Primary Colors

In golden light yellow

hay made me sneeze,
wheeze.

I don't see many women
nor even men nor trans
wearing red lipstick anymore.

The 1950s kissed
with thick crimson lipstick, kicked
like a mean horse full
of bad yellow hay gas.

When an alpine lake,
I say brothers and sisters,
if an alpine lake
turns truly blue,
you must pause in awe
your fishing or kayaking,
your known rowing.

As the fog began to thin,
the sun looked like a flat,
cool yellow disc.

Bombs, bullets, missiles,
rockets, shrapnel, make
bloody death, dead bloody
children, babies, their mothers,
fathers, lying in blood
because Power does not
want in its red fury, its
ruinous hatred, to share.

Hans Ostrom 2023

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

Transformation: Boss

When I become a boss, I suffer
loss of identity.  Blood pressure up,
humility suppressed. When I delegate
and said delegatees don't follow through,
what do I do?  I do the work myself,
I will not fire, I will not plead. I
tempt myself to put up a sign that reads
"Dear Everyone: Do your fucking job.
Thanks! --The Boss." I hate
that they hate me as they must
when I'm just a boss. So I stage

a coup-de-mois, step down, get out,
and return to my back-bench, edge-
of-circle, agitating ways. My news
is old: anti-authoritarians ought not
to boss. Shame on them for making
me one, shame on me for grabbing
that seductive baton.


hans ostrom 2016

"Timidity," by Hans Ostrom

The systems fear timidity more than courage.
Timidity's a unique form of resistance:
not calculated, forced, or feigned.
Thus it must be broken, is the logic.

Demonized. Degraded. Turned into terror.
Timidity's the bravery of instinct.

The systems need people to cast off
less useful responses, leaving the ones
that help extract the most value.
Thus timidity must be turned into fear
or numb surrender.  One someone says,
"Don't be shy," consider it an order
and respond accordingly.


hans ostrom 2014

What Should I Watch?

Wow, I can order, like a general,
movies on my TV! On Demand, with a
price. So: On Pay. That's
kind of cute. I see what
you did there. What should I watch?

How about the tenth sequel based
on a fucking comic book, with a short
actor dressed in latex
and a plot
as predictable
as a
bowel
movement
and credits
as long as
the Bataan
Death March?

How about the 15th gangster movie
from the noted director who makes
gangster movies with short actors
who have New York accents and
play at being tough, with make-up
and all? Bada-Boom, Bada-Wadda-
Dada could you please just
stop talking, stop
talking
in
that
accent?

How about a film in which Black
women actors play maids or whores?

Or another film with the wrinkled,
70-year-old actor whose eyes look
like charcoal piss-holes in the snow?
He will be paired with a woman
who has had her faced carved
by switch-blade Frankenstein
cosmetic surgeons in Beverly Hills.

Or another political thriller
in which a short man with a broad
female ass plays a rogue agent
who is American
who is American
who is American
who blows up shit
who glows up shit
and flows up shit and
who never grows up? Shit!

How about a goddamned puppet-movie?
Or a virtual puppet-movie, with
that digital puppet-crap they
invented? Yeah, a talking fucking
car, a virtual teddy bear, all of it
"voiced" by members of this
bizarre celebrity oligarchy
that invites world leaders
to parties in Malibu, pays
people to carry dogs no bigger
than postage stamp, and gets
high-colonic enemas in Costa Rica?

Oh, I know. A romantic comedy,
in which the actress, who is 45,
plays a flirty nerd who is,
I shit you not, supposed to be
less than 30. You know, one
of those romantic comedies
that isn't romantic or funny
but basically a set of still photos
paired with frozen jokes
and inept physical stunts?

Jesus Moses Sebastian Mohammed
Buddha Bogart, what ever
happened to timing?

Oh, wait. There's another movie
by that guy who is 108 years old
and jacks off to kiddy-porn
and lives in New York
and is important
and gets the financing
and gets the financing
and has a broker
and is afraid of anybody
not White
and is
a
genius
and is
a genius
and is
and is
and is
and is
a genius? Have
you seen his
latest movie?
Oh, it's wonderful.
It's set in a famous city
that middle-class
Americans
visit
by
the
millions. He
is a
genius. Have
you seen it? Oh,
he is wonderful. Oh,
I love
his
movies.

Yes, please, a movie
by the hick-genius
who made one good movie
and who is short
and talks tough
and now says "we"
when he means "I"
and is no doubt
and is no doubt
thought to be smart
in Hollywood.

Better yet, a movie
with one of the three
older Black male actors
who get work in Hollywood.
One has a voice but doesn't act.
One acts but doesn't have a voice.
The third acts and has a voice
but is just a bit too
talented to be safe.
"A Black man in Hollywood ..."
say those in the know. Inside
joke.

Imagine if people, seriously,
Occupied Hollywood. Imagine
progressive, suave poseurs
having to call the police
to have the police
beat up the people. Imagine,
that is, Hollywood
without the makeup,
no longer the last
institution that is
beyond
scrutiny,
beyond
contempt.

Imagine Hollywood
on
the
run,
shitting
its
pants,
stuck
in its BMW,
stuck
in a mob. Cut!

Wow. I think I'll
watch
that.




hans ostrom 2013

Official Correspondence

Sacramento Capitol Mall

Politicos stride like totalitarian colonels.

Professionals lean into conversations

about cash-flow, internal control, and impact (a verb).

Winos stand against a wall and shiver

their way out of hallucination,

their shirt-fronts soaked with the Lamb's

most inexpensive blood; bums pick through rubbish

and sleep under news; the mad testify

to streetlights and themselves.

