(re-posting one from 2009)
Corresponding With Nostalgia
The correspondence used to be
Composed of pulp and ink,
Now seems elaborate and slow,
Indeed antique, I think.
The mail comes digitally now,
Encoded on the air.
Yes, personality persists.
And no, it isn't fair
To say we write robotically.
The wait and weight of post--
The palpability of what
I read, I miss the most.
Yet now I'm totally plugged in,
Am tethered to my screens.
I send and post, receive and text.
("Text" now's a verb, it seems.)
A letter to Nostalgia, yes:
I think that's what I'll write.
It will come back: "No such address."
Electrons are Nostalgia's site.
*
*
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
To the Band With One Hit
We loved it, et cetera. It was the one
we loved. It had that sound, et cetera,
and that et cetera beat. What they called
a hook. What they called a hit. Hook
and hit. You hit the charts. You charted.
Back then there was radio and so on.
None of the rest of what you recorded
sounded quite like the one we loved.
How does that happen? Better question
is how does that not happen, what
with managers and producers, the
distractions of youth, and everything
moving at the speed of sound or light
or Earth or people? The charts
hit you. You all are giving music
lessons now or still in the business
producing or playing in bars or
you became lawyers or electricians.
In the end, who cares? You do, we do,
and nobody does. We loved it. It
made a sound-print on time. Lovely
and permanent and ephemeral,
wow what a word that is, et cetera.
Wishing you well in obscurity from
obscurity; love, us.
hans ostrom 2014
we loved. It had that sound, et cetera,
and that et cetera beat. What they called
a hook. What they called a hit. Hook
and hit. You hit the charts. You charted.
Back then there was radio and so on.
None of the rest of what you recorded
sounded quite like the one we loved.
How does that happen? Better question
is how does that not happen, what
with managers and producers, the
distractions of youth, and everything
moving at the speed of sound or light
or Earth or people? The charts
hit you. You all are giving music
lessons now or still in the business
producing or playing in bars or
you became lawyers or electricians.
In the end, who cares? You do, we do,
and nobody does. We loved it. It
made a sound-print on time. Lovely
and permanent and ephemeral,
wow what a word that is, et cetera.
Wishing you well in obscurity from
obscurity; love, us.
hans ostrom 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
You've Been One of Those
After you don't, in fact, get it
done, or after they don't let you in,
you sit at a table and look across
at yourself. You stare, shrug, and smile.
For you know it's all been a comedy,
a practical joke:
you knocked on a door and produced
no sound, then found out
it was the wrong door anyway.
You then come to think that
you've been one of those
who sometimes help others
get what they want to do done,
who hear the knocking
and open up.
hans ostrom 2014
done, or after they don't let you in,
you sit at a table and look across
at yourself. You stare, shrug, and smile.
For you know it's all been a comedy,
a practical joke:
you knocked on a door and produced
no sound, then found out
it was the wrong door anyway.
You then come to think that
you've been one of those
who sometimes help others
get what they want to do done,
who hear the knocking
and open up.
hans ostrom 2014
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Buttons
Click on the Submit button.
Button up.
Leave the top button unbuttoned.
Never button the bottom button.
He has his finger on the button.
If you could just, if you could just
unbutton it a little bit and oh
a little bit more.
Under the trees, yes,
the button mushrooms arose
like blobs of ghostly paint.
Some dolls and sociopaths
have buttons for eyes.
For some reason, as she waited
for the bus, she thought
of all the lost buttons
in the world, sinking
into soil or stuck
in cracks of pavement,
wood, and concrete.
The extra buttons
on a garment wait
like tiny moons in reserve
for a sky that might need them.
hans ostrom 2014
Button up.
Leave the top button unbuttoned.
Never button the bottom button.
He has his finger on the button.
If you could just, if you could just
unbutton it a little bit and oh
a little bit more.
Under the trees, yes,
the button mushrooms arose
like blobs of ghostly paint.
Some dolls and sociopaths
have buttons for eyes.
For some reason, as she waited
for the bus, she thought
of all the lost buttons
in the world, sinking
into soil or stuck
in cracks of pavement,
wood, and concrete.
The extra buttons
on a garment wait
like tiny moons in reserve
for a sky that might need them.
hans ostrom 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
Edge Noir
They were good, the film-noir movies.
They're like a simple but important meal
cooked well. The noir of life
(and remember that noir is full of light),
however, often lurks around edges. So
you are sitting at a kitchen table,
a low drop-light making your drink
of bourbon a featured performer. You
look up and see and hear a woman
talking on a telephone. She has
one of those great 1950s figures--
stylish, so the clothes still fit,
tight enough to show the goods,
modest enough to repulse
losers, no fear of an ample belly,
one knee turned slightly in.
And there's a cat. Here it comes.
It looks at you and yawns as if to
say not one goddamned thing. It is
then that you say to yourself, "I
don't know where I am or who she
is, but I like my hat, I like
the bourbon, and I just have this
feeling everything is going
to turn out fine."
hans ostrom
They're like a simple but important meal
cooked well. The noir of life
(and remember that noir is full of light),
however, often lurks around edges. So
you are sitting at a kitchen table,
a low drop-light making your drink
of bourbon a featured performer. You
look up and see and hear a woman
talking on a telephone. She has
one of those great 1950s figures--
stylish, so the clothes still fit,
tight enough to show the goods,
modest enough to repulse
losers, no fear of an ample belly,
one knee turned slightly in.
And there's a cat. Here it comes.
It looks at you and yawns as if to
say not one goddamned thing. It is
then that you say to yourself, "I
don't know where I am or who she
is, but I like my hat, I like
the bourbon, and I just have this
feeling everything is going
to turn out fine."
hans ostrom
Saturday, January 11, 2014
I Have
I have a mind
I have a voice
I have a hand
I have a fist
I have a big fist
I have a stick
a rock a blade
I have partners
who have all this.
We have spears.
We have bows.
We have traps.
Oh, we have guns.
We have bombs.
We have ships.
We have planes.
We have rockets.
We have missiles.
We have what it takes
to make our sphere
of everything
nothing.
hans ostrom 2014
I have a voice
I have a hand
I have a fist
I have a big fist
I have a stick
a rock a blade
I have partners
who have all this.
We have spears.
We have bows.
We have traps.
Oh, we have guns.
We have bombs.
We have ships.
We have planes.
We have rockets.
We have missiles.
We have what it takes
to make our sphere
of everything
nothing.
hans ostrom 2014
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Sugar Blues
If I cry for the sugar,
that don't mean the sugar's mine.
Say if I cry for the sugar,
doesn't mean the sugar's mine.
But if you should own the sugar,
doesn't mean the system's fine.
Did you work for the sugar?
I bet your answer's Yes and No.
Ah, did you work for your sugar?
Oh, yeah: the answer's Yes and No.
You didn't do a lick of work,
but yes you put up half the dough.
Wealth don't have a conscience.
It gets as far as maybe guilt.
Wealth don't have no conscience,
only gets as far as guilt.
Right-and-wrong will never bother
the fortress that the wealthy built.
Sugar blues, sugar blues.
Somebody else has got the sweet.
Sugar blues, sugar blues.
I'll never get enough of sweet.
I'm a lost soul on a corner,
a fallen saint out on the street.
copyright hans ostrom 2014
that don't mean the sugar's mine.
Say if I cry for the sugar,
doesn't mean the sugar's mine.
But if you should own the sugar,
doesn't mean the system's fine.
Did you work for the sugar?
I bet your answer's Yes and No.
Ah, did you work for your sugar?
Oh, yeah: the answer's Yes and No.
You didn't do a lick of work,
but yes you put up half the dough.
Wealth don't have a conscience.
It gets as far as maybe guilt.
Wealth don't have no conscience,
only gets as far as guilt.
Right-and-wrong will never bother
the fortress that the wealthy built.
Sugar blues, sugar blues.
Somebody else has got the sweet.
Sugar blues, sugar blues.
I'll never get enough of sweet.
I'm a lost soul on a corner,
a fallen saint out on the street.
copyright hans ostrom 2014
When A Poem Rebels
. . . So anyway, there I was, several
lines into a poem. And the poem
says to me, “That’s it. I quit.”
And I say, “Whoa, I’m just getting
started.” Poem says, “Exactly.”
hans ostrom 2014
lines into a poem. And the poem
says to me, “That’s it. I quit.”
And I say, “Whoa, I’m just getting
started.” Poem says, “Exactly.”
hans ostrom 2014
Lost Characters
A dock at a lake at night:
the moon. We’ll talk there—
yes: they will have
decided to send us there.
We can’t plan what to say,
and we have no author.
But on the dock, we’ll be
and, being, we’ll know
then what to say.
hans ostrom 2014
the moon. We’ll talk there—
yes: they will have
decided to send us there.
