Awkward Blues

Do you have

those awkward blues, 

mixing up your

p's and q's?

Lurching in your

scuffed up shoes?

Awkward's not a

mode you choose.

You'd like to take

those social cues,

say right things,

make smooth moves. 

You: born off-beat,

that's all. 

Rather angular,

too short or tall.

More comfortable

against a wall.

Too often, too,

you speak what rises

to your mind--

ignite surprises.

Or go quiet, as

shy advises.

Stride, roll your path,

win and lose.

So you're clumsy:

that's not news.

Croak your own tune,

those awkward blues. 

hans ostrom 2021

Films About Poets

 Reposting one from a while back.

One problem with trying to make a dramatic feature film about poets is that most of the drama in a poet's life occurs in his or her head. A second problem, flowing out of the first, is that the film-makers then try to compensate by focusing on sordid details or on cliche aspects of the alleged "poet's life," such as drinking alcohol, being wild, yadda yadda. A third problem is that, probably, no one should try to "dramatize" the writing process. All of that said, here is a list of movies about poets, pretty much in the order they occurred to me, although I do begin with my favorite:

1. Stevie (1978) It presents her life and doesn't try too hard to dramatize poetry and poets.

2. Priest of Love (1981) About D.H. Lawrence. Not bad. Ava Gardner has a role.

3. The Edge of Love (2008) About Dylan Thomas. Falls into some of the traps mentioned above.

4. Dead Poets Society (1989). A favorite of many. More about poetry and teaching than poets. I liked it all right.

5. Pandaemonium (2000)About Wordsworth and other British Romantic poets. The scenes that try to portray Wordsworth composing are painful to watch. The stuff about literary politics and Wordsworth's ego is good.

6. Beat (2000). Focuses mainly on Burroughs. It's pretty good.

7. Looking for Langston (1988) Quasi-documentary stressing Hughes's sexuality. A fine film--but it really is only about one aspect of Hughes's life, alas.

8. Total Eclipse (1995) Concerning Rimbaud and Verlaine. Very good. With Dicaprio.

9. Dr. Zhivago (1965). Of course, this movie about a lot besides poetry, but the main character is a poet, after all.

10. Beautiful Dreamers (1990). This is the one among the 10 I haven't seen, but it looks intriguing. It's about Walt Whitman. Not great reviews on IMDB, alas.

Inventory after Flood

Last night the river flooded

and hauled away my answers.

I should not have stacked them

so near the bank. I'm left 

with questions stored

in small dry places, bowed

shelves, bitter boxes. So far

the roof is holding.

Rain slaps and pummels

it in surges. I start

to unpack questions.

My smashed answers

roll and twist toward

a delta or a dam or just

rocks on the way. Today

I fret and squirm and

say What are they for?

What are they for? 

This only adds to a stuffed

frustrating inventory. 

hans ostrom 2021

Őland

 Őland

(islands east of the Swedish mainland)

We sail past rocks that glaciers

rubbed round, so the square story

goes. Round heads of old monks,

slick heads of seals sleeping on

black-boulder islands.

We’re sailing to a land, Åland.

It belongs to water, a semi-nation of Swedes

governed by Finns, its very-own flag

air-snapped by unconquered winds.

Three old Swedish men, drinking beer

this early morning, mutter

stories of boats, ships, water, and things

that go wrong. “Panama,” they say.

And “Gävle.” “Titta,” they say: Look,

and we pass the rocks past Őland.

The rocks pass us, looking. Things can’t

go wrong with rocks but can go

wrong on them. White swans

fly by. Earth never stops whirling—

so grave story goes. “Ibland,” the men

say. Sometimes. For Ő, which is island,

say O but with tongue lifted to middle,

an island the vibrations flow past

and out through the O into air.

Å is just oh, and oh is just water.

In Waterland, land becomes a sought-after afterthought:

“Oh. . . . Land.” Ibland. Åland. Őland.

1994/2021

Abandoned Cistern

A few raindrops 

make it through

brush overgrowing

an ancient cistern.

They make the 

slightest sound

as they hit cool

still water. The

cistern used to be

famous. People 

gathered there. Some

were important

and carried themselves

so. Posture, gestures,

clothes, high talk.

They knew and didn't

know that one day

it would be as if

they'd never been 

anyone, anywhere, 

anything. 

A Place to Live

I did not dream I was

assembling an encyclopedia

of all the dreams I'd dreamed.

I did dream an old dream

of searching for a place to live

in of all places Davis California--

wandering in a warm anxious

night of delta breezes,

pressed but plodding--

my usual anti-style.

I never find the place, nor

the elusive seminar 

in German that will allow

me to finish the Ph.D.--

retroactively. Short breaths

and writing wake me. 

I've planned

tonight to dream about your

dream--that spectacular one,

full of light--vibrant street

stirring, with that strange

person in a dark cafe 

who asks to know all about

your life but won't listen. 

If this doesn't sound like

something you'd dream,

please tell your subconscious

mind to text me

from the Cloud, and I will

explain further, but the main

thing is I hope you've 

found a place to live. 

hans ostrom 2021

At Any Rate, Fate

It's coming down the mountains.

  It's climbing up the trees.

It's bubbling up from sidewalks

  And rising to my knees.

It knows bad jokes

  I often told and

Knows each time I cried.

  Doesn't care about my failures

Or all those times I lied. 

It is the Master of the Actual,

  the Mistress of Right-Now.

It's Fate that's heading hard my way.

  I don't know When or How. 

hans ostrom 2021

Midday

(considering Arkady Plastov's 

painting, "Midday," 1961, Russian

Museum, St. Petersburg)

This view will never tell me

what's between the woman and man--

love? Siblings? Friends? It makes me

feel heat lean into their backs

as they lean over that dark wood trough.

Only summer light infuses weeds and

grass this way, gives  them  a furnace

glow. A swooning heat of dreams.

She'd love to bathe, pats her head with

water with her right hand, cups some

in her left. He wants to drink. In

weeds the motorcycle's lean and red,

a bulbous lamp. I say this is a work-

break and think of midday respite

from work in the Sierra. If I stood

with them, I'd used both hands

to cool my face, my neck. I see 

bugs in that grass, youth in those

backs. After the snarl of that bike

fades, I'll slip into the painting,

watch trough-surface tremble,

settle, feel the waterlogged wood,

hear the hiss of grass, feel

sorrow, look for shade. 

hans ostrom 2021

Fires in the Pacific West

Blue wood smoke from wildfires

100 miles away choked the copse.

A morose old traveler sat down 

in it beside a pond. He thought At

least the pond's still here. As was

his fear for everything. An

hallucinated frog lifted its head

from the smoke-scummed water

level, said Nothing you will ever

write, say, do, or think will change

this world, okay? The old man

had always loved amphibians,

the great adapters. He asked Should

I stop caring, then?  But the frog

had absented its green mirage, 

and so: alone, talking in the woods.

Even if you try to be loud, your

voice sounds less than the tiny

ratchet-grind of one grasshopper

leaping. Yes, no more caring today.

Only walking. To home. If it's still

there. If not, more walking. 

hans ostrom 2021

Talking at Night

Maybe you're high, maybe not.

Either way, you're half of 

a conversation that grows

in the night. A seed of chit-

chat roars into a jungle 

of topics, blather, laughter,

and--for this neighborhood,

anyway--deep questions.

You wonder, at the end of 

night, what these are for,

these night talks. Nothing's

bought or sold, no politics

of the moment, name-dropping,

weather, or work. Nor set stories,

thank god. Just talk--

rare these days, these days

when words get nailed to 

walls, kidnapped, suffocated

by intent ignorance, shot dead. 

Just talk, easy as a summer tide.

hans ostrom 2021

Breathing in Blue Lunar Light

He had intended 

to seize the day.

Then night came.

Day slipped away.

He was relieved. 

Night seized him. 

Hot winds and nausea. 

He didn't believe what

he knew or know

what he believed.

Waking, midnight, he

saw blue lunar light

that mellowed air,

turned worries  slight.

He breathed. And breathed. 

hans ostrom 2021

Wright Park

In Tacoma the old man

crossing Wright Park

will not use a path

and ignores the statue

of Schiller, a German

poet who never visited

Tacoma--his loss. I can't

find a verb to say what 

the old man does as he 

goes up the slope

to the conservatory. It is

his own peculiar old

white-haired way of walking,

wearing a blue windbreaker

on a hot afternoon. Perfect

verbs and muscular 

buttocks belong to the young.

A woman in orange shoes

floats past him. Her profile

is regal. Now someone full

of Jesus moves through the park

preaching to purple-eyed drunks.