No one runs for office anymore

except the staffs of those who ran before.

They govern each other and whisper about us.

Sunlight remains democratic.

We walk in it together

between the muddy river and the capitol.

We are lobbyist and lunatic, accountant and pickpocket,

admin-assistant, tech-person, plumber,

and Ph.D. student writing about

power-relationships.

I find myself wondering not at all

about the powerful. I focus on a trembling hand

that picks through garbage. I fork over

a few bucks to the hand's person.

who gargles the words, "God bless you."

 Somewhere there’s a photo

of that man when he was six years old

and squinting at the camera, happy in a summer

in another state.

Maybe you finally come to hate poverty

enough to pursue it as an art;

maybe a thousand left hooks in the downtown gym

finally leave your brain fizzed like pink champagne,

and you're on the street mumbling to a corner man

who isn't there. Or somebody dies, and your way

of understanding that is to let go the things

that hint of looking forward,

including the grammar of love,

and love of self, and taking tomorrow straight.

Yeah, so, I gave him a few bucks, which will

go for booze, not a sandwich, and I don’t care

because it’s not my money anymore,

and as the Capitol might whisper,

it never was. 

Copyright 2013 hans ostrom

which doesn't rule

if you feel worse
about yourself after
you go to your job
but are still glad you
have a job, then in
some countries, you're
in the majority, which
doesn't rule.

if you have no hope
of getting a job
you like, or even
a job, then in
some countries,
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.

if you're an american
and have no control over
what america does, then
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule,
and you are a citizen
of a super-power, an
empire, so you do
and don't rule.

if you don't believe
one goddamned word
about your place-of-work's
credo, mission statement,
bosses' rap, etc., you
probably haven't yet
lost all your faculties
of discernment, and
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.

if you've thought about
it carefully and decided
your life has no discernible
purpose except to keep
itself going and get
enough cash and things
to keep you and yours
going, you are experiencing
one form of the modern
condition, and things
could be a lot worse,
and in some regions
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.

if you think another
group of people besides
the groups you are in
rules, then you are correct,
probably, and you are
in the majority, which
doesn't rule.





Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

Light a Candle

Strictly as sources of light, candles are pretty cumbersome, in my experience. When "the power" got knocked out in the Sierra Nevada, we first went for the flashlights and then the candles. We didn't have enough bona fide candle-holders, so sometimes we'd heat the bottom of a candle and stick the candle on a saucer--precariously.

No matter what kind of holder you use, you have to walk very slowly with a candle. Then: where do you place the candles in the house? How do you make sure they don't start an unwanted fire? If you use them to read by, how do you position them? It's all quite complicated in a pre-Modern way.

We go through the same thing if and when the power goes out in the Northwest.

At the same time, candles are an immense source of fascination and can be a source of comfort. I didn't take up any religion, per se, until I was pretty far along in life (the year 2000), when I converted to Catholicism at St. Leo Parish. But when I was in Europe two decades before that, I still liked visiting cathedrals, chapels, and churches. They are cavernous, built of stone, and cold, and often (as with gothic cathedrals) the architecture is, as they say, "out there." So what's not to like? The gargoyles can be awfully fascinating, too--and the stained class, obviously.

At any rate, I always lit candles (and contriuted to the candle-fund by putting coins in a box) when I visited these places. Often I lit one for Charlie Epps, or rather for my memory of him. Charlie and another guy were killed in a car wreck one week before we all graduated from high school. The event permanently marked a lot of us who knew them. Perhaps it made us grow up, in some respects, more quickly. Hard to say.

. . . What is one doing, exactly, by "lighting a candle for" someone? Opinions vary about this quesiton. Even so, there seems to be a note of comfort there, or at least a focusing of the mind, regardless of the reason why the lighter lights the candle.

In Germany, in 1981, a colleague took me to an ancient church in the town of Kiedrich, near the Rhein. The parish had received permission to continue using the Latin liturgy. The pews were made of stone. The acolytes, et al., used large incense-burners, and there were candles lit everywhere. I knew very little about Catholicism then, chiefly the historical background, so I was very much a spectator, an outsider, a tourist. But the experience was a bit like being launched just for a moment back into the Medieval era.

In Sweden, candles are a huge part of the Christmas season, and they're associated with St. Lucia. Because the sun doesn't come up for a while in Winter up there, the non-religious connection between Winter and light (candles) is obvious. But the variety of ways Swedes use candles at that time of year is impressive. . . .

. . .Apparently candles made of soy are more environmentally friendly than those made of wax. And I do hope candles made of whale tallow are 100% a thing of the past.

Nowadays aromatic candles seem to be quite the rage. I don't buy many of them, but I pick up quite a few in stores and sniff them. Technically, does this qualify as olfactory shop-lifting? I mean, my nose is taking molecules out of the store without paying for them.


Light a Candle


Sure, light a candle. Watch the wick, air,
and fire adjust to one another. Wait
as flame rights its posture. Glance at
gleaming liquid wax in a shallow pool
around the wick. Hear the nearly
inaudible sigh of oxygen as it expires.

Think your thoughts--or no thoughts:
stare. Consider someone afflicted, recall
someone gone long, say a prayer out loud
or silently, or say nothing. Flame seems
to center silence and the darkness. Light

a candle for a primitive impulse: flame
fascinates, it always has, and aromas
pique. Shadows perform. Light one
for a practical reason: to see better.

Light a candle and carry it in a silent
parade past the Power House. Or let
the candle stand. Stay home and subvert
the Power Houses simply by thinking
for yourself. Light a candle. Good idea.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom