There is
so much time to say
something and
so little
to say.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Poem: Not Safe For Work?
Not Safe For Work?
I'll tell you what's
not safe for work,
says the waitress dead
on her feet;
the roofer in 104 degree
heat; the
truck driver, fire
fighter, soldier,
foundry worker,
heat-vent installer.
I'll tell you what's
not safe
for work, says
the warehouse-worker, the
unveiled woman, the
veiled woman, oil-
driller, welder,
seamstress, factory-
worker. What's
not safe for work is
work.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
I'll tell you what's
not safe for work,
says the waitress dead
on her feet;
the roofer in 104 degree
heat; the
truck driver, fire
fighter, soldier,
foundry worker,
heat-vent installer.
I'll tell you what's
not safe
for work, says
the warehouse-worker, the
unveiled woman, the
veiled woman, oil-
driller, welder,
seamstress, factory-
worker. What's
not safe for work is
work.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Found Poem: Followed
the new sexy
you
is following
you
would you
like to follow
the new sexy
you?
hans ostrom
you
is following
you
would you
like to follow
the new sexy
you?
hans ostrom
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
Commissioned Sonnet
Going through old computer-files and -documents, I found a sonnet I'd written that had been commissioned. Someone from the Politics and Government Department where I teach (U. of Puget Sound) had asked me to write a poem to be read at their departmental graduation-gathering. This was in 2008.
About all I can say for the sonnet is that it is worth at least what they paid me for it, nothing.
I thought a sonnet--or some traditional form--was appropriate for the occasion. Every so often, I like to write a "commissioned" thing. It's an interesting challenge.
Commencement Bay is the name of the harbor next to Tacoma.
Sonnet: To Graduating Seniors in Politics and Government
About all I can say for the sonnet is that it is worth at least what they paid me for it, nothing.
I thought a sonnet--or some traditional form--was appropriate for the occasion. Every so often, I like to write a "commissioned" thing. It's an interesting challenge.
Commencement Bay is the name of the harbor next to Tacoma.
Sonnet: To Graduating Seniors in Politics and Government
We’ve been the captains of your classes here,
The admirals of your splendid senior theses.
Today we are mere ensigns of good cheer
As you depart these arches, bricks, and trees.
Your learning is your cargo. Politics
And Government’s the dock from which you sail.
The world out there is one we hope you’ll fix.
May warm and fairly traded winds prevail.
Now, after several years at Puget Sound,
You’ll voyage from your own Commencement Bay
To ports where possibilities abound.
With pride we raise a toast to you and say:
In governing your lives, be politic
And always vote for wisdom—that’s the trick.
Hans Ostrom, 2008, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
It Means to You
It means to you, whatever
you're thinking now
as you sit in a chair, in
a seat, on a bench, looking
at the screen in your
hand, on your lap, on
your desk, on a wall.
It means to you, what
you're thinking
of the noise around you, of
your anxiety, of this
indescribable warren
of ideas, memories, neurons
firing, appetites, instincts--
all of it in its all-at-onceness:
mind.
It means to you, the taste
in your moth of coffee or beer or food
or smoke or your own mouth,
or someone else's. There's
the ache in one place, resentment
in another, in nerves and brain.
Are the unsatisfactions worse
than the dissatisfactions? Are
you comfortable enough
but still bored, angry, afraid,
frustrated? Are you looking
at someone now? It means
to you, it is meaning to you,
and you have been meaning, too.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
you're thinking now
as you sit in a chair, in
a seat, on a bench, looking
at the screen in your
hand, on your lap, on
your desk, on a wall.
It means to you, what
you're thinking
of the noise around you, of
your anxiety, of this
indescribable warren
of ideas, memories, neurons
firing, appetites, instincts--
all of it in its all-at-onceness:
mind.
It means to you, the taste
in your moth of coffee or beer or food
or smoke or your own mouth,
or someone else's. There's
the ache in one place, resentment
in another, in nerves and brain.
Are the unsatisfactions worse
than the dissatisfactions? Are
you comfortable enough
but still bored, angry, afraid,
frustrated? Are you looking
at someone now? It means
to you, it is meaning to you,
and you have been meaning, too.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
To Aging Friends
Oh, my aging friends,
what illnesses and
infirmities await us?
We hope to sail
along indefinitely
in these bodies.