Acorns drop like hail pellets.

A three-year-old roll down a

slope, bedazzled, giggling.

The old man smiles at this,

arrives at the conservatory,

cough and spits. 

hans ostrom 2021

Fear Tonight

Tomorrow I'll be ready

to attack the tasks at hand,

jaw set, mind sure.

Tonight I will be frightened.

Tomorrow I would gladly

board a submarine, float

under darkness, sounding depths,

negotiating canyons.

Tonight under a single lamp,

all the hands of fear flutter

like a deck of cards cast

overboard from a broken boat. 

hans ostrom 2021

As We Build

Two dime-sized yellow-green butterflies

copulate on a pine board we

nailed at an angle to brace a partition. 

They're connected like duelists

about to pace: one board's edge,

the other perpendicular on the broader

plane. Their antennae do not so much

as twitch: wings rigid as steel, eyes

like polished obsidian pebbles, placidly

glazed. Amid slamming hammer blows,

electric saw scream, and sawdust storm,

they're lost in the depth and breadth 

of regeneration. As we raise another wall,

it's sap-wet ribs seem to bless with shadows

in a geometric pattern these two insects

abstracted in their act and moment. Around

us: loafs of Sierra Nevada mountains,

dark green with pines and firs. Canyon air

is thick with cicadas, dragonflies, bees, gnats,

and other bugs--corpuscles of energy whose

names I'll never know. Swollen knuckles

of thunderhead fists crowd an eastern sky.

There's a humid, thick, barely audible humming

of summer's abundance, of bright boulders

ringing with heat, a hum of hot southern air,

of soaked clouds about to blow up. Hammering

stops, saw stops: we break for water. The 

procreating butterflies relax. Their four 

antennae shift slightly as if nudged by breath

of a whisper. They shake the drowse 

of loving death from their rejuvenated

wings, rise and fly and depart this half-framed

human dwelling, and they join the inflamed air. 

circa 1981/2021 hans ostrom

Funeral in Los Angeles

Cancer took her quickly. Now

cars of her procession

move like dark cells through

traffic of the Los Angeles Freeway,

a daily purgatory.

A silver military jet

becomes a needle of glare 

that tugs a thread of chalky

vapor. The plane cruises

above faraway suede hills

well ahead of its sound.

And the family in its sealed,

air conditioned autos is driven

ahead of understanding.

A lavender dolphin, anchored

like a dirigible above a used-car

lot, smirks as they pass.

Her daughter runs a finger over

the upholstery. She thinks,

"It's just upholstery."

And at the cemetery, too,

everything has become

only what it is: asphalt, grass,

trees, people--the landscape

of a children's book.

Where they bury her,

upright headstones are forbidden.

Marble, granite, and brass must

be inlaid so tractor mowers

may keep grass immaculate.

Beneath a canopy near the dug

grave, the daughter looks toward

those old brown distant hills.

She wonders--as her relatives

whisper quietly and cry--why

the world seems to have been 

completely prepared for

the death of her mother. 

circa 1979/2021 hans ostrom

Lane Change

Late night in a Central Valley

California city, where farm air

sniffs neon. Blacktop, moist after

rain, gleams. Phosphorescent lamps

and traffic signals hang in cheery

gloom. Everybody's left the party.

I drift the silver-green Chevy

over to a lane for 

       LEFT OR U TURN ONLY and

stop.

A Ford rolls up in another lane,

obeys a red light, engine grumbling

in that Ford way. (This happened

long ago, when people befriended cars

and trucks.) I see the mouth

of the driver, a young woman, singing

the song my radio's singing. (We used

car radios then.) She turns her head

and, singing, smiles through two windows,

turns back and sees

        GREEN

and off with an automatic-transmission

(such things mattered then)

start goes her gunned Mustang

(me in my Camaro), wheels spitting

water and grit--gone. Just gone. Now

I sing the song. It liked her 

better. I murder it. The

         RED

light winks into a green arrow.

How lovely, an Imagist poem. 

Awake, the Camaro lurches,

goes through engine-crescendos

as I manage gas pedal brake pedal

clutch pedal stick-shift steering & a certain

sad projection of Camaro cool . . .

