"the area of pause," by Charles Bukowski

It Means to You

It means to you, whatever
you're thinking now
as you sit in a chair, in
a seat, on a bench, looking
at the screen in your
hand, on your lap, on
your desk, on a wall.

It means to you, what
you're thinking
of the noise around you, of
your anxiety, of this
indescribable warren
of ideas, memories, neurons
firing, appetites, instincts--
all of it in its all-at-onceness:
mind.

It means to you, the taste
in your moth of coffee or beer or food
or smoke or your own mouth,
or someone else's. There's
the ache in one place, resentment

in another, in nerves and brain.
Are the unsatisfactions worse
than the dissatisfactions? Are
you comfortable enough
but still bored, angry, afraid,
frustrated? Are you looking
at someone now? It means

to you, it is meaning to you,
and you have been meaning, too.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

To Aging Friends

Oh, my aging friends,
what illnesses and
infirmities await us?

We hope to sail
along indefinitely
in these bodies.

We know we'll
be intercepted
and boarded by pirates.

The rigging creaks.
Boat-loads of young
women pass.

At best, they ignore
us, at worst laugh
at our sad crafts.

The aging are
a patient armada sailing
under a tie-dyed flag.

Ah, my aging friends,
let's drink wine in moonlight
on this our rolling deck.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Midnight Dancer," by Langston Hughes

A Few Moments in the Comparisonator

Her eyes were as blue as not
sky or sea but, but, uh--
cornflowers.

The moon looked like not
cheese, a face, a balloon, but
a flashlight shined
on
varicose veins.

My love for you is stronger
than my breath
after I've eaten
raw onions and Limburger
cheese.  What? You don't
eat raw onions or
Limburger cheese?

A sadness enveloped me.
Like an envelope. Right?

When you take off your
clothes, baby, I don't
think about comparisons.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Consciousness, This Space

This customary space, consciousness (as you hear
the hiss of evening traffic): a pliable, warped
sphere with membrane boundaries. Sometimes

the activity called thinking permeates
the membrane. And there you are,
situated in a non-view. 

Not so much detached as unbounded.
You see a gleam for a while without
knowing or naming it; it isn't gleam.

....Chrome....toaster....fender...glass...?
Utterly receptive perception . . .

You settle into out-settledness.

Sounds. Blurs.  What is there
enwraps you loosely like
the lightest fabric. There's

the merest hint of, well,
forever (as you hear the
hiss . . .)


Hans Ostrom, 2012

What My Job Is

Oh, I know what Management
thinks my job is, don't worry. It's
to help those to whom they
report report that a profit
was made. My family and truth
to tell my friends, and me too,
we think my job is to keep
my job. Beyond that, no one
cares about my work, not
even the ones who send me
bills.  Because computers
and some people trying to
keep their jobs send me
the bills, which, if I don't
pay--well, Management there
manages a legal department.

When I'm on the job, I
do my work.  Something
I don't tell anyone is this: I
always do something to
hang on to a piece of myself.
What that is varies. Sometimes
people see me doing that kind of
thing, a self-saving thing, and
I'm not giving examples. Anyway,
I see people at the place
looking at me, trying to figure
why I did that or said this.
That kind of thing, that's
not in the job-description.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

All Work and No Play at a Cafe

(based on found language)



All Work and No Play at a Cafe


Damn, I partied last light. Hell
yes I did. What's the saying?
All work and no play makes
Jack a--uh--a--a whatever.
Is that my latte?


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Perfect Is Over-rated

(riff on language, Italicized,  found on Tumblr)


Perfect is Over-rated

I'm not perfect, and I don't want
to be. Because being perfect
is so over-rated.  I mean,
I'd actually rank imperfection
above perfection.  For one

thing, perfection doesn't exist.
Read that old fart, Plato.  You
can't get to Ideal from here,
so it's as bad as nothing.

Plus everybody I know
who's supposedly perfect
turns out to be, you know,
killers, rapists, head-cases,
cutters, pukers, yellers.
Dangerous or sad. 
Less than optimal, I'm thinking.

So, yeah, I wouldn't put
perfect on my fantasy team.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

On Deciding Not to Become Wealthy

The evidence suggests getting rich
was not one of my priorities.
I studied literature and took up
writing poetry: any questions?

Also, I've always worked. Rather
late in the game, I noticed most
rich people don't work a lot.
Or at all.

Way back in the ago-era,
I ran my own weed- and grass-
cutting business, age 15.

Since then: different wage-jobs--
labor at a gravel-plant, hod-
carrying, washing pots,
writing sports articles, pounding
nails, digging trenches,
reading standardized tests.

Also a salaried job. Professor.
I see now that this was the path
for me.  I think if I were rich, I'd
be very nervous, less generous,
and much more of a fuck-up
than I already have been.

That's my report.



Hans Ostrom, 2012

Poem: A List of Parts

In this package
you will find the
following parts
for the poem
you'll assemble.

Please match the
parts to this list
before you begin
assembly. 

1. Sounds
2. Letters [26]
3. Words  [75--you may
order more]
4. Marks (punctuation)
5. Pictures in the mind
[not included but implied]
6. Space
7. Sample title
8. Sample beginning [2]
9. Sample ending [2]
10. Stanza-templates [6--you
may order more]



Hans Ostrom, 2012

The Last Automobile

Hear that sound?
That's the motor
of the last car
to go over the cliff.

Now the authorities
will roll up highways
and store them in a
desert like old
spools of thread.

Wild horses will
look down on them
from synthetic, pastured
plateaus above.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Song (Gone again is Summer)," by Edna St. Vincent Millay