We know we'll
be intercepted
and boarded by pirates.
The rigging creaks.
Boat-loads of young
women pass.
At best, they ignore
us, at worst laugh
at our sad crafts.
The aging are
a patient armada sailing
under a tie-dyed flag.
Ah, my aging friends,
let's drink wine in moonlight
on this our rolling deck.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
what illnesses and
infirmities await us?
We hope to sail
along indefinitely
in these bodies.
We know we'll
be intercepted
and boarded by pirates.
The rigging creaks.
Boat-loads of young
women pass.
At best, they ignore
us, at worst laugh
at our sad crafts.
The aging are
a patient armada sailing
under a tie-dyed flag.
Ah, my aging friends,
let's drink wine in moonlight
on this our rolling deck.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
A Few Moments in the Comparisonator
Her eyes were as blue as not
sky or sea but, but, uh--
cornflowers.
The moon looked like not
cheese, a face, a balloon, but
a flashlight shined
on
varicose veins.
My love for you is stronger
than my breath
after I've eaten
raw onions and Limburger
cheese. What? You don't
eat raw onions or
Limburger cheese?
A sadness enveloped me.
Like an envelope. Right?
When you take off your
clothes, baby, I don't
think about comparisons.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
sky or sea but, but, uh--
cornflowers.
The moon looked like not
cheese, a face, a balloon, but
a flashlight shined
on
varicose veins.
My love for you is stronger
than my breath
after I've eaten
raw onions and Limburger
cheese. What? You don't
eat raw onions or
Limburger cheese?
A sadness enveloped me.
Like an envelope. Right?
When you take off your
clothes, baby, I don't
think about comparisons.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Consciousness, This Space
This customary space, consciousness (as you hear
the hiss of evening traffic): a pliable, warped
sphere with membrane boundaries. Sometimes
the activity called thinking permeates
the membrane. And there you are,
situated in a non-view.
Not so much detached as unbounded.
You see a gleam for a while without
knowing or naming it; it isn't gleam.
....Chrome....toaster....fender...glass...?
Utterly receptive perception . . .
You settle into out-settledness.
Sounds. Blurs. What is there
enwraps you loosely like
the lightest fabric. There's
the merest hint of, well,
forever (as you hear the
hiss . . .)
Hans Ostrom, 2012
the hiss of evening traffic): a pliable, warped
sphere with membrane boundaries. Sometimes
the activity called thinking permeates
the membrane. And there you are,
situated in a non-view.
Not so much detached as unbounded.
You see a gleam for a while without
knowing or naming it; it isn't gleam.
....Chrome....toaster....fender...glass...?
Utterly receptive perception . . .
You settle into out-settledness.
Sounds. Blurs. What is there
enwraps you loosely like
the lightest fabric. There's
the merest hint of, well,
forever (as you hear the
hiss . . .)
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
What My Job Is
Oh, I know what Management
thinks my job is, don't worry. It's
to help those to whom they
report report that a profit
was made. My family and truth
to tell my friends, and me too,
we think my job is to keep
my job. Beyond that, no one
cares about my work, not
even the ones who send me
bills. Because computers
and some people trying to
keep their jobs send me
the bills, which, if I don't
pay--well, Management there
manages a legal department.
When I'm on the job, I
do my work. Something
I don't tell anyone is this: I
always do something to
hang on to a piece of myself.
What that is varies. Sometimes
people see me doing that kind of
thing, a self-saving thing, and
I'm not giving examples. Anyway,
I see people at the place
looking at me, trying to figure
why I did that or said this.
That kind of thing, that's
not in the job-description.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
thinks my job is, don't worry. It's
to help those to whom they
report report that a profit
was made. My family and truth
to tell my friends, and me too,
we think my job is to keep
my job. Beyond that, no one
cares about my work, not
even the ones who send me
bills. Because computers
and some people trying to
keep their jobs send me
the bills, which, if I don't
pay--well, Management there
manages a legal department.
When I'm on the job, I
do my work. Something
I don't tell anyone is this: I
always do something to
hang on to a piece of myself.
What that is varies. Sometimes
people see me doing that kind of
thing, a self-saving thing, and
I'm not giving examples. Anyway,
I see people at the place
looking at me, trying to figure
why I did that or said this.