. . . to follow the Ford would have

been just plain wrong. "On a number

of levels," as the academics (I was 

trying to become one) used to say

in that former farm-town that grows

research. Learning her name, hearing

her voice in talk and song, inducing

her laughter--yes, a belly laugh--. . .

not wrong. Not possible. I turn

not around but sufficiently LEFT

as never to see the Ford the woman

again, at least according to my poet's

sense of statistical probability (everyone

but me carried a thick calculator then).

Sad and lonely, I stride from car

to bad buggy bungalow door and say

No not sad and lonely but alive and

the washed air smells fine and I might

have a glass of red wine.

hans ostrom circa 1975/2021

She Returns to the Farm

          (with memories of Tom Rickman)

It is raining. There are apples.

It is. There are. Apples, rain, mud,

land. Land not built on. Yet. At 

night, such quiet, much quiet,

too much . . . .

The reckless ones died early.

The cautious ones grew old and died.

The orchard grew into a farm, 

which grew into an operation. 

Thus orchard, a young grafted

tree,  became a mature

producer. Which became an

autonomous hybrid banyan/apple

tree walking around the place,

planting itself. She

does/doesn't understand. 

It is raining. There are apples.

The money is good. She can't stay. 

hans ostrom 2021

Jealous Desert

walking in a desert

looking for, smelling for,

water, honey, and home--

the desert is home--

look, there's a bone

that once was part

of one who walked

here: here goes on

as it went even when

water covered it.

walking the desert.

it is jealous of water. 

hans ostrom 2021

Ancestry

 1

My name, pattern of nucleic

acids, and documentation become

a dried leaf glued to

a petrified tree in a fractal forest.

2

The earlier the photograph,

the harder the faces, the darker

the clothes. Work, grief, God,

and fear sculpted these faces. 

3

One cannot behold the soupy

sea of ancestry and still cling

to racism and sad notions

of superiority. A trillion 

accidents set against social

calamity--not "bloodlines"--

birthed each of us. Every one

of us wailed when air first

thumped us in the lungs.

4

Everybody's common. The 

rest is a confidence game.

5

A distant relation died 

attacking a castle. He's buried

in digitized public records.

Genealogists visit his grave.

It's nothing personal. 

6

I have to override the program,

which tells me a relation was 

too young to be a mother. That's 

rape for you. 

7

Genealogy's a pageant of 

folly, a carnival of silence, an

absurdity of great meaning, 

a permanent promise of connection.

8

Sooner or later, our names

become unintended jokes.

9

People travel and travel and

travel. Meanwhile, clever ones

convince them that dreams of

belonging to a special group

are real. Nation, tribe, empire--

that sort of thing. 

10

Humanity is composed 

of women and certain

hangers on. 

11

We're all cousins.

12

On average, each extended

family includes one genealogist 

who insists on boring everyone

with dates, places, and photos. 

In my family, I am he. 

Mountain Saloon

Darkness in daylight and a sweet

whiskey smell said Hey

to six-year-old me when

my Aunt Nevada opened the door

to the Buckhorn saloon. I

registered a glowing brass

pipe running the length

of a dark varnished bar,

down where feet are. 

An altar of bottles--brown,

clear, green--gathered itself

around a long mirror.

An an antlered deer's head

eyed me. Aunt went back

to get broom, bucket, and mop.

She and Uncle owned the bar. 

After dinner, my dad freshly

showered would fall asleep 

in a chair before going to the

second job: pouring drinks

at this place. Tending bar. 

Caves, tombs, hideouts, 

temples, chapels, dens of

equity, harbors, imagined

carnivals of sex and power:

later I'd learn what dark bars

could become--neon glowing

outside, light in darkness. 

hans ostrom 2021

Competition

competition was a custom

systems craved. you caved

to the carnival of conflict.

sometimes. not your preference.

so now you lean against

an old black oak and watch

them in their ruddy scrums

out there, the promise of glory

palmed long ago by a hustler

who's already out of town. 

hans ostrom 2021

Summer of 2021

Petroleum nightmares sizzle

and burst on smoking sidewalks.

Hurricanes scream at concussed 

cities. Snowflakes fall backward

up to fried skies. Whole forests

collapse into ash, and white zombies

run for Congress, opposing 

knowledge and love. 

It's been quite the summer

so far. To be or not to be

cooked by our dear atmosphere:

that's not the question, but it will

suffice. Mobs chase scientists

across deserts strewn with 

condominium rubble. Coyotes 

watch and laugh. Down the years,

they've smelled our madness.