We can’t plan what to say,
and we have no author.
But on the dock, we’ll be
and, being, we’ll know
then what to say.
hans ostrom 2014
Monday, January 6, 2014
Paranormal Boredom
The ghost
fell asleep on
the couch
watching a
"reality" TV-show
about paranormal
activity.
hans ostrom 2014
fell asleep on
the couch
watching a
"reality" TV-show
about paranormal
activity.
hans ostrom 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Agoraphobic New Year
(to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne")
Will agoraphobics please
come out and help
bring in the Year?
No, that's all right. Thanks
anyway; we can see from
here just fine!
hans ostrom 2014
Will agoraphobics please
come out and help
bring in the Year?
No, that's all right. Thanks
anyway; we can see from
here just fine!
hans ostrom 2014
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
Oh, Of Course, Yes
Oh, of course, yes sir,
I'd very much like to pay
to watch another film
about sociopathic Americans
starring Robert De Niro or
it-doesn't-matter-who. Yes,
fascinating, humorous, ha-ha,
chuckles. No, of course,
there really aren't any
other subjects for cinema
that are quite as interesting
and exciting. Yes, sir, I am
very happy with the cinema
you provide. You are a genius!
Everyone in Hollywood is a genius!
hans ostrom 2013
I'd very much like to pay
to watch another film
about sociopathic Americans
starring Robert De Niro or
it-doesn't-matter-who. Yes,
fascinating, humorous, ha-ha,
chuckles. No, of course,
there really aren't any
other subjects for cinema
that are quite as interesting
and exciting. Yes, sir, I am
very happy with the cinema
you provide. You are a genius!
Everyone in Hollywood is a genius!
hans ostrom 2013
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Zombie Poets
They're not the Undead.
They're the Unread.
They stagger toward you
in cafes and bars,
carrying moist notebooks,
possibly wearing berets.
(Some of them were once
famous and popular. Old
anthologies muffle their
screams like thick
asylum-walls.)
They are all over
the Internet, the Unread.
("Eloise, why does he write
'they" and not 'we'?")
So much writing, so
little reading. They occupy
the night. They read poems
outside closed libraries.
They get high, the Unread,
and they behave badly in hopes
of becoming the next Bukowski.
In your nightmare,
they smother you with thousands
of saddle-stapled chapbooks
and eat from your refrigerator.
Cue ghostly music.. . . The Unread!
hans ostrom 2013
They're the Unread.
They stagger toward you
in cafes and bars,
carrying moist notebooks,
possibly wearing berets.
(Some of them were once
famous and popular. Old
anthologies muffle their
screams like thick
asylum-walls.)
They are all over
the Internet, the Unread.
("Eloise, why does he write
'they" and not 'we'?")
So much writing, so
little reading. They occupy
the night. They read poems
outside closed libraries.
They get high, the Unread,
and they behave badly in hopes
of becoming the next Bukowski.
In your nightmare,
they smother you with thousands
of saddle-stapled chapbooks
and eat from your refrigerator.
Cue ghostly music.. . . The Unread!
hans ostrom 2013
These Things Called Years
These artificial things called "years":
how annoying. They're perceptual engines
that drive us through our lives, keep us
rushed and harried, depressed and habituated.
It all starts again on "January First,"
which we're urged to celebrate. On the
Second, we must report to work on time
or get fired, and we must start
counting the god-damned shopping-days left
til the Apocalyptic Sale. (Everything must go.)
hans ostrom 2013
how annoying. They're perceptual engines
that drive us through our lives, keep us
rushed and harried, depressed and habituated.
It all starts again on "January First,"
which we're urged to celebrate. On the
Second, we must report to work on time
or get fired, and we must start
counting the god-damned shopping-days left
til the Apocalyptic Sale. (Everything must go.)
hans ostrom 2013
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Christmas Found Poem
You should know two things before you read this. One, the language was directed at me, and, two, there is cursing.
Christmas Found Poem
I think you
are the only
one I can
think of who
would say something
like ". . . Those
fucking Christmas
macaroons."
hans ostrom 2013
Christmas Found Poem
I think you
are the only
one I can
think of who
would say something
like ". . . Those
fucking Christmas
macaroons."
hans ostrom 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Just An Acre
If counting and accounting
and statistics count, oh
so to speak, then I have
by that accounting, well,
existed. There is a record
of me. Two questions: Is
there a record of you? And,
if there is, so what?
Women's bodies are
slightly and infinitely
different from
men's bodies. This
difference has fueled
many of my nights
on Earth. If you
would argue about
differentiations
of sex, of gender,
then I applaud you.
I'm just an acre
of existence that
broke off. I'm just
a congregation of
lore, learning,
laziness.
hans ostrom 2013
and statistics count, oh
so to speak, then I have
by that accounting, well,
existed. There is a record
of me. Two questions: Is
there a record of you? And,
if there is, so what?
Women's bodies are
slightly and infinitely
different from
men's bodies. This
difference has fueled
many of my nights
on Earth. If you
would argue about
differentiations
of sex, of gender,
then I applaud you.
I'm just an acre
of existence that
broke off. I'm just
a congregation of
lore, learning,
laziness.
hans ostrom 2013
Way Past Post-Whatever
You're no frond of mine.
When I deploy an avatar,
I am no friend of me,
and yet of course I will
be online-intimate with you.
If everything were all right
off-line, online would not
be such a place of refuge.
I am not a simple man.
For I have not evolved at least
that far.I am the make-shift product
of the what-before-me-came.
I have no name.
We're out here, there isn't
any map, and our compasses
have collapsed. This all to me
is good news. I understand
why you think otherwise.
I am no friend. I am no
fiend. That said I listen.
hans ostrom 2013
When I deploy an avatar,
I am no friend of me,
and yet of course I will
be online-intimate with you.
If everything were all right
off-line, online would not
be such a place of refuge.
I am not a simple man.
For I have not evolved at least
that far.I am the make-shift product
of the what-before-me-came.
I have no name.
We're out here, there isn't
any map, and our compasses
have collapsed. This all to me
is good news. I understand
why you think otherwise.
I am no friend. I am no
fiend. That said I listen.
hans ostrom 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
I Have Seen
I have seen the sun
and I fear the calamities.
I have seen the sun
and I seek no remedies.
I have seen the moon
and I've kissed the cool air.
I have seen the moon
in its jeweled lair.
I have seen the stars,
mostly in books, alas.
I have seen the stars:
the avant-garde of mass.
hans ostrom 2013
and I fear the calamities.
I have seen the sun
and I seek no remedies.
I have seen the moon
and I've kissed the cool air.
I have seen the moon
in its jeweled lair.
I have seen the stars,
mostly in books, alas.
I have seen the stars:
the avant-garde of mass.
hans ostrom 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Video: "Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley In Heaven"
Re-posting the short film based on my poem of the same title.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Extra-Canonical
Some Harvard professor left a parking citation
on my bicycle. It said, "You are extra-canonical,
so get out of here." I saw a shard of
greisen (a rock of quartz and white mica)
on the ground and felt better. Just then
Donnie came buy, so I bought him a cup
of coffee and me one, too, and as we
sipped I said, "Donnie, a screen memory
is a memory a person can handle so the
person uses that to block a memory
that's too painful when called up."
Donnie said, "Hard to prove that
kind of thing, but that don't
mean it ain't real." People at
the next table were talking about
a new kind of crampon, and Donnie
said, "Where do you think they got
the name 'Tampon'?" I said I didn't
know, and then I imagined all of
reality spreading out from that
place, our conversation, and
the exact texture of the scene,
from murmur to odor to costumes
and movement, endless I say
endless physical, social, chemical,
economic, biological, and
extra-canonical transactions."It
really is all quite fascinating
in spite of its problems, isn't it?"
said Donnie. "Yes, it is," I replied.
hans ostrom 2013
on my bicycle. It said, "You are extra-canonical,
so get out of here." I saw a shard of
greisen (a rock of quartz and white mica)
on the ground and felt better. Just then
Donnie came buy, so I bought him a cup
of coffee and me one, too, and as we
sipped I said, "Donnie, a screen memory
is a memory a person can handle so the
person uses that to block a memory
that's too painful when called up."
