied by Jazz at Pearl's is up for lease,
estate commercial, estate real.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
cashier, trans-gendered, wears a gold silk turban.
There are tattooed Asian characters on each
finger. It is a regal performance of difference
and what's hip. A sign reads,
"Abandon despair, all ye who enter here."
Cute--and isn't that more or less Disney's
message, too? The old Beat bookstore's
a wee profit-center now--"like a library,
where books are sold," but not lended
or given away. Debit, credit, cash.
Truth is, there was as much counter-cultural
spirit in a Willie Mays basket-catch, a Navajo
steel-worker's shift, a Chinese laundry-worker's
laughter, and a Mexican's quick apple-picking
fingers as in On the Road or Howl.
Ferlinghetti's an entrepreneur,
Jack and Allen earned canonical turf,
berets off to them, well done.
In the U.S., youth and capital absorb all cultural
revolutions that can be commodified. Which
ones can't be commodified? The turbaned
cashier asks her co-worker, "Will you try
to keep this job part-time, or just take the
higher paying one?" The latter says,
"Receipt with you or in the bag?"
The best minds of any generation are
widely dispersed, hard to identify,
impossible for any one to claim, and
often not known until much later.
Some minds in bodies pass by the
bookstore in sunlight. The space once
occupied by Jazz at Pearl's is up for lease,
estate commercial, estate real.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Don't Write About That
Don't write about that just
because you saw it and saw it
as you. Write about this, the folly
of a human trajectory as it's
superimposed on the universe,
which is a large, ongoing explosion.
Someone will say something
about concrete images, show-don't-
tell, that sort of stuff. People
never weary of it. To you
it will sound like the sound
of a handsaw going through pine.
You'll pretend to listen but wonder
not why someone is talking but
why someone is talking to you.
Write about this.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
because you saw it and saw it
as you. Write about this, the folly
of a human trajectory as it's
superimposed on the universe,
which is a large, ongoing explosion.
Someone will say something
about concrete images, show-don't-
tell, that sort of stuff. People
never weary of it. To you
it will sound like the sound
of a handsaw going through pine.
You'll pretend to listen but wonder
not why someone is talking but
why someone is talking to you.
Write about this.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Fans of Soccer, Fans of Football
To fans of soccer ("football"), American
football ("football") looks like a muddle
of armored giants that periodically
organizes itself, bursts into chaos,
then settles into entropy again. The
field is marked in rows, an accountant's
worksheet, so business-like, so American.
To fans of American football, soccer
looks like a picnic of ants, a tedioous
lesson in futility (hours of no goals). The
field's an expansive meadow ready
for a housing development. There's much
activity and arguing but little productivity,
so European.
To many people, sport means too much,
as do most human activities. We indulge
in seriousness, especially, oh yes
especially where play is concerned.
So European, so American.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
football ("football") looks like a muddle
of armored giants that periodically
organizes itself, bursts into chaos,
then settles into entropy again. The
field is marked in rows, an accountant's
worksheet, so business-like, so American.
To fans of American football, soccer
looks like a picnic of ants, a tedioous
lesson in futility (hours of no goals). The
field's an expansive meadow ready
for a housing development. There's much
activity and arguing but little productivity,
so European.
To many people, sport means too much,
as do most human activities. We indulge
in seriousness, especially, oh yes
especially where play is concerned.
So European, so American.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Her Cool Naked Breasts
Her cool naked breasts:
so lovely to kiss. And
to suck. And her response
to that, subtle moans, a
word, and something like
laughter in her throat.
Then comes a kind
of gentle tumble into
the physical, mental
rest of it, the rest of
it, such riches of the
instants in which
two lives overlap.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
so lovely to kiss. And
to suck. And her response
to that, subtle moans, a
word, and something like
laughter in her throat.
Then comes a kind
of gentle tumble into
the physical, mental
rest of it, the rest of
it, such riches of the
instants in which
two lives overlap.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
At a Restaurant Alone
Sometimes, when
you go to a restaurant
alone, the person
who greets you says,
"Will there be just
one, then?" You don't
know why the future
tense is used. And
you feel as if you've
committed an error.
Maybe, you think,
you should say,
"No, let me go back
out the door and grab
someone so there will
be two," or "No,
there's another person
inside me, trying to
get out," or "No,
set a place for each
of my three
imaginary friends,
in which case there
will be four, then."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
you go to a restaurant
alone, the person
who greets you says,
"Will there be just
one, then?" You don't
know why the future
tense is used. And
you feel as if you've
committed an error.
Maybe, you think,
you should say,
"No, let me go back
out the door and grab
someone so there will
be two," or "No,
there's another person
inside me, trying to
get out," or "No,
set a place for each
of my three
imaginary friends,
in which case there
will be four, then."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
May I Clarinet Your Thighs?
"The formation of substitution and contamination in speech-mistakes is, therefore, the beginning of that work of condensation which we find taking a most active part in the construction of a dream." --Sigmund Freud, Psychopathology of Everyday Life
May I clarinet your thighs
and explicate your savanna? If
you charm it to be desirable,
I should like to alluviate down
on the excellence established
between your doric expenditures.
Listen: Let me emigrate with you
on blue and mahogany. Let us
forest the open-air museum of our
deft velvet, our fragrant fur
and slick, moist rubrics.
Oh, my dearest pungent storm,
please tell me how you'd like your
candelabra ordained in ecstasy!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
May I clarinet your thighs
and explicate your savanna? If
you charm it to be desirable,
I should like to alluviate down
on the excellence established
between your doric expenditures.
Listen: Let me emigrate with you
on blue and mahogany. Let us
forest the open-air museum of our
deft velvet, our fragrant fur
and slick, moist rubrics.
