Time is money, which is
speech, which is free,
except when it's policed,
or when it's bought
by corporations, which
are people, who are "human
resources," which brings
to mind property: a pile
of coal to be shoveled
into time, which is
a kind of abyss on wheels.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Sunday, September 30, 2012
the real artists
the real artists deliver
the newspapers that carry the lies.
they assemble mother-boards,
sports shoes, clothes, and purses.
the real art is the art
of re-assembling the world
every day.
the real artists go where
they're ordered to go when
they put on the uniform, whatever
uniform it is.
the real artists, they
change old people's diapers,
teach five-year-olds to read,
serve eggs to smirking
college students, empty
professors' trash cans,
sweep the floors
of art galleries, change
light-bulbs in auditoriums,
breast-feed, cook, clean,
get groceries, carry water,
look after grandchildren.
the real artists manage
crews, staff shifts, order
raw material, stack lumber,
run bureaus, process forms,
maintain websites, take
complaints, withstand
verbal abuse.
they mix cocktails, dance nude,
look for food in dumpsters,
rant from the caverns
of mental illness.
they protect children.
they haul freight.
they haul people.
they wash clothes.
they pick up bodies
lying on highways.
they wash corpses.
they mourn the dead,
help the maimed recover,
grieve with the bereaved.
the real artists know how
to add and subtract.
they walk or stand til
their legs and backs ache.
they show up on time and
kill vermin. they plant crops
and then wait, watching
the pale blue ceramic
sky of drought.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
the newspapers that carry the lies.
they assemble mother-boards,
sports shoes, clothes, and purses.
the real art is the art
of re-assembling the world
every day.
the real artists go where
they're ordered to go when
they put on the uniform, whatever
uniform it is.
the real artists, they
change old people's diapers,
teach five-year-olds to read,
serve eggs to smirking
college students, empty
professors' trash cans,
sweep the floors
of art galleries, change
light-bulbs in auditoriums,
breast-feed, cook, clean,
get groceries, carry water,
look after grandchildren.
the real artists manage
crews, staff shifts, order
raw material, stack lumber,
run bureaus, process forms,
maintain websites, take
complaints, withstand
verbal abuse.
they mix cocktails, dance nude,
look for food in dumpsters,
rant from the caverns
of mental illness.
they protect children.
they haul freight.
they haul people.
they wash clothes.
they pick up bodies
lying on highways.
they wash corpses.
they mourn the dead,
help the maimed recover,
grieve with the bereaved.
the real artists know how
to add and subtract.
they walk or stand til
their legs and backs ache.
they show up on time and
kill vermin. they plant crops
and then wait, watching
the pale blue ceramic
sky of drought.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
I Don't Keep a Diary
I don't keep a diary. My diary keeps me.
It writes, "The silly bastard did what
he always does today. What a bore.
I hate being his diary."
I tried to maintain my diary,
but my diary said, "Get your
fucking hands off me."
You know, that's fine with me.
I either did or didn't do
that thing, whatever it was,
on February 16th that year.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
It writes, "The silly bastard did what
he always does today. What a bore.
I hate being his diary."
I tried to maintain my diary,
but my diary said, "Get your
fucking hands off me."
You know, that's fine with me.
I either did or didn't do
that thing, whatever it was,
on February 16th that year.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Poets and the Crow
The young poets and I sit
outside on grass under solemn fir trees.
Before we talk about another poem,
we discuss crows, which
are numerous around here.
A crow shows up.
We're talking about crows
as she's being one. That's
the way it is with these birds.
She finds something edible
in grass. She pincers it with
the beak. Drops it. Now uses
head and beak to hammer it.
She eats the pieces, swallowing
them whole, mouth lifted
in a V. I refuse to allude
to Ted Hughes or Poe
or to say anything about poetry
because the students
are looking at the crow.
The crow is being a crow!
The crow is being a crow.
I still don't know what she ate.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
outside on grass under solemn fir trees.
Before we talk about another poem,
we discuss crows, which
are numerous around here.
A crow shows up.
We're talking about crows
as she's being one. That's
the way it is with these birds.