Donnie said, "Hard to prove that
kind of thing, but that don't
mean it ain't real." People at
the next table were talking about
a new kind of crampon, and Donnie
said, "Where do you think they got
the name 'Tampon'?" I said I didn't
know, and then I imagined all of
reality spreading out from that
place, our conversation, and
the exact texture of the scene,
from murmur to odor to costumes
and movement, endless I say
endless physical, social, chemical,
economic, biological, and
extra-canonical transactions."It
really is all quite fascinating
in spite of its problems, isn't it?"
said Donnie. "Yes, it is," I replied.
hans ostrom 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
"1970s Spasm"
Hey, man--hey, you net-box jumper
and rainbow-thumper. I'm seeing
albums raining down without their
covers. I mean thousands
of black albums coming on in
like swarthy, thin UFOs. ("It
just means it's unidentified,
okay? You need to fucking
lay back, man.") And I see now
the complex map of my life
is being etched by a diamond
needle, digging into undulant
vinyl, shined on by blue
lava-light. Hey, play the
other side, play the other
side, hey play--oh, okay,
cool. (It's getting cold.)
Nice tuner! I need a beer.
hans ostrom 2013
and rainbow-thumper. I'm seeing
albums raining down without their
covers. I mean thousands
of black albums coming on in
like swarthy, thin UFOs. ("It
just means it's unidentified,
okay? You need to fucking
lay back, man.") And I see now
the complex map of my life
is being etched by a diamond
needle, digging into undulant
vinyl, shined on by blue
lava-light. Hey, play the
other side, play the other
side, hey play--oh, okay,
cool. (It's getting cold.)
Nice tuner! I need a beer.
hans ostrom 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Design or Accident
That which happens, especially the bad:
is it design or accident? we ask.
Often we ask it. Many who are also human
will provide responses. You have
heard the range of answers.
Reality, that
universal beast, does not
respond, except for its
continual and infinite shrug,
which can be interpreted
as yes or no or maybe
or I don't understand the question.
hans ostrom 2013
is it design or accident? we ask.
Often we ask it. Many who are also human
will provide responses. You have
heard the range of answers.
Reality, that
universal beast, does not
respond, except for its
continual and infinite shrug,
which can be interpreted
as yes or no or maybe
or I don't understand the question.
hans ostrom 2013
What Exactly Do You Mean?
Divine algorithms
press against
brittle positivist
walls, disturbing
the binary peace.
God did well in math.
hans ostrom 2013
press against
brittle positivist
walls, disturbing
the binary peace.
God did well in math.
hans ostrom 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
I'm Going To Need You To
I am going to need you to
give me your license and registration.
I am going to need you to
show me your hands.
I am going to need you to
get out of the car.
I am going to need you to
get down, get down!
I am going to need you to
shut up, stop talking.
I am going to need you to
what the fuck are you doing?
I am going to need you to
stop acting Not White.
I am going to need you to
give me a reason.
I am going to need you to
be ignorant of history.
I am going to need you to
die from the bullets I shoot.
I am going to need you to
die.
I am going to need you to
not be photographed.
I am going to need you to
understand I need my union rep.
I am going to need you to
accept the verdict.
I am going to need you to
not go crazy, riot, fight.
I am going to need you to
accept what's right.
I am going to need to
accept what is RIGHT.
I am going to need you.
hans ostrom 2013
give me your license and registration.
I am going to need you to
show me your hands.
I am going to need you to
get out of the car.
I am going to need you to
get down, get down!
I am going to need you to
shut up, stop talking.
I am going to need you to
what the fuck are you doing?
I am going to need you to
stop acting Not White.
I am going to need you to
give me a reason.
I am going to need you to
be ignorant of history.
I am going to need you to
die from the bullets I shoot.
I am going to need you to
die.
I am going to need you to
not be photographed.
I am going to need you to
understand I need my union rep.
I am going to need you to
accept the verdict.
I am going to need you to
not go crazy, riot, fight.
I am going to need you to
accept what's right.
I am going to need to
accept what is RIGHT.
I am going to need you.
hans ostrom 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
Grave-Digging
You're in the toiling moment,
grunting, swatting mosquitoes
attracted by your sweat,
separating rocks from dirt.
You're using a pick, you're
shoveling, you're measuring
for length, depth, and width.
And then you're standing in a
grave, hearing your lungs
heave for breath, wiping
your forehead with a work-shirt
sleeve. You're listening
to a bird or two in the still
cemetery. It takes effort
to get out of the dug grave.
You take a last look,
think briefly of a body
in a box, then move into
whatever's left of the flow
called day, called life,
before your consciousness
is picked from your body
and your body,
if not burnt up,
is put in a grave to mold
and to rot and to be food
for sundry creatures
in their own version of the flow.
Yes, your body,
which once dug a grave,
will go into a grave
somebody dug, probably
not by hand like you
but with machinery.
hans ostrom 2013
grunting, swatting mosquitoes
attracted by your sweat,
separating rocks from dirt.
You're using a pick, you're
shoveling, you're measuring
for length, depth, and width.
And then you're standing in a
grave, hearing your lungs
heave for breath, wiping
your forehead with a work-shirt
sleeve. You're listening
to a bird or two in the still
cemetery. It takes effort
to get out of the dug grave.
You take a last look,
think briefly of a body
in a box, then move into
whatever's left of the flow
called day, called life,
before your consciousness
is picked from your body
and your body,
if not burnt up,
is put in a grave to mold
and to rot and to be food
for sundry creatures
in their own version of the flow.
Yes, your body,
which once dug a grave,
will go into a grave
somebody dug, probably
not by hand like you
but with machinery.
hans ostrom 2013
Sunday, December 1, 2013
At Lake Polyester
I was fly-casting aspersions
into the fetid waters
of Lake Polyester when
a squad of bankers
bum-rushed me
and knocked me about.
“Stay off our land, drifter,”
they said. I let them say
it twice more, for practice,
and then said, “This isn’t
your land, and I’m not
a drifter.” They said Oh
and ran fast to find
legal counsel. Several
women studying their
own voluptuousness
waved to me from
across the lake. Sunlight
on their curves and
globes became a
sermon, and I believed.
hans ostrom 2013
into the fetid waters
of Lake Polyester when
a squad of bankers
bum-rushed me
and knocked me about.
“Stay off our land, drifter,”
they said. I let them say
it twice more, for practice,
and then said, “This isn’t
your land, and I’m not
a drifter.” They said Oh
and ran fast to find
legal counsel. Several
women studying their
own voluptuousness
waved to me from
across the lake. Sunlight
on their curves and
globes became a
sermon, and I believed.
hans ostrom 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Monday, November 25, 2013
A Day, A Season
(Mainz, Germany)
At dusk suddenly shrubs
blacken like over-ripe fruit.
Cries of children playing
soccer diminish. In last light,
women walk dogs in the park
before winos shuffle in,
rustling like cockroaches.
These and other gestures
of light, air, traffic, hunger,
routine, and business seem this
evening profound enough to be
called seasonal. The evening
seems large. There was the solitary
dying sunflower in the old woman's
garden today. Its sagging head
looked tragically rotten. Its
sad, dappled leaves hung like the fins
of a beached sea-mammal. Old
people boarding the bus now
in Mainz-Bretzenheim climb
into gray light. The bus
groans away from the curb.
hans ostrom 1980/2013
At dusk suddenly shrubs
blacken like over-ripe fruit.
Cries of children playing
soccer diminish. In last light,
women walk dogs in the park
before winos shuffle in,
rustling like cockroaches.
These and other gestures
of light, air, traffic, hunger,
routine, and business seem this
evening profound enough to be
called seasonal. The evening
seems large. There was the solitary
dying sunflower in the old woman's
garden today. Its sagging head
looked tragically rotten. Its
sad, dappled leaves hung like the fins
of a beached sea-mammal. Old
people boarding the bus now
in Mainz-Bretzenheim climb
into gray light. The bus
groans away from the curb.
hans ostrom 1980/2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
Including Styrofoam, Blender, and Bomb
A lime-green blender vomits a mixture. The party.
The shovel in the shed equals stolen property.
An image of the spider's body remains on the page
of the book that crushed the spider. Ideogram.
As you talk, I stare at your fingernails,
which gleam like oiled leaves under neon.
She refuses to sell her father's anvil.
We used to poke needles just under and through our skin:
no blood. The man looked at six tomatoes
and regretted inviting friends to dinner.
I want to fry many minnows,
she said. Many. ("She's losing it.")
A drawer is filled with electrical cords--
black, white, orange: to what end?
When he was eight years old, he struck another
child on the head with a croquet mallet. Clinically.
What do you mean the condom broke?
What do you mean what do you mean?
The manager pulled on his moist nose and said,
"We are going to have to wrap up this meeting."
Closure. There was nothing left of the car.
An undetonated rocket was found in the village.
The photograph is of a child's hat in
a mud puddle, along with a styrofoam container.
Green oil makes the puddle shine in the photo.
I don't know. Have you looked online?
hans ostrom
The shovel in the shed equals stolen property.
An image of the spider's body remains on the page
of the book that crushed the spider. Ideogram.
As you talk, I stare at your fingernails,
which gleam like oiled leaves under neon.