Oh, my dearest pungent storm,
please tell me how you'd like your
candelabra ordained in ecstasy!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Descriptors
bookworm, voluptuary, clodhopper,
fool, lummox, clown, dark horse,
horse's ass, sleeper, empath, recluse,
gadfly, hick, draught-horse, coward,
knot-head, stalwart, naif, hustler,
rabble, contrarian, soft-touch,
laborer, pedant, poet, scavenger,
hack, scholar, idealist, vagabond,
hayseed, addict, loser, winner, dunce,
nobody, cast-off, straggler, pussy-hound,
scribbler, true-blue, oaf, lover, dabbler,
sensualist, mystic, literalist, plodder,
plodder. Plodder.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
fool, lummox, clown, dark horse,
horse's ass, sleeper, empath, recluse,
gadfly, hick, draught-horse, coward,
knot-head, stalwart, naif, hustler,
rabble, contrarian, soft-touch,
laborer, pedant, poet, scavenger,
hack, scholar, idealist, vagabond,
hayseed, addict, loser, winner, dunce,
nobody, cast-off, straggler, pussy-hound,
scribbler, true-blue, oaf, lover, dabbler,
sensualist, mystic, literalist, plodder,
plodder. Plodder.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Stuck in a Blues Song
I'm going down to the river. I'm
stuck in a blues song. Going down
to the train yard. Stuck in a blues
song. Going down the road, down
to a reckoning. Been stuck in a blues
song so long. Gonna get
evicted from an empty place, convicted
of a crime I did not do, and conscripted
to work in just an awful damn job, oh
yes. Going to go down to the juke joint,
where the blades flash and I lose my
cash, stuck in a blues song. Yeah, my
baby's long gone and I'm stuck, no luck,
yeah; yeah, stuck in a blues song.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
stuck in a blues song. Going down
to the train yard. Stuck in a blues
song. Going down the road, down
to a reckoning. Been stuck in a blues
song so long. Gonna get
evicted from an empty place, convicted
of a crime I did not do, and conscripted
to work in just an awful damn job, oh
yes. Going to go down to the juke joint,
where the blades flash and I lose my
cash, stuck in a blues song. Yeah, my
baby's long gone and I'm stuck, no luck,
yeah; yeah, stuck in a blues song.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Entertainment
...The lovely and tainted Matilda,
ladies and rattlesnakes! Please
fire a round of a pause for Matilda!
Next up for your mooing pleasure
is the Present. Watch as two trillion
compressed images hammer your
optic nerve. Staggering is a normal
response. The bleeding will stop.
For paranoia lasting more than four
hours, call a fish, make a wish,
and give yourself an encore. You've
been a terrific audience!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
ladies and rattlesnakes! Please
fire a round of a pause for Matilda!
Next up for your mooing pleasure
is the Present. Watch as two trillion
compressed images hammer your
optic nerve. Staggering is a normal
response. The bleeding will stop.
For paranoia lasting more than four
hours, call a fish, make a wish,
and give yourself an encore. You've
been a terrific audience!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Desired Things
They're looking in a window
at things to buy. They
couldn't say why
they want the things,
except the items seem
fantastic. The light is such
that one of the people sees
in reflection the ghostly image
of a person who lives
on the street and works
full time at persisting. The
eyes of the buyer hover
on the image of this other
and then adjust to ignore
that light, that image, and
to see through glass again
at the desired things.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2012
at things to buy. They
couldn't say why
they want the things,
except the items seem
fantastic. The light is such
that one of the people sees
in reflection the ghostly image
of a person who lives
on the street and works
full time at persisting. The
eyes of the buyer hover
on the image of this other
and then adjust to ignore
that light, that image, and
to see through glass again
at the desired things.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Html: Poem
and so you stand or sit
and drop these packets
of words into the electronic
river. off they float--
and yet they stay,
retrievable, for the river
flows and freezes both at once,
visible to all, theoretically.
in practice the electronic river
is a vast obscuring mass,
an orderly crash
of infodataimage.
these word-packets
are lost and found,
gone and here,
disappeared and
recovered like the legendary
vowels missing from the ancient,
mysterious word, Html,
the pronunciation of which
the imaginary scholars
at Borges University
bicker about over
glasses of claret
in the Minotaur Library.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
and drop these packets
of words into the electronic
river. off they float--
and yet they stay,
retrievable, for the river
flows and freezes both at once,
visible to all, theoretically.
in practice the electronic river
is a vast obscuring mass,
an orderly crash
of infodataimage.
these word-packets
are lost and found,
gone and here,
disappeared and
recovered like the legendary
vowels missing from the ancient,
mysterious word, Html,
the pronunciation of which
the imaginary scholars
at Borges University
bicker about over
glasses of claret
in the Minotaur Library.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Advertising: The Literary Genre of the Age
After, oh, 1920, let's say,
advertising became
the dominant literary genre.
It's stories, images, and ethos
hold culture's imagination.
Advertising's the myth,
the epic poem, the novel,
the drama of our age.
Other genres pretend
at the edges, play at their
old importance. It is assumed
that publishers advertise novels,
especially best-sellers, that studios
advertise films, especially
block-busters, and that other
studios advertise music, but
novels and films and music
and the rest
publicize advertising,
the master genre
that sells space, real
and virtual, and that turns
a profit, which is the god
of our creation myth.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
advertising became
the dominant literary genre.
It's stories, images, and ethos
hold culture's imagination.
Advertising's the myth,
the epic poem, the novel,
the drama of our age.
Other genres pretend
at the edges, play at their
old importance. It is assumed
that publishers advertise novels,
especially best-sellers, that studios
advertise films, especially
block-busters, and that other
studios advertise music, but
novels and films and music
and the rest
publicize advertising,
the master genre
that sells space, real
and virtual, and that turns
a profit, which is the god
of our creation myth.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Monday, June 25, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
Difference-Maker
The universe is big.
It doesn't care. It
goes on forever.
We don't. Still,
today I saw
and heard a woman
laughing. So by
definition, the universe
produces humor and
joy, not to mention
women. That kind of
fact can be a real
difference-maker.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
It doesn't care. It
goes on forever.
We don't. Still,
today I saw
and heard a woman
laughing. So by
definition, the universe
produces humor and
joy, not to mention
women. That kind of
fact can be a real
difference-maker.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Jury Duty
We passed through voi
dir,
my dear, were made peers
of a rococo realm, with its
perched presider and purchased
persuaders. We nodded
at passing
evidence, became a dozen guilty
buzzards asked to shadow
a creature offered on an altar
called The People. We
heard
arguments open and close
like shutters banging in the wind.
In a room, our opinions
accumulated like snow.
In that
drift was buried our decision,
which we seized. The
facts had
whispered to us, “He is guilty.”
We listened to them and repeated
what they said. The
defendant
bowed his head.
Shadows
of our doubt followed us outside,
where, greasy-winged, we joined
The People leading perfectly
legal lives.
--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Experimental Aircraft
[one from Red Tales, another blog I keep]
Once there was a woman who wished she didn't know so many things for sure. She'd learned not to try to convince people of what she knew, for they believed they knew things for sure, too. Arguing fatigued her. Besides, eventualities would demonstrate what was true better than she could: this she knew, too.
