International Arrivals

 

this is an age of

people poking, touching screens--

heads bent--birds searching.

       *

in white-washed light

we strangers wait--no smiling--

for ones arriving. 

       *

new citizens wait

for new immigrants--happy!

everyone else: glum.

       *

among a crowd of

people I'll never know, I

wait for one I love.

hans ostrom 2024

Broken Airport

 The terminal takes its name literally,

is a disintegrating destination.
Flights cancelled, transport stuck.
Even a nun mouths the word, "Fuck."

Inside haggard people and swollen luggage
congeal like snow outside. The enraged become
resigned; the patient, stupefied. Jabbed
and punched by questions, employees
in company colors look like boxers
in late rounds. Everyone begins to resemble

everyone else. Distinctive personalities
melt into smeared canvas of weariness,
smothered rage, drunkenness, and hysteria.

People become their uncomfortable bodies.
Quickly clothes and hair get greasy.
Clean diapers become Black Market
currency. Bartenders become celebs.

Some people stand at windows,
achieve Zen peace by staring at airplanes
now ridiculous--aluminum sculptures
on tiny wheels, their cruising altitude
a myth beyond the lid of sky
that's been dropped on the airport.

--hans ostrom

Broken Airport

The terminal takes its name literally,

is a disintegrating destination.
Flights cancelled, transport stuck.
Even a nun mouths the word, "Fuck."

Inside haggard people and swollen luggage
congeal like snow outside. The enraged become
resigned; the patient, stupefied. Jabbed
and punched by questions, employees
in company colors look like boxers
in late rounds. Everyone begins to resemble

everyone else. Distinctive personalities
melt into smeared canvas of weariness,
smothered rage, drunkenness, and hysteria.

People become their uncomfortable bodies.
Quickly clothes and hair get greasy.
Clean diapers become Black Market
currency. Bartenders become celebs.

Some people stand at windows,
achieve Zen peace by staring at airplanes
now ridiculous--aluminum sculptures
on tiny wheels, their cruising altitude
a myth beyond the lid of sky
that's been dropped on the airport.

hans ostrom

The Boarding Process Is About to Begin

At this time, we would like to begin
pre-boarding, which may be be thought of
as paradoxical boarding because it is part
of the boarding process it precedes.

We would like to invite anyone
who is in deep despair to board
at this time, as well as any children
traveling with overbearing parents,
invertebrates flying alone, and good
people (there's usually at least one!).

If your carry-on item is larger
than King Henry VIII's coffin,
please let us know.

Now we incite those with no
particular status to revolt
against categories.

Thank you.

We now invite White people
who believe they are
inherently superior to lift
their arms and pretend to fly
around in front of the gate here.
Okay, that's enough.

Finally, we invite those
who are acutely or chronically
tardy to board the goddamned plane.

It is truly our pleasure to serve you:
how could that possibly be true?


hans ostrom 2015

Broken Airport

Two nights ago we had to meet someone at the Seattle-Tacoma airport, nicknamed Sea-Tac. Luckily, the plane she was on made it through, but we nonetheless found ourselves at a broken airport. That day Alaska Airlines had canceled about 450 flights connected, in one way or another, to Sea-Tac and/or Portland's airport, and if you use even a modest multiplier, you end up with a lot of people who were supposed to be in the air now standing around. At Sea-Tac, there were (according to reports later) about 4,000 stranded people, and those getting in line just to sort out things with Alaska Airlines were told they would be waiting 7 or 8 hours.

Once an airport breaks like this, things deteriorate rapidly. Luggage piles up, disconnected from its owners. Stranded people turn the airport into a village, but the village runs out of provisions. Those working for airlines get so battered by questions and expressed outrage that they quickly get exhausted, even punchy. I asked one worker whether another flight we were expecting the following day (from San Diego) was likely to make it, and she said, "I'm not sure because I know they've had a lot of snow in San Diego, too." There was no point in quibbling with or correcting her. She probably wasn't hearing words anymore, and what I said may have sounded like "San Diego pink rabbit airplane snow hello complain goodbye," so she said something simply to get rid of her. I can't blame her, as the workers at the counter represent the epidermis of the corporation. The hearts of corporations are impervious, unseen.


The Broken Airport

The broken airport has become a temple
to which we sacrifice mobility. The terminal
has become its own disintegrating destination.
Haggard people and swollen luggage accumulate
like the snow outside. The enraged become
resigned; the patient, stupefied. Jabbed
and punched by questions, employees
in company colors resemble boxers
in late rounds. Everyone begins to resemble
everyone else. Distinctive personalities
melt into an impressionist canvas of weariness.
People become their uncomfortable bodies.
Quickly clothes and hair become soiled.

Original reasons for travel evaporate.
Now everyone will go anywhere just
to get out, to move. Once again, flight
has become a strictly theoretical concept.
Parked airplanes look like cigar-tubes.
A disembodied voice asks, "May I have
your attention in the airport?" No one
pays attention. The terminal's become
funereal. Mobility rots. People lie down
like herd animals in a pasture.

Hans Ostrom Copyright 2008