You Are Not My Phone

You are not my phone, she said. I
like you, yes. I love my phone. I
like you better when you're filtered
through my phone because then
you become a pleasurable meme.

She said, I live with, in, and through
my phone. Okay, he said, then, well,
maybe I'll text you sometime . . .
She replied, You mean never, not
sometime. You don't understand me
because you're not really into your
phone. Not all the way. You lack
commitment. Although he was standing

right in front of her, he texted her. She
looked at her phone, which told her
he'd written I agree--bye! She continued
to let her fingers peck at her phone
like chicken beaks. And did not look
up to see him going away.

hans ostrom 2019

The Thin Thick of It

Well here we are in the moment's
techno-trend, alone in groups with our phones,
semi-ignoring the quasi-friends
sitting next to us. With our thumbs,
we hammer at glass like chickens
trained to play beak-bingo.

We swim in a river of gerunds--
posting, texting, liking, blocking,
attacking, retweeting, de-friending,
muting, sharing . . . We belong

to fractured unaccredited schools of fish,
unspooling into fractal clouds
of selfies. Masses mediated
mediate masses, sniffing fumes
of toxic gasses. It's all very real
and revolutionary, as well as false plus
reactionary. It's headed toward the only
destination left to us on the map: More.


hans ostrom 2018

"I Was Sent a Link"

She texted me. I was texted.
Text Ed. Textual Education.
The text said she
was going to send me
a link.

Three days later, a single
sausage showed up in the mail.
I didn't eat it, although
it smelled okay for having
been on the road for three days.

I realized for the first time
that a sausage
could be mistaken
for a cat turd.
Some epiphanies are unpleasant.


It was a little meat-log,
an analog link, I think.

I sent her a thank-you-note.
Actually it was a "thank-you-
I-think-for-the-link" note.


hans ostrom 2015