For instance, her husband took up the hobby of flying small experimental aircraft. When he'd told her of this new pursuit, she'd said, "I love you, and consider the word 'experimental,' please. When a cook experiments with a spice and fails, the result is merely an unappealing dish. When an experiment in aviation fails, gravity wrecks." Her husband had scoffed. He was jolly.
Later, when he showed her a red aircraft of startling design, she knew the plane would fail--before takeoff, she hoped. The experimental aircraft simply looked too much like art and not enough like engineering to be competent in the sky.
News of the fatal crash shocked her though she wasn't surprised. She grieved deeply. There's knowing, and then there's experiencing. Several weeks later, an attorney informed her that although her husband had intended to purchase more life insurance, he hadn't gotten around to doing so. There was some insurance, some money, but not a lot, the lawyer said. Her husband hadn't secured her economic future.
"I know," the woman said. "It's the way he was, and it's the way things are." She didn't mention how she knew that, as the plane approached the water, her husband had said "I'm sorry" to her, as if she were in the cockpit.
The little red plane didn't have a little black box, so there was no recording of her husband's last words. This absence pleased the woman, for she'd always preferred the knowing over the proof, wisdom over argument, and information over events, which could be brutal.
--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
Once there was a woman who wished she didn't know so many things for sure. She'd learned not to try to convince people of what she knew, for they believed they knew things for sure, too. Arguing fatigued her. Besides, eventualities would demonstrate what was true better than she could: this she knew, too.
For instance, her husband took up the hobby of flying small experimental aircraft. When he'd told her of this new pursuit, she'd said, "I love you, and consider the word 'experimental,' please. When a cook experiments with a spice and fails, the result is merely an unappealing dish. When an experiment in aviation fails, gravity wrecks." Her husband had scoffed. He was jolly.
Later, when he showed her a red aircraft of startling design, she knew the plane would fail--before takeoff, she hoped. The experimental aircraft simply looked too much like art and not enough like engineering to be competent in the sky.
News of the fatal crash shocked her though she wasn't surprised. She grieved deeply. There's knowing, and then there's experiencing. Several weeks later, an attorney informed her that although her husband had intended to purchase more life insurance, he hadn't gotten around to doing so. There was some insurance, some money, but not a lot, the lawyer said. Her husband hadn't secured her economic future.
"I know," the woman said. "It's the way he was, and it's the way things are." She didn't mention how she knew that, as the plane approached the water, her husband had said "I'm sorry" to her, as if she were in the cockpit.
The little red plane didn't have a little black box, so there was no recording of her husband's last words. This absence pleased the woman, for she'd always preferred the knowing over the proof, wisdom over argument, and information over events, which could be brutal.
--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
Friday, June 8, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Two Aphorisms About Poetry
There's kind of a good news/bad news thing about aphorisms. The fact that someone would write an aphorism, and call it that, and make it public suggests a level of arrogance: "Hey, I'm about to impart some wisdom--uh, pithily." "Is that so? Well, I can't wait."
Good news: the pithy part. It's all over very quickly.
2.. Poetry concerns what most people--for many reasons, some of them excellent--prefer not to think about. Sometimes one of these people reads a poem and afterwards is glad he or she read it and thought about whatever it was the poem concerned.
2. In one respect, poetry is like petrified wood, for it intrigues not because of what it is but because of what it seems to be.
--Hans Ostrom
Good news: the pithy part. It's all over very quickly.
2.. Poetry concerns what most people--for many reasons, some of them excellent--prefer not to think about. Sometimes one of these people reads a poem and afterwards is glad he or she read it and thought about whatever it was the poem concerned.
2. In one respect, poetry is like petrified wood, for it intrigues not because of what it is but because of what it seems to be.
--Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Used to Be a Place
There used to be a place.
Remember? It was a shop
next to that other place we
used to go. That was back
when we knew were to go,
knew who'd be there when
we went, what would be said
and bought and sold. We
knew where sunlight would fall,
but even those angles have
changed since then. So many
places have replaced those places
and so on. That's retail for you:
a series of disappearances adding
up to bewilderment, plus tax.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Remember? It was a shop
next to that other place we
used to go. That was back
when we knew were to go,
knew who'd be there when
we went, what would be said
and bought and sold. We
knew where sunlight would fall,
but even those angles have
changed since then. So many
places have replaced those places
and so on. That's retail for you:
a series of disappearances adding
up to bewilderment, plus tax.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Potential Side-Effects
(re-posting this one)
Discontinue taking this medicine if your hair
turns into snakes. If you experience an erection
lasting four hours or more, then we must assume
that, for better or worse, you have a penis;
anyway, attach a small flag to the erection
and declare yourself emperor. If, after
taking this medicine, you start swallowing
pebbles, it probably has nothing to do
with the medicine. Other side-effects
may include spending too much money
on this medicine, the desire to organize
parades, death, twice the number of toes
you now have, a craving for goats' hooves
pickled in brine, and a heart-rhythm
that sounds like the samba. If you experience
a sudden drop in self-esteem, expect
your doctor to hang up when you call,
assuming you can find a doctor. If
you actually took this medicine,
then it's already too late, and an aged,
unbathed shaman will be escorting you
to another zone of time and space--
not necessarily forever; don't over-react.
As with all medicines, keep this one
beyond the reach of lemurs and hippopotami.
If you have any questions, write them out
on a piece of paper and eat the paper.
We're a pharmaceutical conglomerate.
We're not your friend. What
is it with you people, anyway?
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Discontinue taking this medicine if your hair
turns into snakes. If you experience an erection
lasting four hours or more, then we must assume
that, for better or worse, you have a penis;
anyway, attach a small flag to the erection
and declare yourself emperor. If, after
taking this medicine, you start swallowing
pebbles, it probably has nothing to do
with the medicine. Other side-effects
may include spending too much money
on this medicine, the desire to organize
parades, death, twice the number of toes
you now have, a craving for goats' hooves
pickled in brine, and a heart-rhythm
that sounds like the samba. If you experience
a sudden drop in self-esteem, expect
your doctor to hang up when you call,
assuming you can find a doctor. If
you actually took this medicine,
then it's already too late, and an aged,
unbathed shaman will be escorting you
to another zone of time and space--
not necessarily forever; don't over-react.
As with all medicines, keep this one
beyond the reach of lemurs and hippopotami.