That kind of thing, that's
not in the job-description.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
All Work and No Play at a Cafe
(based on found language)
All Work and No Play at a Cafe
Damn, I partied last light. Hell
yes I did. What's the saying?
All work and no play makes
Jack a--uh--a--a whatever.
Is that my latte?
Hans Ostrom, 2012
All Work and No Play at a Cafe
Damn, I partied last light. Hell
yes I did. What's the saying?
All work and no play makes
Jack a--uh--a--a whatever.
Is that my latte?
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Perfect Is Over-rated
(riff on language, Italicized, found on Tumblr)
Perfect is Over-rated
I'm not perfect, and I don't want
to be. Because being perfect
is so over-rated. I mean,
I'd actually rank imperfection
above perfection. For one
thing, perfection doesn't exist.
Read that old fart, Plato. You
can't get to Ideal from here,
so it's as bad as nothing.
Plus everybody I know
who's supposedly perfect
turns out to be, you know,
killers, rapists, head-cases,
cutters, pukers, yellers.
Dangerous or sad.
Less than optimal, I'm thinking.
So, yeah, I wouldn't put
perfect on my fantasy team.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Perfect is Over-rated
I'm not perfect, and I don't want
to be. Because being perfect
is so over-rated. I mean,
I'd actually rank imperfection
above perfection. For one
thing, perfection doesn't exist.
Read that old fart, Plato. You
can't get to Ideal from here,
so it's as bad as nothing.
Plus everybody I know
who's supposedly perfect
turns out to be, you know,
killers, rapists, head-cases,
cutters, pukers, yellers.
Dangerous or sad.
Less than optimal, I'm thinking.
So, yeah, I wouldn't put
perfect on my fantasy team.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
On Deciding Not to Become Wealthy
The evidence suggests getting rich
was not one of my priorities.
I studied literature and took up
writing poetry: any questions?
Also, I've always worked. Rather
late in the game, I noticed most
rich people don't work a lot.
Or at all.
Way back in the ago-era,
I ran my own weed- and grass-
cutting business, age 15.
Since then: different wage-jobs--
labor at a gravel-plant, hod-
carrying, washing pots,
writing sports articles, pounding
nails, digging trenches,
reading standardized tests.
Also a salaried job. Professor.
I see now that this was the path
for me. I think if I were rich, I'd
be very nervous, less generous,
and much more of a fuck-up
than I already have been.
That's my report.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
was not one of my priorities.
I studied literature and took up
writing poetry: any questions?
Also, I've always worked. Rather
late in the game, I noticed most
rich people don't work a lot.
Or at all.
Way back in the ago-era,
I ran my own weed- and grass-
cutting business, age 15.
Since then: different wage-jobs--
labor at a gravel-plant, hod-
carrying, washing pots,
writing sports articles, pounding
nails, digging trenches,
reading standardized tests.
Also a salaried job. Professor.
I see now that this was the path
for me. I think if I were rich, I'd
be very nervous, less generous,
and much more of a fuck-up
than I already have been.
That's my report.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Poem: A List of Parts
In this package
you will find the
following parts
for the poem
you'll assemble.
Please match the
parts to this list
before you begin
assembly.
1. Sounds
2. Letters [26]
3. Words [75--you may
order more]
4. Marks (punctuation)
5. Pictures in the mind
[not included but implied]
6. Space
7. Sample title
8. Sample beginning [2]
9. Sample ending [2]
10. Stanza-templates [6--you
may order more]
Hans Ostrom, 2012
you will find the
following parts
for the poem
you'll assemble.
Please match the
parts to this list
before you begin
assembly.
1. Sounds
2. Letters [26]
3. Words [75--you may
order more]
4. Marks (punctuation)
5. Pictures in the mind
[not included but implied]
6. Space
7. Sample title
8. Sample beginning [2]
9. Sample ending [2]
10. Stanza-templates [6--you
may order more]
Hans Ostrom, 2012
The Last Automobile
Hear that sound?
That's the motor
of the last car
to go over the cliff.
Now the authorities
will roll up highways
and store them in a
desert like old
spools of thread.
Wild horses will
look down on them
from synthetic, pastured
plateaus above.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
That's the motor
of the last car
to go over the cliff.
Now the authorities
will roll up highways
and store them in a
desert like old
spools of thread.
