*
*
*
The Art of Obscurity
Becoming a hermit
is the lazy person's path
to obscurity. The more
determined Obscurity Artist
becomes known but not
remembered, hides in plain
sight, is never exalted; it
goes without saying: hush.
Make connections that break.
Pretend to be interested in
rising and climbing, but see
to it you withdraw in time.
Stay and play at edges.
Always trouble categories.
Take advice but treat it
as material to rework
into whatever art it is
you make, not as assistance
out of the shadows. Come and
go as you please, a kind of fame.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Late Orthodontia
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*
*
*
Late Orthodontia
A dentist wants to straighten the man's teeth,
close up those those gaps--the ones that help
to scare people when his smile, tied somehow
to a Viking heritage, fully deploys its ivory squad.
An aunt of his had teeth behind her wisdom teeth.
He wonders if his is a Berserker's grin.
He hadn't invited the dentist to suggest dental
rearrangement. He had been and is content
with his teeth. The man gets much unbidden
advice, always has. War, famine, and economic
collapse continue, so he's not however about
to spend excess thought on piercers and grinders
that do their jobs. "Do you floss with rope?" a
pretty young woman once asked him way back
then at a college party. "If you take your clothes
off, I'll try it," he'd said. They'd shared a laugh,
teeth bared. She'd stared at his teeth. Again.
Hers were straight and white, direct from suburbia.
"When I was 10," he told her, "my parents asked
the dentist if I should get braces." Probably the
Eagles were playing in the party's background--
"Tequila Sunrise" or "Take It Easy." He said,
"But the dentist told them that my tongue is
too big and would just push the teeth and open
the gaps again. "No," the woman had said. She
smelled good, had on a thin dress. "Yes," he said.
Now through the Invisoline of memory, he
recalls that she shifted hips as he sipped tequila.
"Really," she said, not quite a question, and sipped
her beer, looked at his closed mouth; and pondered.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
Late Orthodontia
A dentist wants to straighten the man's teeth,
close up those those gaps--the ones that help
to scare people when his smile, tied somehow
to a Viking heritage, fully deploys its ivory squad.
An aunt of his had teeth behind her wisdom teeth.
He wonders if his is a Berserker's grin.
He hadn't invited the dentist to suggest dental
rearrangement. He had been and is content
with his teeth. The man gets much unbidden
advice, always has. War, famine, and economic
collapse continue, so he's not however about
to spend excess thought on piercers and grinders
that do their jobs. "Do you floss with rope?" a
pretty young woman once asked him way back
then at a college party. "If you take your clothes
off, I'll try it," he'd said. They'd shared a laugh,
teeth bared. She'd stared at his teeth. Again.
Hers were straight and white, direct from suburbia.
"When I was 10," he told her, "my parents asked
the dentist if I should get braces." Probably the
Eagles were playing in the party's background--
"Tequila Sunrise" or "Take It Easy." He said,
"But the dentist told them that my tongue is
too big and would just push the teeth and open
the gaps again. "No," the woman had said. She
smelled good, had on a thin dress. "Yes," he said.
Now through the Invisoline of memory, he
recalls that she shifted hips as he sipped tequila.
"Really," she said, not quite a question, and sipped
her beer, looked at his closed mouth; and pondered.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Monday, September 12, 2011
Attitude Toward Light
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*
*
*
Attitude Toward Light
Light's entered once more. It's physics;
and a miracle. A sky of light, a scene
of green life drinking light--commonplace,
we might say; but shouldn't.
You're seeing the light or-and feeling
light's warmth on your skin--
light just arriving from the sun. Breathe
into the peace of it. Will civilization--
there's only one now, you know--
ever be marked mainly by its
capacity for peace? In this light,
it's important to ask such questions,
from which more light shines. Let your arms
hang down. Tilt your face up to the light.
For a moment hold this attitude, not
that other one. Your breath goes
out to the light.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
Attitude Toward Light
Light's entered once more. It's physics;
and a miracle. A sky of light, a scene
of green life drinking light--commonplace,
we might say; but shouldn't.
You're seeing the light or-and feeling
light's warmth on your skin--
light just arriving from the sun. Breathe
into the peace of it. Will civilization--
there's only one now, you know--
ever be marked mainly by its
capacity for peace? In this light,
it's important to ask such questions,
from which more light shines. Let your arms
hang down. Tilt your face up to the light.
For a moment hold this attitude, not
that other one. Your breath goes
out to the light.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Friday, September 9, 2011
Machine People
*
*
*
*
Machine People
You've ground me down to dust,
machine-people, pious nihilists,
capitalized thugs. You silly
sonsofbitches, you wreck shit
and never have to pay. You
blood- and spirit-sucking demons
who fucking hate everything including
your own bodies, your own children,
anyone with wit, brains, sensuality,
magic, quickness, intuition. You
horrible people, offspring of
slaveowners, union-busters,
torturers, flesh-burners, apocaplyptic
thieves, puritanical freaks,
earth-eaters. God damn you
to your Machine Hell, your
Bankers' Killing Floors,
your cabinets of body parts.
You've ground me down but
I aspire to summon energy
enough to rise up and eat
your throat and stick a spike
of history into the side of your
fucking head. You've ground me
down to dust, so God damn you.
"He's very abrupt and changeful.
What brand of man is he?" asks
Sweet Jane Eyre, ground down.
He's the brand of man who's
going to bury a pick-ax into
your head while you sleep on
silk sheets next to a trophy-wife.
You've ground me down to
the dust you'll choke on,
eyeballs bulging, your fourth
wife grabbing jewels and
pre-nupts as she laughs and runs.
As you descend from your
private jet, glance left.
Too late. Too late.
*
*
*
Machine People
You've ground me down to dust,
machine-people, pious nihilists,
capitalized thugs. You silly
sonsofbitches, you wreck shit
and never have to pay. You
blood- and spirit-sucking demons
who fucking hate everything including
your own bodies, your own children,
anyone with wit, brains, sensuality,
magic, quickness, intuition. You
horrible people, offspring of
slaveowners, union-busters,
torturers, flesh-burners, apocaplyptic
thieves, puritanical freaks,
earth-eaters. God damn you
to your Machine Hell, your
Bankers' Killing Floors,
your cabinets of body parts.
You've ground me down but
I aspire to summon energy
enough to rise up and eat
your throat and stick a spike
of history into the side of your
fucking head. You've ground me
down to dust, so God damn you.
"He's very abrupt and changeful.
What brand of man is he?" asks
Sweet Jane Eyre, ground down.
He's the brand of man who's
going to bury a pick-ax into
your head while you sleep on
silk sheets next to a trophy-wife.
You've ground me down to
the dust you'll choke on,
eyeballs bulging, your fourth
wife grabbing jewels and
pre-nupts as she laughs and runs.
As you descend from your
private jet, glance left.
Too late. Too late.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
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