If you have any questions, write them out
on a piece of paper and eat the paper.
We're a pharmaceutical conglomerate.
We're not your friend. What
is it with you people, anyway?
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Friday, May 25, 2012
When the Tongue
When the tongue
touches the perfect
place linguistically
or physically:
an ecstasy,
most certainly.
—Hans Ostrom, 2012
touches the perfect
place linguistically
or physically:
an ecstasy,
most certainly.
—Hans Ostrom, 2012
Thank You, Rogers
Thank you, Rogers, for your fine report
on our profit-outlook. You're fired. It's
a matter of over-head. Consult the
etymology of "capital" and work
on your resume, you diligent piece
of human resources. As for the rest
of you: Fuck off. I got my bonus,
dare me to justify it, I win, you lose:
I am the point at which nihilism
and profit meet, baby. There's nothing
like the high you get from sniffing
the spore from the lip of the
titanium-lined abyss.
I go to church, there is no God,
I wave the flag, there is no nation,
I fund a family for whom I'm alien,
there is no nature, it's raw material,
and long-range planning is
what suckers do. Toodle-oo.
The game is to sell tomorrow
today. Rogers, be on your way.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2012
on our profit-outlook. You're fired. It's
a matter of over-head. Consult the
etymology of "capital" and work
on your resume, you diligent piece
of human resources. As for the rest
of you: Fuck off. I got my bonus,
dare me to justify it, I win, you lose:
I am the point at which nihilism
and profit meet, baby. There's nothing
like the high you get from sniffing
the spore from the lip of the
titanium-lined abyss.
I go to church, there is no God,
I wave the flag, there is no nation,
I fund a family for whom I'm alien,
there is no nature, it's raw material,
and long-range planning is
what suckers do. Toodle-oo.
The game is to sell tomorrow
today. Rogers, be on your way.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Technopressed
He lived his life
along coordinates befixed
and bedazzled by bots, drones,
satellites, servers, monitors, screens,
programs, screeners, and sites.
His life was a program
born of programs composed
in a binary language.
Technology expressed him/
expressed him not.
--Hans Ostrom, Copyright 2012
along coordinates befixed
and bedazzled by bots, drones,
satellites, servers, monitors, screens,
programs, screeners, and sites.
His life was a program
born of programs composed
in a binary language.
Technology expressed him/
expressed him not.
--Hans Ostrom, Copyright 2012
Conversation Between A and B
A: Would you rather look at an image or read a page?
B: Read a page.
A: What's the wildest sex you ever had?
B: Define "wild" or "wildest," please.
A: (Defines.)
B: (Answers.)
A: My god, I didn't expect it to have been that wild.
B: It was a long time ago.
A: That's a non sequitur. . . . Would you rather talk on a land-line or send/receive "texts"?
B: Land-line. Or send/receive a letter.
A: You mean paper, stamps, envelopes, closing, opening?
B: I do mean that.
A: How many times have you Skyped?
B: One and one-half.
A: Okay, I think we have enough evidence to suggest that you are old.
B: It was a long time ago.
B: Read a page.
A: What's the wildest sex you ever had?
B: Define "wild" or "wildest," please.
A: (Defines.)
B: (Answers.)
A: My god, I didn't expect it to have been that wild.
B: It was a long time ago.
A: That's a non sequitur. . . . Would you rather talk on a land-line or send/receive "texts"?
B: Land-line. Or send/receive a letter.
A: You mean paper, stamps, envelopes, closing, opening?
B: I do mean that.
A: How many times have you Skyped?
B: One and one-half.
A: Okay, I think we have enough evidence to suggest that you are old.
B: It was a long time ago.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
Two Travelers Meet Inside a Phrase-Book
“My name is Carmen,” she said.
“The Post Office is over there,” he replied.
“Thank you! It is one o’clock.”
“Goodbye! How are you?”
“Do you speak English?”
“The stranger is weeping.”
“My factory is on fire. No thank you.”
“Excuse me!”
“That dog is frothing at the mouth.”
“You’re welcome.”
“My passport lies under your thigh.”
“Where is the hospital?”
“The train leaves in ten minutes.”
“Please put this on.”
“Will the coup d’etat last all week?”
“Yes, the museum is my cousin.”
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Concerning Angst
I think of angst as a soft metal.
You try to worry it into something
decorative and useful--
ring, cup--and it resists by being
too malleable. Its color mixes
gray and brown.
Some company delivers a load
of angst to you. You swear
you didn't order it. It gets
dumped anyway. Your mind
writhes inside itself like a snake
inside an egg. "Oh, God," you say,
not even meaning to pray. Oh,
that is angst for you.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
You try to worry it into something
decorative and useful--
ring, cup--and it resists by being
too malleable. Its color mixes
gray and brown.
Some company delivers a load
of angst to you. You swear
you didn't order it. It gets
dumped anyway. Your mind
writhes inside itself like a snake
inside an egg. "Oh, God," you say,
not even meaning to pray. Oh,
that is angst for you.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
Baseball Poems by Tim Peeler
As I wait for students to visit my office hours to discuss final papers and a poetry-portfolio, as I listen to cloud-bursts come and go, and as early-baseball-season begins to ripen into mid-season (for S.F. Giants fans, this brings thoughts of the June Swoon), I'm ordering a raft of books from a variety of online sources: the bibliophile's spring fever, I reckon.
Two books I just ordered are Touching All Bases: Baseball Poems and Waiting for Godot's First Pitch: More Baseball Poems, both by the talented, accomplished North Carolina poet Tim Peeler. I hope they arrive as quickly as a fastball for Satchel Paige in his prime.
One of my favorite baseball poems is "Analysis of Baseball," by May Swenson. Some of Tom Clark's baseball poems from back in the 70s day are pretty good too--although Oakland-A's-centric. I have a feeling Peeler's poems have set a new standard.
I can't prove the following: That IF American poets are interested in a sport (and interested in writing about it), that sport will likely be baseball. But that's my guess. The ritual, the time for reflection, the quirkiness (and the uncanny quirkiness of names), and so on: these have a certain potential appeal for poets.
Anyway, I hope you'll look into Tim Peeler's baseball-poetry-books, not to mention his other poetry books: look into them after you buy them, I mean.
One must assume that Godot's first pitch will be, ahem, long-delayed because of rain and other factors, but should it ever arrive, I'm thinking it will be in the dirt. Don't swing!