Wild horses will
look down on them
from synthetic, pastured
plateaus above.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Political Arguments
Nobody knows what they're talking about.
Or, they know what they're talking
about only because they made it up.
Judging from the noise and heat,
you might think these people
really believe they affect outcomes.
You might even think
the politicians to whom they're
loyal are loyal to them!
These people arguing
are like watchdogs barking
and growling, guarding
a piece of turf no one sees.
Political arguments
are imaginative enterprises.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Or, they know what they're talking
about only because they made it up.
Judging from the noise and heat,
you might think these people
really believe they affect outcomes.
You might even think
the politicians to whom they're
loyal are loyal to them!
These people arguing
are like watchdogs barking
and growling, guarding
a piece of turf no one sees.
Political arguments
are imaginative enterprises.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Bed Linens
Sand from a beach-woman's feet,
crumbs from something I ate,
books, pens, notebooks, socks--
none of such stuff in bed
ever bothered me. Still:
fresh sheets, especially
when a person's gripped
by flu--celestial comfort.
There's something mournful
and small--not rising to the level
of tragedy--about a stripped bed.
It's as if Sleep up and quit
that room and moved on
to another town.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
crumbs from something I ate,
books, pens, notebooks, socks--
none of such stuff in bed
ever bothered me. Still:
fresh sheets, especially
when a person's gripped
by flu--celestial comfort.
There's something mournful
and small--not rising to the level
of tragedy--about a stripped bed.
It's as if Sleep up and quit
that room and moved on
to another town.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Should Be Forbidden
It is customary
but not mandatory
for the old to say
of the young, "We
know more than they."
It is customary
but not mandatory
for the young to say
of the old, "Who
cares what they know?"
It should be forbidden
of the old to say or
to think of the young,
"Who cares what
they know?"
Hans Ostrom copyright 2012
but not mandatory
for the old to say
of the young, "We
know more than they."
It is customary
but not mandatory
for the young to say
of the old, "Who
cares what they know?"
It should be forbidden
of the old to say or
to think of the young,
"Who cares what
they know?"
Hans Ostrom copyright 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Found Poem: The Shit Parents Say
Parents don't notice
that the shit
they say
actually hurts.
alicelock, Tumblr.
that the shit
they say
actually hurts.
alicelock, Tumblr.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
I Placed a Blue Man in Tennessee
The wind scars
the surface of the lake.
He's standing there
not quite awake.
The fool stands
in mud--yes that is he,
the saddest man
in Tennessee.
--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Tavern Haiku
"I put the sip in
dissipation," said the old
guy, tasting the rye.
Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
A Presidential Election and Rhythm n Blues
Rhythm & Blues, that American
genre, holds a tale of USA.
Inside R&B a White
presidential candidate
and a Black presidential
candidate stare
at each other. Listening
to the music, you may
have to move down
many corridors, streets,
and roads before you see
them standing, staring there.
But if you have known R&B
in your life, you know
you'll see them. It is night.
Although they are only
staring, the scene feels
dangerous. The USA
feels dangerous. If you
have known R&B in your
life, you know you can
hear danger even in a
song that is all about
sweet love. Round and round
you go, USA, round & round.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
genre, holds a tale of USA.
Inside R&B a White
presidential candidate
and a Black presidential
candidate stare
at each other. Listening
to the music, you may
have to move down
many corridors, streets,
and roads before you see
them standing, staring there.
But if you have known R&B
in your life, you know
you'll see them. It is night.
Although they are only
staring, the scene feels
dangerous. The USA
feels dangerous. If you
have known R&B in your
life, you know you can
hear danger even in a
song that is all about
sweet love. Round and round
you go, USA, round & round.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
And So It Begins--the Semester, That Is
I'm re-posting a short poem to mark the beginning of the semester or quarter at many colleges.
"Dialogue on a College Campus"
"Dialogue on a College Campus"
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Found Poem: Saloon Note
Hey Philip--about the Felix
THANG--
NO DRINKS until he pays
Miranda 17 dollars--
you dig?
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
THANG--
NO DRINKS until he pays
Miranda 17 dollars--
you dig?
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Found Poem: Yeah, He Must Have Died
Yeah, he must
have died because
he's trending
on
Twitter.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Bats Right, Throws Left
I came down from the mountains
a devout S.F. Giants fan, thanks
to radio and the Sacramento Bee.
I came down from the mountains
never having played pee-wee,
Little League, Legion, or Babe Ruth ball.
I was a baseball immigrant.
I batted left because my brother
Sven, a leftie, taught me to hit. I'd
become what I'd learn was a
dead-pull-hitter. And
I had a glove from the Montgomery
Ward catalog. So in high school,
I could hit the cut-off man, catch
a fly, charge a base-hit, and bunt.
At bat I was afraid of the ball:
No, not quite right. Conceptually,
I hadn't found evidence that one
shouldn't be afraid of the ball,
especially after team-mate Eddie,
nicest guy but wild, drilled me twice
in the back. Still, I went three-
for-three one bright Spring day,
with a base-on-balls, runs scored.
But out in right field, a pasture
made for me, I often drifted
mentally, considered slipping
away ("Slip away, slip away ...").
Someone would hit a liner out
there. Manager, teammates,
and the sprinkling of fans would
say, Hey, where's the right-fielder?
And I'd be lying down with a brown
woman in a blonde meadow, or
taking a midnight train to Rome,
or writing this poem.
--Hans Ostrom 2012
a devout S.F. Giants fan, thanks
to radio and the Sacramento Bee.
I came down from the mountains
never having played pee-wee,
Little League, Legion, or Babe Ruth ball.
I was a baseball immigrant.
I batted left because my brother
Sven, a leftie, taught me to hit. I'd
become what I'd learn was a
dead-pull-hitter. And
I had a glove from the Montgomery
Ward catalog. So in high school,
I could hit the cut-off man, catch
a fly, charge a base-hit, and bunt.
At bat I was afraid of the ball:
No, not quite right. Conceptually,
I hadn't found evidence that one
shouldn't be afraid of the ball,
especially after team-mate Eddie,
nicest guy but wild, drilled me twice
in the back. Still, I went three-
for-three one bright Spring day,
with a base-on-balls, runs scored.
But out in right field, a pasture
made for me, I often drifted
mentally, considered slipping
away ("Slip away, slip away ...").
Someone would hit a liner out
there. Manager, teammates,
and the sprinkling of fans would
say, Hey, where's the right-fielder?
And I'd be lying down with a brown
woman in a blonde meadow, or
taking a midnight train to Rome,
or writing this poem.
--Hans Ostrom 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Spam Found-Poem: "Hot Workplace Free"
Hot workplace free!
Workplace condition: your house
Years old: older
Pay schedule: pays for each hours
We are waiting for your reply.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
But It Does
I don't know
why the yellow-jacket
stands motionless
on a pale green
wrinkled new leaf
of lettuce in sunlight.
But it does.
I don't know
why the universe
keeps occurring.
But it does.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
why the yellow-jacket
stands motionless
on a pale green
wrinkled new leaf
of lettuce in sunlight.
But it does.
I don't know
why the universe
keeps occurring.
But it does.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Not Afraid of Zombies
I'm not afraid
of no zombies.
They walk too slow.
I'm not afraid
of no werewolves.
They're dogs, you know.
The monsters
to keep an eye on
are the people
who seem okay.
They'll mess you up
every which damn way.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
of no zombies.
They walk too slow.
I'm not afraid
of no werewolves.
They're dogs, you know.
The monsters
to keep an eye on
are the people
who seem okay.
They'll mess you up
every which damn way.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Every Revery
Every revery swells
the sails of one's invisible ship.
Thinking is traveling,
and the brain is wet and salty.
The mind it harbors
is bigger than the grandest
ocean we have ever mapped
and bigger than the biggest sea
we've ever dreamed.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
the sails of one's invisible ship.
Thinking is traveling,
and the brain is wet and salty.
The mind it harbors
is bigger than the grandest
ocean we have ever mapped
and bigger than the biggest sea
we've ever dreamed.
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Of Poverty
“What is harder for the nonpoor to see is poverty as
acute distress: The lunch that consists of Doritos or hot dog rolls,
leading to faintness before the end of the shift. The “home” that is
also a car or a van. The illness or injury that must be “worked
through,” with gritted teeth, because there’s no sick pay or health
insurance and the loss of one day’s pay will mean no groceries for the
next. These experiences are not part of a sustainable lifestyle, even a
lifestyle of chronic deprivation and relentless low-level punishment.