She refuses to sell her father's anvil.
We used to poke needles just under and through our skin:
no blood. The man looked at six tomatoes
and regretted inviting friends to dinner.
I want to fry many minnows,
she said. Many. ("She's losing it.")
A drawer is filled with electrical cords--
black, white, orange: to what end?
When he was eight years old, he struck another
child on the head with a croquet mallet. Clinically.
What do you mean the condom broke?
What do you mean what do you mean?
The manager pulled on his moist nose and said,
"We are going to have to wrap up this meeting."
Closure. There was nothing left of the car.
An undetonated rocket was found in the village.
The photograph is of a child's hat in
a mud puddle, along with a styrofoam container.
Green oil makes the puddle shine in the photo.
I don't know. Have you looked online?
hans ostrom
Some prompts for writing L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E poetry and/or surrealistic poetry
(Some prompts we used in a poetry class today, based in part on some reading we did (Breton's Surrealist Manifesto, poems by Hejinian, Bly, and Tate, among others.)
#2 was the most popular choice, followed by #4
1. Describe any ordinary task or activity—brushing your teeth, buying a cup of coffee, whatever—and interject random images, actions, or utterances to create the effect of a dream.
2. Write down memories of your life, one sentence per memory, but put them in random order. Events, images, things you said, things you heard others say, etc.
3. Think about a boring situation you had to/have to endure. Waiting at an airport. Listening to a professor. Etc. Then describe it with a list of extravagant comparisons. “Waiting at the airport is like cooking dragon-flesh with a Zippo lighter.” And the similes should be unrelated to on another; that is, you are not developing a conceit.
4. Describe a situation or an event that, as you recall it, did in fact seem surreal at the time. Try to capture that quality of surrealism.
5. Write down things (phrases, utterances, opinions) you hear quite a lot—from friends, room-mates, professors, co-workers, family, people you overhear. They should be unrelated. Don’t try to organize them.
6. Think of unrelated objects. A blender, a shovel, a book, a hubcap (e.g.). For each object, describe an action, which need not be logical. “The book ate a moth.” One description or action per object, then move on to the next object and its action.
hans ostrom
#2 was the most popular choice, followed by #4
1. Describe any ordinary task or activity—brushing your teeth, buying a cup of coffee, whatever—and interject random images, actions, or utterances to create the effect of a dream.
2. Write down memories of your life, one sentence per memory, but put them in random order. Events, images, things you said, things you heard others say, etc.
3. Think about a boring situation you had to/have to endure. Waiting at an airport. Listening to a professor. Etc. Then describe it with a list of extravagant comparisons. “Waiting at the airport is like cooking dragon-flesh with a Zippo lighter.” And the similes should be unrelated to on another; that is, you are not developing a conceit.
4. Describe a situation or an event that, as you recall it, did in fact seem surreal at the time. Try to capture that quality of surrealism.
5. Write down things (phrases, utterances, opinions) you hear quite a lot—from friends, room-mates, professors, co-workers, family, people you overhear. They should be unrelated. Don’t try to organize them.
6. Think of unrelated objects. A blender, a shovel, a book, a hubcap (e.g.). For each object, describe an action, which need not be logical. “The book ate a moth.” One description or action per object, then move on to the next object and its action.
hans ostrom
Beat-Memo Homage
Re-posting one from 2009.
Beat-Memo Homage: Dig It
You don't (or I don't, or one doesn't) hear anyone say, "I dig that" or "I can dig that" in the ancient hipster or old-Beatnik sense of "I understand that" or "I'm in tune with that" much anymore--except perhaps when people are genially mocking the usage.
I still recall fondly the pop-song, "Grazing in the Grass (Is a Gas)," with its dig-related riff and refrain. Not the apogee of American music, I grant.
According the OED online, this sense of "dig" arose in English (in print, at least) around 1935:
1935 Hot News Sept. 20/2 If you listen enough, and dig him enough, you will realise that that..riff is the high-spot of the record.
1941 Life 15 Dec. 89 Dig me? 1943 M. SHULMAN Barefoot Boy with Cheek 90 Awful fine slush pump, I mean awful fine. You ought to dig that. 1944 C. CALLOWAY Hepsters Dict., Dig v.{em}(1) Meet. (2) Look, see. (3) Comprehend, understand.
Notice that Cab Calloway is featured in an early citation. This is almost purely guesswork, but my familiarity with African American origins of some American slang and of "hepster," "hipster," and jazz-related slang induces me to hypothesize that this use "dig" may have sprang from African American colloquial speech, which heavily influenced Beat slang.
With regard to the more literal use of dig, I can report that I did a lot of digging in my youth and young adulthood, much of it related to putting in water-lines, building foundations for houses, putting in fence-posts, establishing drain-fields for septic tanks, and even looking for gold. Since then I've done a lot of digging in gardens.
Strange as it may sound, my father loved to dig. (He became a professional hard-rock gold-miner at age 17, at the Empire Mine in Grass Valley California; this meant digging.) To him it was an art. Probably the best tip I can give you from the art of digging according to him is to let the pick (or pry-bar) do the work. Never swing a pick as high or higher than your head; you really don't have to swing it at all. Work with it, and let its iron point do the work, not your forearms and back. If the pick is wearing you out, something is wrong--I mean besides the fact that there you are, using a pick.
Unfortunately, my experience digging, often alongside my father, may have ruined Seamus Heaney's famous "Digging" poem for me. In it, Heaney explicitly compares his writing ("digging" with a pen) to his father's digging in the ground. I think because I saw the comparison coming a mile away (when I first read the poem), I winced. Also, because digging is a form of labor and a skill unto itself, I'd be tempted to leave it alone and not associate it with the figurative digging of writing.
True, a pick and a pen both have a point, and so, therefore, does Heaney. But for some reason I wanted him to let writing be writing and digging be digging and not go for the comparison. I'm in an extremely tiny minority with this response, however, so I think it's mostly about me and not about Heaney's poem, which many people adore.
In any event, and in honor of those old hipsters and long-ago Beats, and in homage to writers I happen to like, here's a list-poem memo (for some reason, the idea of writing a Beat "memo" amused me, probably more than it should have):
Beat-Memo Homage
I dig Basho, Dickinson, Housman,
Lagerkvist, and Gogol. I dig Kafka, Calvino,
Borges, Brautigan. Can you dig Langston
Hughes,W.C. Williams, and Sam Johnson? I can.
Oh, man. I dig Swenson (May), Valenzuela (Luisa),
Sayers, Stout, and Conan Doyle. I dig
Shapiro, Stafford, Bukowski, and Jarrell.
Leonard Cohen and Jay McPherson: I dig
them, too. Of course I dig some of those
Beats, except they're ones who were
on the fringes of Beatly fringehood: Snyder,
Baraka, Everson, Levertov. Sure,
I dig Ginsburg and Kerouac, just
not as much as other people do. I dig Camus,
who didn't believe, and Nouwen, who did.
I dig Suzuki (Zen Mind...), St. Denis
(Cloud of...), and Spinoza. Jeffers, I
dig--Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. I dig Rumi
an Goethke: what's not to dig? I dig
O'Connor (Frank and Flannery both).
I dig Horace and the Beowulf cat,
Tolstoy, Cervantes. Let's leave it at that.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Beat-Memo Homage: Dig It
You don't (or I don't, or one doesn't) hear anyone say, "I dig that" or "I can dig that" in the ancient hipster or old-Beatnik sense of "I understand that" or "I'm in tune with that" much anymore--except perhaps when people are genially mocking the usage.
I still recall fondly the pop-song, "Grazing in the Grass (Is a Gas)," with its dig-related riff and refrain. Not the apogee of American music, I grant.
According the OED online, this sense of "dig" arose in English (in print, at least) around 1935:
1935 Hot News Sept. 20/2 If you listen enough, and dig him enough, you will realise that that..riff is the high-spot of the record.
1941 Life 15 Dec. 89 Dig me? 1943 M. SHULMAN Barefoot Boy with Cheek 90 Awful fine slush pump, I mean awful fine. You ought to dig that. 1944 C. CALLOWAY Hepsters Dict., Dig v.{em}(1) Meet. (2) Look, see. (3) Comprehend, understand.
Notice that Cab Calloway is featured in an early citation. This is almost purely guesswork, but my familiarity with African American origins of some American slang and of "hepster," "hipster," and jazz-related slang induces me to hypothesize that this use "dig" may have sprang from African American colloquial speech, which heavily influenced Beat slang.
With regard to the more literal use of dig, I can report that I did a lot of digging in my youth and young adulthood, much of it related to putting in water-lines, building foundations for houses, putting in fence-posts, establishing drain-fields for septic tanks, and even looking for gold. Since then I've done a lot of digging in gardens.
Strange as it may sound, my father loved to dig. (He became a professional hard-rock gold-miner at age 17, at the Empire Mine in Grass Valley California; this meant digging.) To him it was an art. Probably the best tip I can give you from the art of digging according to him is to let the pick (or pry-bar) do the work. Never swing a pick as high or higher than your head; you really don't have to swing it at all. Work with it, and let its iron point do the work, not your forearms and back. If the pick is wearing you out, something is wrong--I mean besides the fact that there you are, using a pick.
Unfortunately, my experience digging, often alongside my father, may have ruined Seamus Heaney's famous "Digging" poem for me. In it, Heaney explicitly compares his writing ("digging" with a pen) to his father's digging in the ground. I think because I saw the comparison coming a mile away (when I first read the poem), I winced. Also, because digging is a form of labor and a skill unto itself, I'd be tempted to leave it alone and not associate it with the figurative digging of writing.
True, a pick and a pen both have a point, and so, therefore, does Heaney. But for some reason I wanted him to let writing be writing and digging be digging and not go for the comparison. I'm in an extremely tiny minority with this response, however, so I think it's mostly about me and not about Heaney's poem, which many people adore.
In any event, and in honor of those old hipsters and long-ago Beats, and in homage to writers I happen to like, here's a list-poem memo (for some reason, the idea of writing a Beat "memo" amused me, probably more than it should have):
Beat-Memo Homage
I dig Basho, Dickinson, Housman,
Lagerkvist, and Gogol. I dig Kafka, Calvino,
Borges, Brautigan. Can you dig Langston
Hughes,W.C. Williams, and Sam Johnson? I can.
Oh, man. I dig Swenson (May), Valenzuela (Luisa),
Sayers, Stout, and Conan Doyle. I dig
Shapiro, Stafford, Bukowski, and Jarrell.
Leonard Cohen and Jay McPherson: I dig
them, too. Of course I dig some of those
Beats, except they're ones who were
on the fringes of Beatly fringehood: Snyder,
Baraka, Everson, Levertov. Sure,
I dig Ginsburg and Kerouac, just
not as much as other people do. I dig Camus,
who didn't believe, and Nouwen, who did.
I dig Suzuki (Zen Mind...), St. Denis
(Cloud of...), and Spinoza. Jeffers, I
dig--Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. I dig Rumi
an Goethke: what's not to dig? I dig
O'Connor (Frank and Flannery both).
I dig Horace and the Beowulf cat,
Tolstoy, Cervantes. Let's leave it at that.
Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom
Time to Move
When Daddy started growing antlers
out of his temples,
we decided it was time
to move away from Chemical County.
After they were arrested
and held without bail or a
hearing in a converted warehouse,
one of them had the idea
of reciting Eisenhower's
speech about the military-
industrial complex. They did.
They recited it. And then
they were moved to another
facility. Facility.
After she attempted to burn
all my clothes and kept
leaving cat-carcasses
on my doorstep, I decided
it might be time
to make the move of
re-thinking our relationship.
She shouted as loud as she
could at the people, and they
obviously did not hear her,
so it was then that she knew
she had moved into
a ghost's existence. Which
was fine with her.
hans ostrom 2013
out of his temples,
we decided it was time
to move away from Chemical County.
After they were arrested
and held without bail or a
hearing in a converted warehouse,
one of them had the idea
of reciting Eisenhower's
speech about the military-
industrial complex. They did.
They recited it. And then
they were moved to another
facility. Facility.
After she attempted to burn
all my clothes and kept
leaving cat-carcasses
on my doorstep, I decided
it might be time
to make the move of
re-thinking our relationship.
She shouted as loud as she
could at the people, and they
obviously did not hear her,
so it was then that she knew
she had moved into
a ghost's existence. Which
was fine with her.
hans ostrom 2013
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
largely an embarrassing affair
i have found life to be largely
an embarrassing affair in which
one is supposed to know things
but doesn't know them yet or knows
things but isn't supposed to know
them yet and in both cases
is derided, checked, & otherwise
made to feel bad. then
there is the matter of failing
at things one never really
gave a shit about and failing
at things one cares terribly
about but could never quite
secure the proper
assistance with, or
an effective gesture of welcome.
then the body-stuff: too big,
too small, too thin, too thick,
not quite enough of this, not
enough like that. really it's
a kind of constant surveillance,
with the body and the physical
behavior stuff. right?
not complaining, just recording.
to err is human, but that's
not the point. it's the always
feeling off, bad, ill-fitting,
excessive, insufficient. those
feelings are human and
largely a source of embarrassment.
is the thing.
hans ostrom 2013
an embarrassing affair in which
one is supposed to know things
but doesn't know them yet or knows
things but isn't supposed to know
them yet and in both cases
is derided, checked, & otherwise
made to feel bad. then
there is the matter of failing
at things one never really
gave a shit about and failing
at things one cares terribly
about but could never quite
secure the proper
assistance with, or
an effective gesture of welcome.
then the body-stuff: too big,
too small, too thin, too thick,
not quite enough of this, not
enough like that. really it's
a kind of constant surveillance,
with the body and the physical
behavior stuff. right?
not complaining, just recording.
to err is human, but that's
not the point. it's the always
feeling off, bad, ill-fitting,
excessive, insufficient. those
feelings are human and
largely a source of embarrassment.
is the thing.
hans ostrom 2013
Saturday, November 16, 2013
why do people?
why do people like pickles?
why do they buy pickles, hey?
why do people use phones?
why do people make poetry?
why do people claim
they do have homes?
listen to the people.
they say, and they say, and
they say.the
people say!
why do people hate people?
why do people torture people?
why do people think people
ain't people? you'
got to be
crazy
to
think that.
maybe you have been an
Ain't People.
hey, maybe you know how
it feels.
for reals.
--feels to be seen
as less than nothing.
knows what it's like
to stand there,
wond-ring. wond-ring
why oh why,
why me?
Oh Lord Ah God
oh true and only one.
you are bigger than
the sun. Please will
you freight in
some answers
about this plight,
this fate, this one.
(oh, yes, this one.)
hans ostrom 2013
why do they buy pickles, hey?
why do people use phones?
why do people make poetry?
why do people claim
they do have homes?
listen to the people.
they say, and they say, and
they say.the
people say!
why do people hate people?
why do people torture people?
why do people think people
ain't people? you'
got to be
crazy
to
think that.
maybe you have been an
Ain't People.
hey, maybe you know how
it feels.
for reals.
--feels to be seen
as less than nothing.
knows what it's like
to stand there,
wond-ring. wond-ring
why oh why,
why me?
Oh Lord Ah God
oh true and only one.
you are bigger than
the sun. Please will
you freight in
some answers
about this plight,
this fate, this one.
(oh, yes, this one.)
hans ostrom 2013
make them want
make them want
what they don't
need and sell it
to them; that's the
creed of the
Consumocracy, our
churn of items.
the version of
that thing you just
bought's out of date,
ill-equipped by
equipment specialists
(go figure), ill-de-
signed.
instead of an apology,
you'll get an advert,
I said an ADVERT,
which will tell you
to buy thatthing2.0
or the all-new
SUPERTHING1.0.
get it, have it,
use it, show it,
talk about it. stroke
it. yeah, pet that
prime commodity.
goods and services,
Little People. get the
goods, or the
system will not
work, and you don't
want the system
not to work, now
do you? i thought not.
i say unto you,
consume until doomsday--
which has its own brand.
hans ostrom 2013
what they don't
need and sell it
to them; that's the
creed of the
Consumocracy, our
churn of items.
the version of
that thing you just
bought's out of date,
ill-equipped by
equipment specialists
(go figure), ill-de-
signed.
instead of an apology,
you'll get an advert,
I said an ADVERT,
which will tell you
to buy thatthing2.0
or the all-new
SUPERTHING1.0.
get it, have it,
use it, show it,
talk about it. stroke
it. yeah, pet that
prime commodity.
goods and services,
Little People. get the
goods, or the
system will not
work, and you don't
want the system
not to work, now
do you? i thought not.
i say unto you,
consume until doomsday--
which has its own brand.
hans ostrom 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
It's Going To Be All Right?
People, including parents and friends,
like to say, "It's going to be all right,"
as if they knew. It's not a bad rhetorical
move--pretending you know when you don't.
Where would we be without such
rituals of speech?
"What goes around, comes around," people like
to say. Something about Karma, which
in the U.S. has become a girl's name. Something
about a belief in a force or entity
that controls the game--a pit-boss, say,
in Vegas: no, that's not quite right.
Or maybe it's the deep order of fractal chaos?
It has to be more than wishful thinking.
Doesn't it? It's going to be all right?