Oh--one other note. I've been an S.F. Giants fan since I was six, and in m pre-teen years, I actually wrote a few fan-letters. One was to Gaylord Perry, who became famous for his spit-ball, and for his elaborate, charming denials of throwing a spitball. "Sometimes the fog rolls in, you know, and your fingers get wet--what are you going to do?" At any rate, I got back not just the standard black-and-white photo postcard, but a real letter--on hotel stationery--from Gaylord, who was staying in (wait for it) North Carolina. He also included his business card: he was selling insurance. Gaylord ended his career in Seattle, where he was nicknamed, of course (and here we circle back to poetry) the Ancient Mariner.
And a coda: One of my favorite ball players from the Sixties who wasn't a Giant was Smoky Burgess, a native of North Carolina. Smoky became one of the great pinch-hitters of his day. He was portly, and not a great athlete, but he had a great eye and a quick bat. And he looked just fine in the Pittsburgh Pirates jersey. A tip of the cap to the late Smoky.
Two books I just ordered are Touching All Bases: Baseball Poems and Waiting for Godot's First Pitch: More Baseball Poems, both by the talented, accomplished North Carolina poet Tim Peeler. I hope they arrive as quickly as a fastball for Satchel Paige in his prime.
One of my favorite baseball poems is "Analysis of Baseball," by May Swenson. Some of Tom Clark's baseball poems from back in the 70s day are pretty good too--although Oakland-A's-centric. I have a feeling Peeler's poems have set a new standard.
I can't prove the following: That IF American poets are interested in a sport (and interested in writing about it), that sport will likely be baseball. But that's my guess. The ritual, the time for reflection, the quirkiness (and the uncanny quirkiness of names), and so on: these have a certain potential appeal for poets.
Anyway, I hope you'll look into Tim Peeler's baseball-poetry-books, not to mention his other poetry books: look into them after you buy them, I mean.
One must assume that Godot's first pitch will be, ahem, long-delayed because of rain and other factors, but should it ever arrive, I'm thinking it will be in the dirt. Don't swing!
Oh--one other note. I've been an S.F. Giants fan since I was six, and in m pre-teen years, I actually wrote a few fan-letters. One was to Gaylord Perry, who became famous for his spit-ball, and for his elaborate, charming denials of throwing a spitball. "Sometimes the fog rolls in, you know, and your fingers get wet--what are you going to do?" At any rate, I got back not just the standard black-and-white photo postcard, but a real letter--on hotel stationery--from Gaylord, who was staying in (wait for it) North Carolina. He also included his business card: he was selling insurance. Gaylord ended his career in Seattle, where he was nicknamed, of course (and here we circle back to poetry) the Ancient Mariner.
And a coda: One of my favorite ball players from the Sixties who wasn't a Giant was Smoky Burgess, a native of North Carolina. Smoky became one of the great pinch-hitters of his day. He was portly, and not a great athlete, but he had a great eye and a quick bat. And he looked just fine in the Pittsburgh Pirates jersey. A tip of the cap to the late Smoky.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
If the NFL Draft Were About Poets
There are poets, and there are fans of the National Football League, and there are poets who follow the NFL and thus the ridiculously over-analyzed NFL draft.
But what if there were a draft for poets? The analysis might run something like . . .
Ezra Pound--out of Idaho--huge upside, great ear and has read a lot. Has some strange views and there are some concerns about his personality . . . . Emily Dickinson--maybe the best pure athlete in this draft--has moves nobody has seen before. Almost no film on her, however--played briefly at Amherst (not a D-I school) and then seemed to go off the radar, but if you're going to take a risk with a #1 pick, she's it. . . . Pablo Neruda--unbelievable original talent, but can he be coached? . . . . Charles Bukowski--scrappy, mean, nasty--great interior lineman--has had some off-the-field issues. . . . Matsuo Basho--maybe the quickest poet in the draft--has also trained by walking the length of Japan . .late middle-rounds . Langston Hughes--highly under-rated--went to Columbia but dropped out, finished at Lincoln after traveling the world--scouts tend to overlook how versatile he is--a steal in round two. . . .
But what if there were a draft for poets? The analysis might run something like . . .
Ezra Pound--out of Idaho--huge upside, great ear and has read a lot. Has some strange views and there are some concerns about his personality . . . . Emily Dickinson--maybe the best pure athlete in this draft--has moves nobody has seen before. Almost no film on her, however--played briefly at Amherst (not a D-I school) and then seemed to go off the radar, but if you're going to take a risk with a #1 pick, she's it. . . . Pablo Neruda--unbelievable original talent, but can he be coached? . . . . Charles Bukowski--scrappy, mean, nasty--great interior lineman--has had some off-the-field issues. . . . Matsuo Basho--maybe the quickest poet in the draft--has also trained by walking the length of Japan . .late middle-rounds . Langston Hughes--highly under-rated--went to Columbia but dropped out, finished at Lincoln after traveling the world--scouts tend to overlook how versatile he is--a steal in round two. . . .
The Lost Desk-Chair
A corporate desk-chair, lost
off a load, rolls
on a West Coast slab of freeway
and the seat & back
pirouette absurdly.
Cars in commuted traffic
strike it, blast it, knock it around,
smash and crush it. Someone
used to sit in it,
giving and taking orders, selling,
building a career.
--hans ostrom
off a load, rolls
on a West Coast slab of freeway
and the seat & back
pirouette absurdly.
Cars in commuted traffic
strike it, blast it, knock it around,
smash and crush it. Someone
used to sit in it,
giving and taking orders, selling,
building a career.
--hans ostrom
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Problems With Advice to Young/New Writers
We all know the generic problems with advice: we're not ready to listen to it even if it's good; it's bad; it comes in a package that guarantees we won't follow it; it's more about power than wisdom; we have to, apparently, make our mistakes; we just don't like the person giving the advice; and so on.
As to problems with advice given to younger or new writers (new to poetry, let's say, not writing in general), . . . .