We condition the air. 

hans ostrom 2021

Ancient Overlap

two crows on a line

watched a man work--

he dug, shoveled, raked.

disinterested as scientists,

the birds sat still, sometimes

taking  mental notes

to add to vast crow knowledge

of their neighbors. sometimes

they lifted a wing and beaked

mites off feathers. now

the man took a break, drank

water, ate a sandwich, tossed

bits of bread on the ground.

the birds dropped softly,

feathered shadows. they 

grabbed a quick lunch, took

their field notes back to the lab

made of sticks. humans,

crows. an ancient overlap

of societies. a relationship. 

hans ostrom 2021

Envy Isn't Good

So nobody's heard your song

yet. It's still a song. When envy

comes to town, trees droop,

crops fail, children in shops

wail for no reason, and traffic

boils. Surprise: you're alive.

And your oldest neighbor

sits in a chair outside, drinks

iced tea, sighs, feels free.

hans ostrom 2021

Detectives

 (homage to Rex Stout and Georges Simenon)

Crime disrespects. It exploits

routine. It is impolite, time-

consuming, and distracting.

Grudgingly, the good detective

identifies those who

should have known better,

most especially the entitled.

Intelligent cooking; sufficient

rest; optional, moderate

consumption of alcohol and

tobacco; solitude; reflection—

these are worth preserving,

even if it means working

for a living, extracting

folly and vice from the milieu.

Hence Jules Maigret and Nero Wolfe,

who would rather be left

alone but are drawn into prose

by their creators, into frays by

fate, necessity, duty. Efficient

plots spring from good manners.

Whatever takes one away from

reading, dining, conversation,

solitude, repose, or—however modest

it may be-one’s enclave must be criminal.

Good manners and good detection

don’t belong to social class but

come from a certain strength of mind.

If only everyone would think things through.

Everyone doesn’t; therefore, detection

is called for, is restoration of balances, is

a bother to be concluded quickly.

hans ostrom 1999-2021

Writer's Sky

a small moleskin notebook

exhumed itself

from a mound of scribbling--

the soft cover sky blue--

except with lavender 

lurking, teasing through.

it reminded scribbler me

of a summer Sierra Nevada

sky on certain days (no

days are certain): cloudless--

a sky that seemed too

blue and weirdly made me

yearn prospectively, wanting

never to leave some vague

paradise in my mind--

known, never visited. 

I recall staring as if sky

were painted like a vast ceiling

above pine trees. and then, yes,

I dropped the gaze, moved on to work

for wages--dust and heat--

pounding nails, digging dirt,

wheeling mortar; & after work

sleeping off a migraine 

in a dark basement,

getting up, sweat dried to shirt,

& scratching in a notebook. 

hans ostrom 2021

Forest Floor

forested canyon, sierra

nevada--we walked

among conifer columns

standing in living lithe

patience. our booted feet

landed quietly on annual

layers of pine needles,

each level a different color

of time, light tan on top,

and a darkening all the way

down to black fusion 

with soil, reabsorption--

perhaps a resurrection 

with water up, back up into

tree through root and cambrium,

bough, cone, seed, pollen--

or needle again, shaking

green in wind, staying

still in snow. 

hans ostrom 2021

House Sparrows in June

house sparrow--chest

dusted rose--lands on a line,

faces west, sings a languid,

bluesy thing, a call, a tune,

a testimony,

also a satire of communicating

wires and the rest of our mess.

a second sparrow lands--

birds beside themselves. 

more singing, sewed

together as dusk grows

lemony, then orange.

the first bird stops

singing and grooms

the second: time

soon to nest, close

up eyes, rest singing

throat and tongue--

one more day

one more day gone. 

hans ostrom 2021

You're Seeing Things

the idiom's "you're seeing things,"

meaning things that aren't there,

things that are not. maybe

a swish of wish fulfillment,

filaments of tropical optical

illusions, fusions of shapes

in the mind behind the eyes.

hope and fear make us tell

ourselves sensory lies. 

in truth (a country hard 

to find), whatever whats

are out there blink in 

and out of form. shiftiness

seems to be the quantum

norm. that's what they say,

the theys that write articles

about particles. we're all seeing--

sensing--things that are/are not

there. every gray boulder's

a bag of flickering electrons.

