It's Not Pretentious If You Don't Insist On It

(found language)

TACOMA YACHT CLUB
Boats Not Necessary




hans ostrom 2016

Captured Pawns and Pieces

They're relieved to get off work early.
Two pawns have a threesome with a rook.
The other rook smokes weed. A knight
gets drunk with a bishop, a medieval
tradition. Soon the queen shows up,
sweating, the sleeves of her robe
rolled up. "We're horribly mis-managed.
Let's unionize," she says. No one listens.


hans ostrom 2016

Unhappy Teriyaki

Perhaps I shouldn't have eaten at
the "Unhappy Teriyaki." For the sauce
was morose, the service glum. Clientele:
numb. It was as if we all were extras

in a black-and-white film, waiting
for the star to come in out of the
fake rain playing a humorless,
wandering anti-hero. Short handsome

zero. Even if it wasn't as if that,
I tell you only the rice looked upbeat.
Songs of lamentation emerged
from the kitchen. A percussion-section

warms up in my orchestra pit.


hans ostrom 2015

Poetry Mountain

Mountains of poems, peaks
like Killimanjaro and Rainier.
To one of them a poet
brought a poem. "Here you go,"
she said. (She'd hiked to the top.)
A poetry-mountain attendant
said, "Thanks! Without poets,
there would be no poetry mountains."

He tossed the poem on the heap
and took a smoke-break.
Something then to do with
poetry-mountain physics
kicked in.  An avalanche.

The poet rode it all the way
down, where parts of the poetry
wreckage clotted cafes, open
mic venues, and other spaces.
Several famous poets awoke
to wads of words in their
mouths. They coughed and got
fussy like babies. The search

is still on for many missing
critics, last seen disappearing
under the crust of the mass.
The poet, she posted
an adequate apology online.


hans ostrom 2016

Lima Beans

Please don't tell the Moche,
please don't tell the Spanish Viceroy,
but I've been estranged from lima beans
for quite some time. I recoiled,
regretfully, from their taste
and texture. It's hardly worth

mentioning, of course. --Except
maybe as a segue to sanguine
acceptance of other's satisfaction
with lima beans. There is

accounting for taste. It just
never adds up, is all.


hans ostrom 2015

Feeling Bad? Try Thinking About Sex

When I get to
feeling bad,
I think about sex,
and I get to feeling better.

I was writing complex,
diffuse poetry
because I thought
I ought to. Now I think,
Why would anybody
want to do such a thing?

In a follow-up move,
I think about sex
and pass quickly through
the awful, damp wooden
tunnel of ambition
to the other side.

I've never been
a terribly chaste
person in spirit.
I'm starting
to feel sad about that fact.

So I think I'll think
about sex and come up
with some kind
of action-plan.


hans ostrom 2015

"Deconstructive Dialogue"

. . . And, working its long con,
Deconstruction said, The text
always contains within it its
contradictions, its demise.

The text said, What the fuck
you talking about, Jack?

The Deacon of Decon, snorting,
retorted, I am talking about
the labyrinth of language,
in which meaning is always, always,
deferred.

Except when it isn't, said the text.


hans ostrom 2015

"Lawn Walker"

Yeah, I'm a lawn walker. That's right.
I walk on lawns across this land. I see
a lawn, I walk on it. Hell, yes,
people yell at me. Hey, what do you think
you're doing? I don't say nothing.
Sometimes they move
toward me. I walk away. Sometimes I
run. 'Specially if they have a gun.
Although I mutter to myself,
you're defending this weedy square
of grass with a gun? You crazy?

Some of the lawns have done gone
brown. Like Colorado, California.
Drought City, here we come.

Some of them smell like poison.
Oklahoma. Texas. Fracked up lawns.
("Nobody said we weren't going to
get our hair mussed a little bit.")
Petro-Patriots ain't afraid to
give their lawns for their country.

What do you call freedom? Mowing
a lawn? Putting down the weed-kill,
moss-kill, bug-kill? Listening
for the hiss of your automatic
sprinkler-system? Well, I call
freedom walking on lawns.

Sometimes there's dog-shit there.
And I get blamed. Goes with
the territory. I lit out
for the lawns, baby, and here
I am. Could be Boston. Could
be Maui. Could be Sweden
or Chile. I'm global,
a card-carrying member
of the International Lawn
Walkers of the World (IL-WOW).

I'm a man who walks on lawns.
Go ahead and judge me. Call the cops.
Call the guy at the gate in
your gated "community." Call
down the helicopters, the
Landscape SWAT Team. Send in
the squad of riding lawn-mowers.
I ain't afraid of no John Deere.
I walk on lawns. I got no fear.


hans ostrom 2015

"Of the Socks"

Someone's wearing the socks I almost bought.
I wonder how they're doing.

Does he, or someone, launder them well?
Have they been separated in the sock-drawer--
or bound to unfamiliar others?

Yes, of course, I totally agree
that it is lunacy

to dwell on items not purchased,
to conjure a rival. Honest, I promise
to ponder critical issues later.

Sometimes, you know, socks
are listed under "accessories."
Preposterous. I think

I will call the fellow now.
I'm calling him. He's answering

wearing only those socks.
It's disgusting. I characterize
him as a fool. Oh, yes,

I characterize freely. He demands
to know who I am. I hang up.

I'm wearing a business suit.
I feel authoritative in it.
Except I'm barefoot.



hans ostrom 2014

"These Annual Bills," by Mark Twain

"An Old Woman," by Mina Loy

"Gothic Fog," by Hans Ostrom

"Death and Life," by Robert W. Service

"Grown-Up," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Faith and Works," by Muriel Spark

Re-posting one from about 4 years ago.

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

When the Tongue

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.
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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

"For A Lady I Know," by Countee Cullen

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