I said to a woman once, concerning a mutual
friend who'd been shafted by greasy academic
pigs in tweed, "What goes around, comes around."
(What I really meant was: they'll get theirs.)
She said, "No, it doesn't. Even if it comes around,
it's too goddamn late. These fuckers hurt her,
and they will get away with it."
True enough. Meaning: true. It's in fact the
lesson I took away from Hitler's reign, slavery,
Jim Crow, lynching, assassinations of MLK
and JFK, Black justice v. White justice,
the rise of worms in organization, U.S.-
sponsored coups, and on; and on and on:
they will get away with it.
Even if a dictator's hung,
the damage is already done.
I have said to people in trouble,
"It's going to be all right." It isn't
exactly a lie. It isn't the truth.
It's something we say. It's something
those without knowledge or power
feel as though they ought to say
just to keep the illusion of
an ongoing game alive.
These things we say to each other
that aren't exactly accurate
are nonetheless important
evidently. Tell me. Tell me,
stranger, tell me, friend; tell
me it's going to be all right.
hans ostrom 2013
like to say, "It's going to be all right,"
as if they knew. It's not a bad rhetorical
move--pretending you know when you don't.
Where would we be without such
rituals of speech?
"What goes around, comes around," people like
to say. Something about Karma, which
in the U.S. has become a girl's name. Something
about a belief in a force or entity
that controls the game--a pit-boss, say,
in Vegas: no, that's not quite right.
Or maybe it's the deep order of fractal chaos?
It has to be more than wishful thinking.
Doesn't it? It's going to be all right?
I said to a woman once, concerning a mutual
friend who'd been shafted by greasy academic
pigs in tweed, "What goes around, comes around."
(What I really meant was: they'll get theirs.)
She said, "No, it doesn't. Even if it comes around,
it's too goddamn late. These fuckers hurt her,
and they will get away with it."
True enough. Meaning: true. It's in fact the
lesson I took away from Hitler's reign, slavery,
Jim Crow, lynching, assassinations of MLK
and JFK, Black justice v. White justice,
the rise of worms in organization, U.S.-
sponsored coups, and on; and on and on:
they will get away with it.
Even if a dictator's hung,
the damage is already done.
I have said to people in trouble,
"It's going to be all right." It isn't
exactly a lie. It isn't the truth.
It's something we say. It's something
those without knowledge or power
feel as though they ought to say
just to keep the illusion of
an ongoing game alive.
These things we say to each other
that aren't exactly accurate
are nonetheless important
evidently. Tell me. Tell me,
stranger, tell me, friend; tell
me it's going to be all right.
hans ostrom 2013
Monday, November 11, 2013
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Quarter to Five (A Zombie Poem)
(reposting one from 2009)
*
*
He works as a zombie from 9 to 5. He climbs
into a catatonic state and performs duties
as are assigned to him. He's under the spell
of employment. (It could be worse.) His
co-worker, Barton, said, "You scare me.
You look like the living dead." "Don't worry,"
he said, "I'm just behaving professionally. After
work I become vibrant and garrulous."
"But I don't get it," Barton said, "--what
job-title around here requires a person
to behave like a zombie?" "In my particular
case," said the man, "it's Chief Deputy for
Zombic Affairs." "And what is it exactly
you do?" asked Barton. "Barton," he said,
"you don't want to know." With his blank,
unnerving, but professionally appropriate
affect, he resumed his duties, for the clock
read only quarter to five.
hans ostrom 2009
*
*
He works as a zombie from 9 to 5. He climbs
into a catatonic state and performs duties
as are assigned to him. He's under the spell
of employment. (It could be worse.) His
co-worker, Barton, said, "You scare me.
You look like the living dead." "Don't worry,"
he said, "I'm just behaving professionally. After
work I become vibrant and garrulous."
"But I don't get it," Barton said, "--what
job-title around here requires a person
to behave like a zombie?" "In my particular
case," said the man, "it's Chief Deputy for
Zombic Affairs." "And what is it exactly
you do?" asked Barton. "Barton," he said,
"you don't want to know." With his blank,
unnerving, but professionally appropriate
affect, he resumed his duties, for the clock
read only quarter to five.
hans ostrom 2009
Friday, November 8, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Monday, November 4, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Garbanzo Opera
When I was six, garbanzo
beans felt like grainy
mud-pebbles to my mouth.
They tasted like a menacing
nothing. When I picked
them out of a salad
and marched them to the edge
of the plate, a parent's
order became inevitable:
"Finish them." Finishing them,
I gagged. They became
soft bullets of
esophageal assassination.
Now I love the little
bastards. I bathe them
in olive oil, bequeath
unto them garlic and pepper.
I now know their nom de
guerre: chick peas.
People may not
change, but their taste-
buds do, and I would pay
good money to go to
see a garbanzo opera.
hans ostrom 2013
beans felt like grainy
mud-pebbles to my mouth.
They tasted like a menacing
nothing. When I picked
them out of a salad
and marched them to the edge
of the plate, a parent's
order became inevitable:
"Finish them." Finishing them,
I gagged. They became
soft bullets of
esophageal assassination.
Now I love the little
bastards. I bathe them
in olive oil, bequeath
unto them garlic and pepper.
I now know their nom de
guerre: chick peas.
People may not
change, but their taste-
buds do, and I would pay
good money to go to
see a garbanzo opera.
hans ostrom 2013
Corporations Keep Rats
Corporations keep rats.
They keep them running.
The rats have some cash,
which they pay
the corporation for stuff
the corporations make.
Run there! Pay here!
The bait is technology.
Hey,rat, run after
the new eye-fone 18.3Z!
Pay cash first! Or
put it on a rat-card!
Imagine if the rats
turned around one day
and said, Rat Master,
we don't want any
more stuff right now.
We like the look
of your throat. That's
what we want. For free.
hans ostrom 2013
They keep them running.
The rats have some cash,
which they pay
the corporation for stuff
the corporations make.
Run there! Pay here!
The bait is technology.
Hey,rat, run after
the new eye-fone 18.3Z!
Pay cash first! Or
put it on a rat-card!
Imagine if the rats
turned around one day
and said, Rat Master,
we don't want any
more stuff right now.
We like the look
of your throat. That's
what we want. For free.
hans ostrom 2013
Monday, October 28, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
How White Operates, Too Often
Way too often, White
goes out like a boomerang
toward what is right
and fair and just, only
to turn in reactionary air
and curve home, home,
to righteous hate, selective
outrage, a change of "heart,"
smug safety, reunion with
old friends, and other amenities
of the supremacists' field
from which
the boomerang
was launched.
Whether you're Black
or White or something else,
here's the thing: if
you truly "get it,"
then you will know
what "it" is, and
you'll nod at
the tautology
(for sure),
and so,
you know,
no doubt
gratuitously,
I advise:
Beware of the White
radical, the White liberal,
the White conservative, and
it goes without saying
the White unapologetic bigot
spewing hate like a spigot.
Beware of them all. Be
unsurprised if they turn
back, if they curve a return to
"home," if, in fact,
they simply are not able.
For they are simple and White,
terrifyingly simple,
and they live
in a White-rewarding world,
and in most cases,
over the long haul,
they are not able.
They just aren't able.
hans ostrom 2013
goes out like a boomerang
toward what is right
and fair and just, only
to turn in reactionary air
and curve home, home,
to righteous hate, selective
outrage, a change of "heart,"
smug safety, reunion with
old friends, and other amenities
of the supremacists' field
from which
the boomerang
was launched.
Whether you're Black
or White or something else,
here's the thing: if
you truly "get it,"
then you will know
what "it" is, and
you'll nod at
the tautology
(for sure),
and so,
you know,
no doubt
gratuitously,
I advise:
Beware of the White
radical, the White liberal,
the White conservative, and
it goes without saying
the White unapologetic bigot
spewing hate like a spigot.
Beware of them all. Be
unsurprised if they turn
back, if they curve a return to
"home," if, in fact,
they simply are not able.
For they are simple and White,
terrifyingly simple,
and they live
in a White-rewarding world,
and in most cases,
over the long haul,
they are not able.
They just aren't able.
hans ostrom 2013
Computer As Penis, Penis As Computer
You have unused icons on your penis.
Your penis is at risk: no firewall is turned on.
Your penis will restart in 30 seconds.
Would you like a full or partial scan
of your penis?
Your penis needs updating.
Would you like to upgrade to Penis 3.0?
The program, penis.dic has
encountered an error.
Please restart your penis.
Download the latest version of penis.dic.
Scan your penis for malware?
Scan has detected 8 problems with your penis.
Report as penis-spam?
You are forbidden from accessing this penis-page.
New penis.dic software is available.
Your penis hard-drive has crashed.
Report error to penis.dic?
Please tell penis.dic about this problem.