1. Most of it is too broad. I think I remember being a young poet (I believe it was in the late 19th century), and I recall hearing and/or reading "write what you know" and "show, don't tell." The latter remains pretty good advice when accompanied immediately by examples; nonetheless, fiction especially depends on telling, often to speed things up. And the triumph of imagery has been so widespread that one gets bore with it sometimes and years to hear a statement or an opinion. "Tell me something, bro! Speak it, sister." As to the former, "write what you know," it's hard to know what one knows. If we take into consideration the mental landscape, we know lots of things we haven't experienced directly. Some young writers have been known to read a lot, so that's part of what they know, even if they work on a farm or program computers. Plus, we imaginative writers are supposed to make stuff up, yes? And then--maybe this happened/happens to you--you hear these or other general bits of advice, and you don't disagree, but you think, hey, that's great, but what about this piece of writing I'm working on? I first read The Triggering Town (Richard Hugo) many, many moons ago, but I remember that the advice in there that stuck with me the longest and proved most useful was the very specific stuff: arbitrarily repeat a sound from the previous line of poetry in the next one; get rid of connectives (often, not always) like "but," "although," "however"; don't throw bad poems away because you can always strip them for parts; don't erase a word--line through it so you can still see it. One of the best pieces of advice I received from Karl Shapiro concerned writing/practicing blank verse (I paraphrase): "Just memorize a line from Shakespeare, keep the rhythm of that specific line in your head, and write." I think I first used "But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" because I still had visions of Olivia Hussey in my head and because (nerd-alert) I kind of liked that big caesura early in the line.
2. The advice isn't tailored enough to the individual writer. Classes in creative writing have their legions of critics, and Lord knows lots of the classes probably have it coming. One advantage (for me the teacher and them the writers) of a semester-long class, however, is that I get to see how Ivana's (to invent a student) poetry takes shape in her particular case. I have some sense of what she's going for in a new poem--in terms of phrasing, tone, attitude. I have a sense of the strengths and weaknesses that show up in Ivana's first drafts, often, and I know that some of these alleged "weaknesses" are just point on the path as she moves toward the final draft, so I'm less likely to over-react to them, or to preach about them: "show don't tell!" And I get an opportunity, often late in the term, to suggest, "Why don't you try a different kind of poem?" So Ivana may have written three fine poems of a certain kind in a row, and that's good, but I can say, in effect, I don't think the class ever looked in this room as Ivana and I and the class take the tour of the poetry-house. And usually Ivana will say, "Oh, yeah! --Yeah, I'd like to try that kind of poem." And that spark--the zest with which a new or experienced poet goes after something new--is often more valuable than an effect provided by more generic words of "wisdom."
3. It's not so much at all young/new writers have to make the same "mistakes" other writers have, and it's not so much that general advice is necessarily bad; it's that a lot of things a young/new writer has to work out, through much writing, is sui generis. The young/new writer has to work out this particular problem s/he has when writing about the one river she knows well. And s/he probably has to do it the way a lot of left-handed batters in baseball have to work on not getting struck out on the inside-and-low pitch: lots of batting practice; many scribblings. It's not wrong or unhelpful for the coach to say some advice during batting practice, but without the batting practice, the advice is a pitch in the dirt, too.
At any rate, my advice to younger/new writers is, um, well--I don't think I have any at the moment, and the advice I've published is, having been published, easy enough to avoid or ignore. You go!
As to problems with advice given to younger or new writers (new to poetry, let's say, not writing in general), . . . .
1. Most of it is too broad. I think I remember being a young poet (I believe it was in the late 19th century), and I recall hearing and/or reading "write what you know" and "show, don't tell." The latter remains pretty good advice when accompanied immediately by examples; nonetheless, fiction especially depends on telling, often to speed things up. And the triumph of imagery has been so widespread that one gets bore with it sometimes and years to hear a statement or an opinion. "Tell me something, bro! Speak it, sister." As to the former, "write what you know," it's hard to know what one knows. If we take into consideration the mental landscape, we know lots of things we haven't experienced directly. Some young writers have been known to read a lot, so that's part of what they know, even if they work on a farm or program computers. Plus, we imaginative writers are supposed to make stuff up, yes? And then--maybe this happened/happens to you--you hear these or other general bits of advice, and you don't disagree, but you think, hey, that's great, but what about this piece of writing I'm working on? I first read The Triggering Town (Richard Hugo) many, many moons ago, but I remember that the advice in there that stuck with me the longest and proved most useful was the very specific stuff: arbitrarily repeat a sound from the previous line of poetry in the next one; get rid of connectives (often, not always) like "but," "although," "however"; don't throw bad poems away because you can always strip them for parts; don't erase a word--line through it so you can still see it. One of the best pieces of advice I received from Karl Shapiro concerned writing/practicing blank verse (I paraphrase): "Just memorize a line from Shakespeare, keep the rhythm of that specific line in your head, and write." I think I first used "But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" because I still had visions of Olivia Hussey in my head and because (nerd-alert) I kind of liked that big caesura early in the line.
2. The advice isn't tailored enough to the individual writer. Classes in creative writing have their legions of critics, and Lord knows lots of the classes probably have it coming. One advantage (for me the teacher and them the writers) of a semester-long class, however, is that I get to see how Ivana's (to invent a student) poetry takes shape in her particular case. I have some sense of what she's going for in a new poem--in terms of phrasing, tone, attitude. I have a sense of the strengths and weaknesses that show up in Ivana's first drafts, often, and I know that some of these alleged "weaknesses" are just point on the path as she moves toward the final draft, so I'm less likely to over-react to them, or to preach about them: "show don't tell!" And I get an opportunity, often late in the term, to suggest, "Why don't you try a different kind of poem?" So Ivana may have written three fine poems of a certain kind in a row, and that's good, but I can say, in effect, I don't think the class ever looked in this room as Ivana and I and the class take the tour of the poetry-house. And usually Ivana will say, "Oh, yeah! --Yeah, I'd like to try that kind of poem." And that spark--the zest with which a new or experienced poet goes after something new--is often more valuable than an effect provided by more generic words of "wisdom."
3. It's not so much at all young/new writers have to make the same "mistakes" other writers have, and it's not so much that general advice is necessarily bad; it's that a lot of things a young/new writer has to work out, through much writing, is sui generis. The young/new writer has to work out this particular problem s/he has when writing about the one river she knows well. And s/he probably has to do it the way a lot of left-handed batters in baseball have to work on not getting struck out on the inside-and-low pitch: lots of batting practice; many scribblings. It's not wrong or unhelpful for the coach to say some advice during batting practice, but without the batting practice, the advice is a pitch in the dirt, too.
At any rate, my advice to younger/new writers is, um, well--I don't think I have any at the moment, and the advice I've published is, having been published, easy enough to avoid or ignore. You go!