each crowd of people's an ad

hoc conference of arrivals

and gones. as reality's always

elsewhere, we agree temprorarily

to pretend present forms

can be trusted--can of soup,

freeway loop, chicken coop. 

roosters of routine doodle-do

us awake, and we wake from

one dawning dream into 

another. and another . . . .

hans ostrom 2021

A Thing Nearby

old narrow bookcase,

hand-sawed: pinewood

varnished dark, the grain

flowing like a creek at dusk.

traces of the maker's hand

remain--his keyhole saw

and chisel, sandpaper. 

it's good to see the life

in things falsely called

inanimate--spirits of tools,

trees, crafters, days:

evaporated moments way

before I lived. this bookcase

was when I was not. turn now,

see and touch a thing nearby,

retrieve its history alive in your

mind. imagine its granular past

marked by the form of the thing. 

hans ostrom 2021

Garden's Greens

spinach leaves bring

a green so deep

it looks like an ominous

sea. genial lettuces

foreground more 

light in green, sometimes

whisper blond secrets.

kale makes us think

of Russia--tough,

green without sheen,

unafraid of invading

weeds, partial 

to hot soup. carrots,

always recalcitrant,

offer delicate floral

tops at this stage,

suggest positive 

orange thinking under

dirt. and potatoes,

dear spuds in their

group effort. plain

green tops as practical

as old bricklayers.

such lumpen, golden

manufacturing occurs

down there in Tuber

World, a dark quiet

factory. peas and beans:

what to say? so madly

manic in their way.

pods leap out overnight,

tendrils reach and entwine

with weird desire,

and, friend, you had 

better be ready with 

bucket. oh, greens

of the garden, we

bless you, we missed you

in Winter's gray dungeon,

dreaming seed dreams. 

hans ostrom 2021

Actual Art

Walls of art marching

against sensory perception,

walls exhaust me. Not as much 

as grunt-work at the gravel

plant. Still. Excess of art

fries neurons, sends the self

searching for a burrow.

The Hermitage hit me

like a tsunami. Bus loads

of tourists triggered

a riptide. I ran gasping

to the gift shop. A way

to ease back into reality.

Among postcard re-

productions, I found 

an original print from an

engraving, contemporary

Russian artist. Brown ink.

A simple St. Petersburg

street scene--bridge, river,

stolid building. The cashier,

a lovely woman with Nordic

blue eyes, said, "This is

actually art." "Yes--so glad

I found it," I said. Cold Wars

new and old did not stop

us from agreeing. Somewhere

in St. Petersburg, the artist

toiled at her day job. Outside

the Hermitage with my 

actual art in a brown paper

sack, I accepted September

sun warmth gratefully.

Breathed, the great palace

of art behind my back.

hans ostrom 2021

Back at Your Place

when you're nobody special,

no one in particular besides 

your particular self, with those

eyebrows of yours and memories

of a childhood pond-raft called

"Sinking Slowly," a taste 

for fried trout and boiled potatoes,

an innate attraction to women

whose figures (a euphemism)

some people called "voluptuous,"

your sad, haphazard collections

of stamps and baseball cards

(the latter cut clumsily from

cereal boxes), your affection

for a tan chenille bed-spread

(and for the term "bed-spread"),

and a relationship to books

some found overly intense, then

it's hard, when you go to school,

to work and parties, events

and protests; yes, it's difficult

to become the additional and 

enhanced other, the one you're

expected to be, a Situational

You. It is exhausting, in fact,

and back at your place, again,

resting, reading, perhaps thinking

of a voluptuous woman with

whom you engaged in awkward

discourse while inhaling her

natural and manufactured

perfumes, you might ask, 

with tiresome faux naivete, 

"Whose idea was Society,

anyway?" Anyway, you are

and shall remain, just you. 

hans ostrom 2021

Sometimes Shame

sometimes shame seems

like a thin scum on a still pool.

other times, like an avalanche

aimed at what's left of your

self worth. shame can make

you want to walk away from 

yourself--until you come to the

end of the chain and recall

you can't do that. some days

you find you feel like a boss.

you fire shame, tell it to haul

its slithery useless self off

your job site. because you

have work to do. because

you know again that shame 

is not the same as you. 

hans ostrom 2021

Collect Call

"Collect Call": nothing but a cast-off

piece of telecommunications junk. 

At the dig, go down a few layers,

pull it up, wipe off the dirt. Yeah,

you're in a phone booth--upright

glass coffin, accordion door, a fat

greasy pawed-over phone book

dangling from a chain like a ham. 

Pop your only coin in the phone's

chrome slot, hear the black box

taste it, then swallow it, gulping. 

Dial zero & as the wheel turns,

listen to it skip over numbers

in ticks. Woman's voice. Always. 

Profession: "Operator," which is

the first words she says. Say,

"I'd like to make a collect call,

person-to-person." Say city,

state (province, country). The

name of the person you imagine

will not be there. Spell name

for Operator. Suspense. Then

the purring of an analogue phone

ringing. Now enter a virtual

probation zone. Hear click 

and voice. Operator: "I have

a collect call person-to-person

from . . . . will you accept?"

Wait while wrong voice seeks

right voice. Do not speak yet.

Person you expected not to be

there is there. Operator repeats

operator-speak. "Will you accept

the charges?" "Yes." "Go ahead."

Exhilarated, you chat and chit 

before explaining your desperate need.

. . . Yeah, you had to find a phone

booth and have a coin. Or ask to use

somebody's phone. The person

had to be there, not next door, 

and had to accept being the one

from whom the phone company,

not carrier, collected. Had to want

to be the person in person-to-person.

An Operator had to broker

your intimacy, your broke-ass

status. Maybe someone had died,

or you just got off a bus or had

survived a hitched ride. Your

car broke down. You'd woke up

robbed except for a quarter. And

you were in a phone booth lit

up like a tanning booth. Digital

virtuality lay ahead in Time,

circling a black hole. You were

stuck in a here, back there,

cold, holding a a grimy black

receiver on a chrome cord. And

here it is, in your hand, the Collect

Call (Person-to-Person). And you

don't want it. That's not why you

came to dig in the dig. It's awkward,

quaint, and stupid. You throw it back

and get your phone wafer out

and tap it twice, maybe three times,

and talk as you ride your present

moment, clouds and mists, fogs and

storms of unheard voices all around you. 

But if your in the booth,

and the call has ended, and before

shove the door aside: take that coin

the phone barfed back. 

hans ostrom 

San Diego from the Air

from the air

the spread of hovels

looks like a scaly skin

disease only saltwater stops.

mansions are the

the same as shacks, just

larger roofs. tower, warehouse?

no matter. 

all belong to an 

untreatable scourges. it

will run its

course. our course. to

what end, who can say? many

do say. an

apocalypse of

capitalisms' necessary 

addiction to

growth, manifest 

infestation of the mildly

named "development"?

climate catastrophe? or

just everything as it should be?

oh, do not worry.

everything's under control.

Our Lord Economy is Growing.

enclaves of wealth

under siege, desperate mobs

climbing hills and walls, waves of a blood tide?

in san diego

they talk a lot about the "cost

of living." their definition's narrow. 

on the ground, in

traffic, some wonder, does this

make sense, does this make sense at all?

hans ostrom 2021

Our Grandest Illusion

Even if what we know is incorrect,

and most of it is, 

how could it not be, 

it's knowledge: it's in there,

camped in memory, sending

smoke signals from box canyons,

tramping around neuron trails. 

The grandest illusion of all,

knowledge, freeze-dried 

in old books, hoarded like grain

and gunpowder in electronic

forts, marbled into our speech

and memories, alive in lore,

legend, lies, logos, ethos,

eros, and pathos. Still,

add it all up, and it's just 

a single torch held up

against abysmal black

darkness in a forest

no one's yet named on

one of a trillion planets. 

The one and the zero 

in binary strings: we know

everything, we know nothing,

a lot, a little bit, maybe, hard

to say, wait and see. You know?

hans ostrom 2021

Empire, Why Will You?

Will you invade again, Empire?

To show your Empire license

hasn't expired? Send troops,

send planes and drones with

bombs, ready the rockets

and missiles, prepare to unleash

empirical Hell? Again? 

We know the arguments against.

The moral, the political,

and the historical. Today

I'm thinking of the emotional. 

Dead children. Dead everyone.

Terrorized families. Blasted homes.

No place to go, no water

to drink, no hope, no food. 

And the practical. When you

can trade for and buy

treasure, when your people

have plenty, when you can

defend yourself a hundred

times over, when your people

are sick of war and just

want to live and work and

love, when your power's

already super, why perform this

depraved stupidity again?

Is it out of some sick habit?

Some cultural addiction?

To what end? I guess if I have

to task the question, then

I'm not empire material. 

Although I live in one of several.

hans ostrom 2021

Wanting Nothing Is Impossible

 At the Art Institute, I saw someone

I'd met professionally a while back.

We talked easily enough.  I offered

to buy us something to eat, museum café.

She accepted. Younger than I, she'd

lived a lot already.  I sensed she was

broke— nothing obvious, just intuition.

With coffee and food, we talked

more.  I said I was

glad we had run into each other.

It was true.  Happenstance

had pleased me.  Her

face changed.  Maybe apparitions 

of men she’d known had  appeared

around the table.  Maybe she couldn’t

recall a single social interaction

in which someone but especially

men had not seemed

to want too much from her.

I sensed she was broke.  I saw she

thought she saw me  wanting something.

It’s true.  I wanted her to finish her

coffee and say, “Nice to see you,”

and leave.  I wanted to say,

 

“Nice to see you,” and leave.

We said phrases like that.  Her

face kept its wariness.   Her

experience had put her on alert.

We left the café and parted.

Can the pronoun “he” ever

want nothing from the pronoun “her”?

Only in theory.  My acquaintance

did not live in theory.  Her life

 was composed of constant practice.

Insistent apparitions had sat at table.

I sensed she was broke.  Now I hope

that she’s not broke, that she’s

better and well. Well, when I think

of her that day, I feel  briefly sad for

simple social moves quickly

complex in Chicago, not to mention

everywhere.  I am a ghost at

a café table in the Art Institute

looking at her guarded face.  I want

to say, “I don’t want anything.  Just

enjoy the coffee, the food, the rest.”

Her face says, “If you say that,

then you do want something.  You

want me to believe you, and believe the rest.”

hans ostrom 1990/2021

Sunshine and Shadow

 "Surely there was a time I might have trod

The sunlit heights . . ." --Oscar Wilde, "Helas"

One day you're running in sunshine,

the next just walking in it, 

a little weary. The day after that,

you're walking in shade,

more tired still. And the next:

sitting in shadows. Then, well,

you become a shadow. People

come running and strolling by

in bright light. They glance your way

and don't see anything.

hans ostrom 2021

Must We Fall in Love?

Eve and colleague Adam

tripped over an apple and fell.

A snake smirked. I myself

have fallen in love

after stumbling over

a load of infatuation,

or bumbling through

a course of social

obstacles: slapstick

Casanova. This falling

in love sounds so fateful,

injurious, actionable--

beset by heartfelt

soreness, bruised feelings,

ego deflation. We're liable

to dislike it. The idea of love

sells tickets and products

and rosy futures: thus are

we encouraged to take

risks, show caution the door.

Well, we might think of

leaning in love, after a

light repast and several

laughs. Or rolling in love,

weaving like in-line

skaters near the beach,

glad and balanced.

Yes I know it's counter-

cultural, but what about a

steady climb into love?

One foot after another?

No, I guess not. Passion's

ever the fashion. Good luck.

hans ostrom 2021

What the Shadow Cat Said

Sunlight hits a narrow

bookshelf, shapes

a perfect cat shadow--

ears and legs and all.

This cat doesn't move.

Its assumed eyes stare.

Its supposed mouth opens

to accuse perception

of being little more

than a collage of simulations,

reactions to effects, habits

of getting it wrong. 

And who am I, 

watching the wall,

behind the books, to

contradict a shadow cat?

hans ostrom 2021

And Hope for the Best

okay, I never starved

and I was white not black

in America

but I've been alarmed

ever since I learned

life ends with death.

then came pageants

of cruelty,

the always prospect

of atomic 

annihilation, and

white kids groomed

by their stupid

parents to hate black

kids--for starters;

a head-on collision

with environmental

doom, sadists

in the workplace.

okay, I've had it good--

for starters; but

still, no wonder

I'm jumpy, reclusive,

bookish, and not

just tired but

existentially weary;

I'm talking old

dog tired. no bombs,

missiles, store

massacres, floods,

fires, new plagues,

attacks on black friends

locally today, so

okay, call it good,

do something for someone,

then grab a nap

and hope for the best

and hope for the best

and hope for the best.

hans ostrom