Would you like to change your penis password?
Log off penis?
hans ostrom 2013
Your penis is at risk: no firewall is turned on.
Your penis will restart in 30 seconds.
Would you like a full or partial scan
of your penis?
Your penis needs updating.
Would you like to upgrade to Penis 3.0?
The program, penis.dic has
encountered an error.
Please restart your penis.
Download the latest version of penis.dic.
Scan your penis for malware?
Scan has detected 8 problems with your penis.
Report as penis-spam?
You are forbidden from accessing this penis-page.
New penis.dic software is available.
Your penis hard-drive has crashed.
Report error to penis.dic?
Please tell penis.dic about this problem.
Would you like to change your penis password?
Log off penis?
hans ostrom 2013
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Triviality and Guilt
I celebrate your new coiffure
and worry about the hungry and the poor
at the same time. What
good does either trivial focus or guilt
do to affect big problems? I state
the question in a homely way.
I congratulate your hips
and fret over how White Americans
will never "get it"
(until they get it).
What good? Fuckin' white people.
I remark on a grey cat's
behavior and think of
our water on fire
our air carcinogenic
our land
either flooded
or
baked
our politicians
embalmed
with corporate money,
ah, what good?
I rest my teeth
on the image of a chrome fender
and I wonder
how many bombs "we"
have dropped, on what,
on whom, and why
(why not!)
since, say,
1941. What. Good?
hans ostrom 2013
and worry about the hungry and the poor
at the same time. What
good does either trivial focus or guilt
do to affect big problems? I state
the question in a homely way.
I congratulate your hips
and fret over how White Americans
will never "get it"
(until they get it).
What good? Fuckin' white people.
I remark on a grey cat's
behavior and think of
our water on fire
our air carcinogenic
our land
either flooded
or
baked
our politicians
embalmed
with corporate money,
ah, what good?
I rest my teeth
on the image of a chrome fender
and I wonder
how many bombs "we"
have dropped, on what,
on whom, and why
(why not!)
since, say,
1941. What. Good?
hans ostrom 2013
Poli-Tics
Politics
Slit
Tic
Clot
Slop
It
Slip
Post
Plot
Lot
Cop
Lop
Sop
Cot
Lit
Lip
Lisp
List
Politics
hans ostrom 2013
Slit
Tic
Clot
Slop
It
Slip
Post
Plot
Lot
Cop
Lop
Sop
Cot
Lit
Lip
Lisp
List
Politics
hans ostrom 2013
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Steady As She Goes
Yes, it was in
that decade when
the first animated
cartoon-character
was elected to
Congress. Financiers
bought the Air Force--
all part of privatization.
Regarding privacy,
citizens played online
surveillance-games
and mugged for
the cameras they
knew about. Personal
letters were criminalized
for being inefficient
and vaguely subversive.
Through it all,
careers flourished.
The number of opinions
held remained steady.
hans ostrom 2013
that decade when
the first animated
cartoon-character
was elected to
Congress. Financiers
bought the Air Force--
all part of privatization.
Regarding privacy,
citizens played online
surveillance-games
and mugged for
the cameras they
knew about. Personal
letters were criminalized
for being inefficient
and vaguely subversive.
Through it all,
careers flourished.
The number of opinions
held remained steady.
hans ostrom 2013
Monday, October 21, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Sonnet for an Actress
(reposting one from way back)
You should have seen her yesterday.
She was more beautiful than our
Idea of beauty; and the way
She carried beauty in her hour
Unveiled achievement by a body
Unmatched by art. You should have seen
Her. Yes, our gaze was always ready.
What, though, did her beauty mean?
Did she embody what we thought?
Or did she teach us to desire?
And were we seeing what we sought,
Or held in spell by beauty’s choir?
Confused, nostalgic—what to say?
If you’d just seen her yesterday....
hans ostrom 2007/2013
You should have seen her yesterday.
She was more beautiful than our
Idea of beauty; and the way
She carried beauty in her hour
Unveiled achievement by a body
Unmatched by art. You should have seen
Her. Yes, our gaze was always ready.
What, though, did her beauty mean?
Did she embody what we thought?
Or did she teach us to desire?
And were we seeing what we sought,
Or held in spell by beauty’s choir?
Confused, nostalgic—what to say?
If you’d just seen her yesterday....
hans ostrom 2007/2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Failed Insults
Oh, you Kurdish book!
Don't give me that look, you fascinating nude portrait!
How can you live with yourself, hideous mildly tart apple pie?
Gesture of kindness, get out of town, hit the bricks.
Unpretentious professor, feeder of the hungry, calm presence, loyal friend:
you make me sick.
Working-class White male who isn't racist, I hope you're happy.
hans ostrom 2013
Don't give me that look, you fascinating nude portrait!
How can you live with yourself, hideous mildly tart apple pie?
Gesture of kindness, get out of town, hit the bricks.
Unpretentious professor, feeder of the hungry, calm presence, loyal friend:
you make me sick.
Working-class White male who isn't racist, I hope you're happy.
hans ostrom 2013
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
A Pre-Dating Conversation
She: Are you single?
He: Well, as you can see, I'm more like a double. But I always say I'm a party of one!
She: Are you interested in a commitment?
He: Not if it involves a state-operated institution. Hey, I've paid my debt to society.
She: What are your turn-ons?
He: Uh, women without clothes on and, uh, also women. Without clothes on.
She: Does anything about women threaten you?
He: If they have a gun, a knife, or a stupid ex-husband. Otherwise, no.
She: Where would you go on a first date?
He: Anywhere--any place where combat wasn't occurring.
She: What do you think about vegans?
He: I think they're so cute that I'd like to eat them. Just kidding.
She: Do you have a lot of baggage?
He: No. I have this real cool duffel bag and a really old Samsonite.
She: Do you like to communicate?
He: Yes, especially when I need something.
She: I'm not interested in playing games.
He: Me, neither. Especially board-games. And video-games. Soccer, too. I mean,
I could be talked into a game of ping-pong, but that's about it.
She: Are you romantic?
He: Fuck, yeah, I'm romantic. Roses, dinner, a new dress, jewelry. My thing
is: whatever it takes!
She: I don't think this is going to work out.
He: Yeah, I guess not. It's not you. It's me. How about a drink?
He: Well, as you can see, I'm more like a double. But I always say I'm a party of one!
She: Are you interested in a commitment?
He: Not if it involves a state-operated institution. Hey, I've paid my debt to society.
She: What are your turn-ons?
He: Uh, women without clothes on and, uh, also women. Without clothes on.
She: Does anything about women threaten you?
He: If they have a gun, a knife, or a stupid ex-husband. Otherwise, no.
She: Where would you go on a first date?
He: Anywhere--any place where combat wasn't occurring.
She: What do you think about vegans?
He: I think they're so cute that I'd like to eat them. Just kidding.
She: Do you have a lot of baggage?
He: No. I have this real cool duffel bag and a really old Samsonite.
She: Do you like to communicate?
He: Yes, especially when I need something.
She: I'm not interested in playing games.
He: Me, neither. Especially board-games. And video-games. Soccer, too. I mean,
I could be talked into a game of ping-pong, but that's about it.
She: Are you romantic?
He: Fuck, yeah, I'm romantic. Roses, dinner, a new dress, jewelry. My thing
is: whatever it takes!
She: I don't think this is going to work out.
He: Yeah, I guess not. It's not you. It's me. How about a drink?
Monday, October 14, 2013
Happeningness
The happeningness
of reality never pauses,
"is" being a fiction,
a slice of approximation
imagined to be there
between "was" and "will be."
No wonder wonder
sometimes tires me.
hans ostrom 2013
of reality never pauses,
"is" being a fiction,
a slice of approximation
imagined to be there
between "was" and "will be."
No wonder wonder
sometimes tires me.
hans ostrom 2013
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Hello, Everything
Hey, Hello, Everything, I said,
trying to be polite.
Hi, Everything said, I'm busy.
Hey, Everything, I said,
I've worked in a pickle factory,
I've worked in a gravel plant,
I've pounded nails and washed pots
and taught rich kids and
dug trenches and written articles--
--Who cares? said Everything.
Everybody does something and there's not
much difference between
any of it. Oh, I said. Well,
how are things with you,
Everything? I'm always
changing, and I have to go,
and you're a loser and small,
said Everything. Bye.
hans ostrom 2013
trying to be polite.
Hi, Everything said, I'm busy.
Hey, Everything, I said,
I've worked in a pickle factory,
I've worked in a gravel plant,
I've pounded nails and washed pots
and taught rich kids and
dug trenches and written articles--
--Who cares? said Everything.
Everybody does something and there's not
much difference between
any of it. Oh, I said. Well,
how are things with you,
Everything? I'm always
changing, and I have to go,
and you're a loser and small,
said Everything. Bye.
hans ostrom 2013
Friday, October 11, 2013
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Monday, October 7, 2013
All Right, Now
Having successfully eluded
fame, he took
a long nap
and awoke refreshed.
hans ostrom 2013
fame, he took
a long nap
and awoke refreshed.
hans ostrom 2013
The U.S. Congress, Observed
Have you been watching
these little legislative haters,
these law-mockers and logic-blockers
sent to the Hill (our Golgotha)
with cash stuffed up their pipes?
They've done no reading in history,
economics, philosophy, or science.
Their self-interest is artless, their
corruption as bald as a brass door knob.
It's a little like watching a person
with lousy reflexes drive a stock car
at Darlington or Daytona,
or some drunk college lad
pick a fight with a seasoned
body-guard. It can't end
well. Yes, of course,
after the wreckage, it will be we
who'll have to clean up
as best we can. Politics
now seems to have an endless
supply of punks, and
not the musical kind.
hans ostrom 2013
these little legislative haters,
these law-mockers and logic-blockers
sent to the Hill (our Golgotha)
with cash stuffed up their pipes?
They've done no reading in history,
economics, philosophy, or science.
Their self-interest is artless, their
corruption as bald as a brass door knob.
It's a little like watching a person
with lousy reflexes drive a stock car
at Darlington or Daytona,
or some drunk college lad
pick a fight with a seasoned
body-guard. It can't end
well. Yes, of course,
after the wreckage, it will be we
who'll have to clean up
as best we can. Politics
now seems to have an endless
supply of punks, and
not the musical kind.
hans ostrom 2013
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Fall's Always Good for a Laugh
A large, allegedly evolved primate,
he passed through an exterior door
of his abode, intending to gather
a newspaper on the stoop (this
was in the last days of print-culture),
and he was caught in a spider’s web.
Webbing on his face, he looked
at the fat brown spider as it danced
like a portly Vaudevillian on its
filament, and he laughed.
hans ostrom 2013
he passed through an exterior door
of his abode, intending to gather
a newspaper on the stoop (this
was in the last days of print-culture),
and he was caught in a spider’s web.
Webbing on his face, he looked
at the fat brown spider as it danced
like a portly Vaudevillian on its
filament, and he laughed.
hans ostrom 2013
Positionality
I've misplaced my subject-position. It happens.
According to the post-modernist rulebook, which
is only virtual, my default positionality is therefore
one of befuddlement, which could be a ruse, except
a ruse seems so pre-modern, even atavistic. One
thing's certain: I'm not a mystic. Positionality
is such a tricky business. If you write or speak
the word, "positionality," then you've pretty much
positioned yourself into a pretentious corner, and
the commonly insensitive Anglo-Saxon ax will fall
on your multi-syllabic Deluxe Latinate Impressor,
which comes with its two-speed abstractionator.
Cut to: a meadow. My subject-position transport-
system, a hot-air balloon, lies sideways and un-
inflated, mere fabric amidst flax-stubble. This
is Not A Problem. This is Laugh Out Loud.
[re-posted from 2008]
hans ostrom 2013
According to the post-modernist rulebook, which
is only virtual, my default positionality is therefore
one of befuddlement, which could be a ruse, except
a ruse seems so pre-modern, even atavistic. One
thing's certain: I'm not a mystic. Positionality
is such a tricky business. If you write or speak
the word, "positionality," then you've pretty much
positioned yourself into a pretentious corner, and
the commonly insensitive Anglo-Saxon ax will fall
on your multi-syllabic Deluxe Latinate Impressor,
which comes with its two-speed abstractionator.
Cut to: a meadow. My subject-position transport-
system, a hot-air balloon, lies sideways and un-
inflated, mere fabric amidst flax-stubble. This
is Not A Problem. This is Laugh Out Loud.
[re-posted from 2008]
hans ostrom 2013
Friday, October 4, 2013
Quit While You're Ahead
Many times in his life he had heard
the advice, "Know when to quit while
you're ahead." Well, hell, he thought
at last, I never get ahead. Sometimes
I catch up, but that's about it. Otherwise
I'm always behind. So I think I need
to learn to know when to quit
while I'm behind.
hans ostrom
the advice, "Know when to quit while
you're ahead." Well, hell, he thought
at last, I never get ahead. Sometimes
I catch up, but that's about it. Otherwise
I'm always behind. So I think I need
to learn to know when to quit
while I'm behind.
hans ostrom
Of Them and Of Hiram
While the others
majored in pre-law,
Hiram majored in post-law.
While they practiced
their interviewing skills,
he fell in love with women--
in particular and as a
concept. While the others
began good careers,
Hiram drove on dirt roads,
found some employment,
and wrote odd poetry.
While they took over a
political Party and insisted
on hating Black people,
Hiram read Black authors,
listened to blues, soul,
and funk, and was politically
powerless. They sold their
souls. He rented his out, but
never for very long.
They dined on the entrails
of the poor. He grew
his own vegetables.
hans ostrom 2013
majored in pre-law,
Hiram majored in post-law.
While they practiced
their interviewing skills,
he fell in love with women--
in particular and as a
concept. While the others
began good careers,
Hiram drove on dirt roads,
found some employment,
and wrote odd poetry.
While they took over a
political Party and insisted
on hating Black people,
Hiram read Black authors,
listened to blues, soul,
and funk, and was politically
powerless. They sold their
souls. He rented his out, but
never for very long.
They dined on the entrails
of the poor. He grew
his own vegetables.
hans ostrom 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Justice
justice
just ice
just is
in just
in jest
ingest
indigest
indigestion
indigest onion
in dig est
in dig o
o blue o blue o
injustice
in jester
no justice
no jest is
no just is
no peace
know peace
know piece
no peace
no peas
no pleas
no, pleas
no place
no justice no place
just please
just pleas
just peace
just us
justice
hans ostrom 2013
just ice
just is
in just
in jest
ingest
indigest
indigestion
indigest onion
in dig est
in dig o
o blue o blue o
injustice
in jester
no justice
no jest is
no just is
no peace
know peace
know piece
no peace
no peas
no pleas
no, pleas
no place
no justice no place
just please
just pleas
just peace
just us
justice
hans ostrom 2013
Race/Ism
Race is mmmm.
Racism is.
Racist.
Racyst.
Resist.
Re: racism:
White, White, White
Why it, Why it, Why it
Wyatt burp
Wee, Wee, Wee
Wit, Wit, Wit
Nit, Nit, Nit
Not, Not, Not
Knot, Knot, Knot
Know, Know, Know
No, no, no, no, no
no racism no
more.
hans ostrom 2013
Racism is.
Racist.
Racyst.
Resist.
Re: racism:
White, White, White
Why it, Why it, Why it
Wyatt burp
Wee, Wee, Wee
Wit, Wit, Wit
Nit, Nit, Nit
Not, Not, Not
Knot, Knot, Knot
Know, Know, Know
No, no, no, no, no
no racism no
more.
hans ostrom 2013
The GOP
What used to be Eisenhower's Party
is now a toxic,
radioactive brew
of John Birch, Joseph McCarthy,
Orville Faubus, Jessie Helms,
the enfeebled Ronald Reagan,
Birth of a Nation,
the Bush Crime family,
Ayn Rand (speed freak),
and the KKK. Lord?
Help us.
hans ostrom 2013
is now a toxic,
radioactive brew
of John Birch, Joseph McCarthy,
Orville Faubus, Jessie Helms,
the enfeebled Ronald Reagan,
Birth of a Nation,
the Bush Crime family,
Ayn Rand (speed freak),
and the KKK. Lord?
Help us.
hans ostrom 2013
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Sexuality
sexuality
sex you all, mais oui?
sex, oo, ah, & tea
sex, you, quality
sexual equality
sex you wall it. ee!
sex you wallet tee
sex, you all
sex you all at ease
sex, sex, sex
you, you, you
all, all, all,
it, it, it,
y, y, y
sex ual it y
fits you to a T
oh yes yes laugh at me
i like to laugh you see
i like to laugh, Lucy
you laugh, too, you/me
without humor, we
have no sexuality
we must be loose
loose/loosey, oh
sexuality
hans ostrom 2013
sex you all, mais oui?
sex, oo, ah, & tea
sex, you, quality
sexual equality
sex you wall it. ee!
sex you wallet tee
sex, you all
sex you all at ease
sex, sex, sex
you, you, you
all, all, all,
it, it, it,
y, y, y
sex ual it y
fits you to a T
oh yes yes laugh at me
i like to laugh you see
i like to laugh, Lucy
you laugh, too, you/me
without humor, we
have no sexuality
we must be loose
loose/loosey, oh
sexuality
hans ostrom 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)