They are, by almost any standard of subsistence, emergency situations.
And that is how we should see the poverty of so many millions of
low-wage Americans—as a state of emergency.”
| — | Barbara Ehrenreich, Nickel and Dimed |
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The Checklist
reasonably healthy today? check
not in poverty? check
enough to eat? check
not in jail? check
got a job? check
have someone to love? check
memory intact? check
not in imminent danger of getting killed or raped or both? check
getting laid? check, check
benefiting from helping someone? check
access to clean water? check
indoor plumbing that works? check
lights and heat? check
roof over your head, and a bed? check
something to read? check
then count your fucking blessings and/or stop whining
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
not in poverty? check
enough to eat? check
not in jail? check
got a job? check
have someone to love? check
memory intact? check
not in imminent danger of getting killed or raped or both? check
getting laid? check, check
benefiting from helping someone? check
access to clean water? check
indoor plumbing that works? check
lights and heat? check
roof over your head, and a bed? check
something to read? check
then count your fucking blessings and/or stop whining
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Ill-Equipped by Technology
Technology has ill-equipped us.
When are we ever not behind
its trends? The nature
of capital requires us either
to be behind or to believe
we are behind or both.
The next invented, mass-
produced, and marketed
things wait in tiresome,
predictable ambush.
Place: a box canyon
of forced choices.
Think of specific
gadgets and gizmos
you don't own--
which
you will soon purchase,
by choice.
Consider whether
this new bought thing will
really improve your life.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
When are we ever not behind
its trends? The nature
of capital requires us either
to be behind or to believe
we are behind or both.
The next invented, mass-
produced, and marketed
things wait in tiresome,
predictable ambush.
Place: a box canyon
of forced choices.
Think of specific
gadgets and gizmos
you don't own--
which
you will soon purchase,
by choice.
Consider whether
this new bought thing will
really improve your life.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Nothing Personal, Just Business
When they say,
It's nothing personal--it's just
business, it's personal,
for the lie itself concerns
personality, the intimacy
of betrayal. When they say
it's just business, they mean
the opposite. They mean business
is all--it governs. Have you
known a time when business
didn't govern? When they say
these things, keep
your distance from them,
from these people who are like
dogs on chains, the chain
being business and personal.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
It's nothing personal--it's just
business, it's personal,
for the lie itself concerns
personality, the intimacy
of betrayal. When they say
it's just business, they mean
the opposite. They mean business
is all--it governs. Have you
known a time when business
didn't govern? When they say
these things, keep
your distance from them,
from these people who are like
dogs on chains, the chain
being business and personal.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Warm-Up Exercise for Poets: Adjective/Noun/ABC
Just a warm-up exercise. You'll infer the "rules" from this example immediately.
Adept Zebra
Burnt Yams
Chrome Xylophone
Dry Wall
Elegant Veranda
Flexible Udders
Good Times
Hot Salsa
International Rutabaga
Jeweled Quilt
Knowing Purveyor
Lone Osprey
Murderous Narcotic
Narcoleptic Man
Obsolete Language
Prescient Knight
Questionable Jester
Restless Intern
Surly Handler
Tainted Garnish
Unique Fragrance
Venerable Epic
Wistful Dog
Xenophobic Cleric
Young Barista
Zealous Attitude.
Adept Zebra
Burnt Yams
Chrome Xylophone
Dry Wall
Elegant Veranda
Flexible Udders
Good Times
Hot Salsa
International Rutabaga
Jeweled Quilt
Knowing Purveyor
Lone Osprey
Murderous Narcotic
Narcoleptic Man
Obsolete Language
Prescient Knight
Questionable Jester
Restless Intern
Surly Handler
Tainted Garnish
Unique Fragrance
Venerable Epic
Wistful Dog
Xenophobic Cleric
Young Barista
Zealous Attitude.
Found Poem: Four Signs Nailed to an Urban Fir Tree
MOVING &
*
CHEAP SMOKES AND BEER
*
NEED A CONTRACTOR?
*
PEST CONTROL
*
--Hans Ostrom
*
CHEAP SMOKES AND BEER
*
NEED A CONTRACTOR?
*
PEST CONTROL
*
--Hans Ostrom
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
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