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Advice for Aging Poets
Definition: An aging poet is any poet conscious of his or her aging. Note: It is often appropriate to insert "anxiously" before "conscious." Within reason, there is no minimum or maximum age. For instance, a 20-year-old poet might be anxiously conscious of aging, and an 85-year-old poet may anxiously regret never having achieved ambition x.
1. Never worry about your place in [American, English, Turkish, West Coast, Pacific Islander, Southern, Russian, West Virginian, New York, Sydney, Canadian Plains, etc.] Poetry. If you have one, it's an illusion, or you're a fraud, or both. If you don't have one, you and your poetry are probably the better for it.
2. Write to surprise yourself.
3. If other poets are sucking up to you, for any reason, run away. If you are a small-press publisher or a poetry editor or the director of an MFA program as well as a poet, you know the reason.
4. What have you always liked about writing poetry? Write from that pleasure.
5. If you or someone else considers you to be "the voice" of anything or any place--nature, used tires, Belgium, a generation, a movement, drunken sailors--resign the post immediately. If you aspire to be "the voice" of anything or any place, stop.
6. If no one wants to publish your latest book, publish it yourself--or don't publish it. To hell with contests, publishers, critics, and editors*: the Poetry Biz isn't poetry. If God had wanted publishers, poetry clubs, regional cliques, academic cliques, magazine-cliques, conferences, and so on, to remain in power, God wouldn't have allowed the Internet, which is the revenge of William Blake and many more. Also remember what Emily Dickinson wrote: "publication is the auction of the mind." Look, almost all of us like publication. But keep it real.
7. Behave generously toward all other poets (and writers and readers) unless they misbehave, in which case simply ignore them. "Misbehave" simply means that a poet goes out of his or her way to disrespect you, for example.
8. Write every day, other worthy obligations permitting.
9. Stop giving poetry readings unless a) they pay and you need the money, b) you really seem to need the attention, c) you genuinely enjoy reading, and/or d) you can't get laid by any other means**. P.S. Always read for fewer minutes than you are allotted.
10. Get in touch with your inner obscurity.
11. Write the very best poetry that [your name here] is going to write.
12. If you or anyone else speaks or writes about "the state of poetry," please know that right away, five minutes later, a year later, or a decade later (and so on) you or the other person will be proved wrong. Just think of those clowns who ridiculed Keats or the ones who ignored Langston Hughes or the ones who never heard of Emily Dickinson as they surveyed the literary scene. But it's irresistible sometimes to opine about the state of poetry, and and it can be fun.
12A. As you weren't born yesterday, evidently, you may have seen this coming: don't follow the advice of other aging poets, unless you already happen to agree with it, or unless the poet is one of two poetry sages known to live in North Carolina.***
* excepting the one or two people you really trust to tell you what's wrong with this or that poem, line, etc.
** this is a joke; mostly
*** this is not a joke; mostly
1. Never worry about your place in [American, English, Turkish, West Coast, Pacific Islander, Southern, Russian, West Virginian, New York, Sydney, Canadian Plains, etc.] Poetry. If you have one, it's an illusion, or you're a fraud, or both. If you don't have one, you and your poetry are probably the better for it.
2. Write to surprise yourself.
3. If other poets are sucking up to you, for any reason, run away. If you are a small-press publisher or a poetry editor or the director of an MFA program as well as a poet, you know the reason.
4. What have you always liked about writing poetry? Write from that pleasure.
5. If you or someone else considers you to be "the voice" of anything or any place--nature, used tires, Belgium, a generation, a movement, drunken sailors--resign the post immediately. If you aspire to be "the voice" of anything or any place, stop.
6. If no one wants to publish your latest book, publish it yourself--or don't publish it. To hell with contests, publishers, critics, and editors*: the Poetry Biz isn't poetry. If God had wanted publishers, poetry clubs, regional cliques, academic cliques, magazine-cliques, conferences, and so on, to remain in power, God wouldn't have allowed the Internet, which is the revenge of William Blake and many more. Also remember what Emily Dickinson wrote: "publication is the auction of the mind." Look, almost all of us like publication. But keep it real.
7. Behave generously toward all other poets (and writers and readers) unless they misbehave, in which case simply ignore them. "Misbehave" simply means that a poet goes out of his or her way to disrespect you, for example.
8. Write every day, other worthy obligations permitting.
9. Stop giving poetry readings unless a) they pay and you need the money, b) you really seem to need the attention, c) you genuinely enjoy reading, and/or d) you can't get laid by any other means**. P.S. Always read for fewer minutes than you are allotted.
10. Get in touch with your inner obscurity.
11. Write the very best poetry that [your name here] is going to write.
12. If you or anyone else speaks or writes about "the state of poetry," please know that right away, five minutes later, a year later, or a decade later (and so on) you or the other person will be proved wrong. Just think of those clowns who ridiculed Keats or the ones who ignored Langston Hughes or the ones who never heard of Emily Dickinson as they surveyed the literary scene. But it's irresistible sometimes to opine about the state of poetry, and and it can be fun.
12A. As you weren't born yesterday, evidently, you may have seen this coming: don't follow the advice of other aging poets, unless you already happen to agree with it, or unless the poet is one of two poetry sages known to live in North Carolina.***
* excepting the one or two people you really trust to tell you what's wrong with this or that poem, line, etc.
** this is a joke; mostly
*** this is not a joke; mostly
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Dotted Man
He was sitting in the waiting room
of the dermatologist's office, there
for his annual scan. Ten years
earlier, melanoma had appeared.
A surgeon had carved it out of his leg.
"I've brought my moles with me,"
he thought. "--The brown, the black-
brown, the raised, the flat, the cherry
red. I am," he thought, "a dotted man."
A woman came into the office.
Her hair was yellowish orange.
She ordered a bottle of special
shampoo. To the receptionist,
she said, "And I'm not homeless
anymore!" The man saw immediately
how rare and grand it was
to have an abode to return to.
To have an incoming stream
of the magical symbol, money.
to have a fed body dotted
with moles. To be ten years
out from melanoma.
He wanted to share his good news,
as the woman had done. He
admired her. He wanted to cry,
"My body is covered with a
wide variety of moles, and I
have a warm shelter to go to!"
But he remained silent. The
woman left. He picked up
a month-old magazine
about nature.
--Hans Ostrom
of the dermatologist's office, there
for his annual scan. Ten years
earlier, melanoma had appeared.
A surgeon had carved it out of his leg.
"I've brought my moles with me,"
he thought. "--The brown, the black-
brown, the raised, the flat, the cherry
red. I am," he thought, "a dotted man."
A woman came into the office.
Her hair was yellowish orange.
She ordered a bottle of special
shampoo. To the receptionist,
she said, "And I'm not homeless
anymore!" The man saw immediately
how rare and grand it was
to have an abode to return to.
To have an incoming stream
of the magical symbol, money.
to have a fed body dotted
with moles. To be ten years
out from melanoma.
He wanted to share his good news,
as the woman had done. He
admired her. He wanted to cry,
"My body is covered with a
wide variety of moles, and I
have a warm shelter to go to!"
But he remained silent. The
woman left. He picked up
a month-old magazine
about nature.
--Hans Ostrom
The Obscurity Zone
Okay, Mr. Tobbs. This is it.
This is your last chance before
you die to become famous.
Ready? Go!
Well, your score was better
than before, Mr. Tobbs,
but I'm afraid once again
you didn't pass. See right
here? According to the chart,
your score is still well
within the Obscurity Zone.
Copyright 2012
This is your last chance before
you die to become famous.
Ready? Go!
Well, your score was better
than before, Mr. Tobbs,
but I'm afraid once again
you didn't pass. See right
here? According to the chart,
your score is still well
within the Obscurity Zone.
Copyright 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Bank Statement
I opened up my bank-statement (I
like it still on paper). It stated:
"This amount is some pitiful shit."
It went on to say, "Man, you got
to get a lot more, and you got
to keep what you get."
The statement ended with this:
"Meanwhile, we'll lend to others
this pitiful amount, make a
percentage, and charge you
fees. See how it's done?
Love, the Bank."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
like it still on paper). It stated:
"This amount is some pitiful shit."
It went on to say, "Man, you got
to get a lot more, and you got
to keep what you get."
The statement ended with this:
"Meanwhile, we'll lend to others
this pitiful amount, make a
percentage, and charge you
fees. See how it's done?
Love, the Bank."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Titles of Poems I've Never Tried to Write
(but be my guest)
The Tahiti Concerto
Guitar Strings and Hunger
Coleman Hawkins and Edgar Allan Poe
Asphalt Catfish
American History Bombing
A Swedish Interrogative
I Can't Know What It's Like
Right On, Off, On, Off
Give Chance a Peace
Gambling With Frogs
The Home Shopping Network Visits Plato's Republic
What Should I Do?
Clues to Your Beauty
The Ruling Class Doesn't Like to Lose
Go Deconstruct Yourself
Christians and Guns
Always Afraid
The Rabbi Writes Poetry
May I Live Forever in One Summer, Please?
The Tahiti Concerto
Guitar Strings and Hunger
Coleman Hawkins and Edgar Allan Poe
Asphalt Catfish
American History Bombing
A Swedish Interrogative
I Can't Know What It's Like
Right On, Off, On, Off
Give Chance a Peace
Gambling With Frogs
The Home Shopping Network Visits Plato's Republic
What Should I Do?
Clues to Your Beauty
The Ruling Class Doesn't Like to Lose
Go Deconstruct Yourself
Christians and Guns
Always Afraid
The Rabbi Writes Poetry
May I Live Forever in One Summer, Please?
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sled Dog
Yeah, I'm lying down.
Feed me or don't. In a pinch,
I can eat you. What I know is,
white man in another creature's
fur, if the sled's going to be pulled
across this idiotic white expanse,
you're going to have to pull it
yourself. I'm done. We're done.
You never thought dogs would
go on strike. To us, freezing or
starving to death look like a
vacation. What do they look like
to you, Boss, as you shiver
and yell and try to get a
signal for your phone?
Hans Ostrom
copyright 2012
Feed me or don't. In a pinch,
I can eat you. What I know is,
white man in another creature's
fur, if the sled's going to be pulled
across this idiotic white expanse,
you're going to have to pull it
yourself. I'm done. We're done.
You never thought dogs would
go on strike. To us, freezing or
starving to death look like a
vacation. What do they look like
to you, Boss, as you shiver
and yell and try to get a
signal for your phone?
Hans Ostrom
copyright 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Mister Lincoln Rose
A wee fist comes out
of a Mister Lincoln rose,
taps your nose.
You hear a voice, which purrs,
slurs like a kind, formidable,
boozy perfumed aunt: "This,
kiddo, is what a rose
is supposed to smell like. Not
like the nothing-blooms in
the goddamned florist's deep-freeze."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
of a Mister Lincoln rose,
taps your nose.
You hear a voice, which purrs,
slurs like a kind, formidable,
boozy perfumed aunt: "This,
kiddo, is what a rose
is supposed to smell like. Not
like the nothing-blooms in
the goddamned florist's deep-freeze."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Wendy Perriam: New Books Out
British novelist and short-story writer Wendy Perriam has two new books out. One is actually the paperback edition of a fine novel published in 2010: BROKEN PLACES, which concerns--in part--libraries. A witty, deft writer, Perriam has been compared to Martin Amis.
The other book, "I'm On the Train!", is a new collection of stories.
Here's a link to amazon, where you may also take a look at Wendy's other novels and collections:
http://www.amazon.com/Broken-Places-Wendy-Perriam/dp/0709090986/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333548606&sr=1-3
The other book, "I'm On the Train!", is a new collection of stories.
Here's a link to amazon, where you may also take a look at Wendy's other novels and collections:
http://www.amazon.com/Broken-Places-Wendy-Perriam/dp/0709090986/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333548606&sr=1-3
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Crime Novel Set in the Sierra
My first published novel was also my first published crime, or detective, novel. It is set in a small county in the Sierra Nevada of California. It's called THREE TO GET READY. Here's how little I knew about the inner workings of the mystery/crime/detective genre back then: When I got a copy of a favorable review of the book, I noticed that the reviewer called it a "procedural," which refers to a crime novel in which the detective/protagonist is a professional. As my protagonist is a sheriff, my novel is a "procedural." I said to my wife, "Honey, I wrote a 'procedural'!"
Anyway, the novel is now available at what I imagine to be a reasonable price--$3.95--on Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/Three-To-Get-Ready-ebook/dp/B007QMHUSA/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1333329396&sr=1-1-catcorr
Anyway, the novel is now available at what I imagine to be a reasonable price--$3.95--on Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/Three-To-Get-Ready-ebook/dp/B007QMHUSA/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1333329396&sr=1-1-catcorr
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