She finds something edible
in grass. She pincers it with
the beak. Drops it. Now uses
head and beak to hammer it.
She eats the pieces, swallowing
them whole, mouth lifted
in a V. I refuse to allude
to Ted Hughes or Poe
or to say anything about poetry
because the students
are looking at the crow.
The crow is being a crow!
The crow is being a crow.
I still don't know what she ate.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Asshole-ishness: Overheard
He: I'm sick of their asshole-ishness.
She: Me, too. But Leona's different than Karl.
He: Yeah, Leona has a reason to be an asshole,
but Karl--he's just an asshole.
She: That's right.
She: Me, too. But Leona's different than Karl.
He: Yeah, Leona has a reason to be an asshole,
but Karl--he's just an asshole.
She: That's right.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
bus ride
drone, smells, chatter. blurs
drone, smells. chatter. drone,
revery, comfort, pain, fear,
drone. blurs, noise, pain.
fatigue, noise, noise. chatter,
noise, fatigue. smells, smells,
smile. glance, fatigue, noise.
glance, glance, fear. pain,
smells, drone. drone, drone.
stop sudden noise. drone,
weary, glance. smells.
stop, up, smells, glance,
out. noise. fatigue.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
drone, smells. chatter. drone,
revery, comfort, pain, fear,
drone. blurs, noise, pain.
fatigue, noise, noise. chatter,
noise, fatigue. smells, smells,
smile. glance, fatigue, noise.
glance, glance, fear. pain,
smells, drone. drone, drone.
stop sudden noise. drone,
weary, glance. smells.
stop, up, smells, glance,
out. noise. fatigue.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
The Sonnet Is a Puzzle in a Box
The sonnet is a puzzle in a box
That sits there on the shelf of poetry.
Of course the form has taken many knocks,
In part because of its ubiquity.
Indeed, as here, one writes about the form
When writing in it: ah, meta-verse,
It seems, became a while back the norm.
Some think it makes the sonnet even worse.
The sonnet lends itself to poise and pace,
And yet one feels quite rushed to make a point:
Iambic sprint, three quatrains in a race.
The last two lines, however, own the joint.
Well, here we are. This is the thirteenth line.
This sonnet says its feeling mighty fine.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
That sits there on the shelf of poetry.
Of course the form has taken many knocks,
In part because of its ubiquity.
Indeed, as here, one writes about the form
When writing in it: ah, meta-verse,
It seems, became a while back the norm.
Some think it makes the sonnet even worse.
The sonnet lends itself to poise and pace,
And yet one feels quite rushed to make a point:
Iambic sprint, three quatrains in a race.
The last two lines, however, own the joint.
Well, here we are. This is the thirteenth line.
This sonnet says its feeling mighty fine.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Such a Lovely Education
When she walks into a room,
she shines the shadows away.
When she walks into a room,
she shows hips how to sway.
When she looks into your eyes,
she pulls them into hers.
When she looks into yours eyes,
the love-lust motor whirs.
When she talks, talks low to you,
warm honey comes to mind.
When she talks, talks low to you,
You feel your heart unbind.
The walk, the words, the look
construct this fascination.
The walk, the words, the look:
Such a lovely education.
Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
she shines the shadows away.
When she walks into a room,
she shows hips how to sway.
When she looks into your eyes,
she pulls them into hers.
When she looks into yours eyes,
the love-lust motor whirs.
When she talks, talks low to you,
warm honey comes to mind.
When she talks, talks low to you,
You feel your heart unbind.
The walk, the words, the look
construct this fascination.
The walk, the words, the look:
Such a lovely education.
Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Category: Vulvas (a found poem)
Category: Vulvas. Note: This
category should be empty. Any
content should be recategorized.
This tag should be used
on existing categories
that are likely to be used by others,
even though the “real”
category is elsewhere.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
found on wikipedia
Monday, September 24, 2012
Frustration Station
At Frustration Station, crates
of bad karma get off-loaded,
vats of bile sit in storage, and
tickets turn to paste.
Conductors
have called a halt. Engineers
weep, and tunnels belch hot wind.
Departures and arrivals melt
into one immobile blob.
Turnstiles
turn into empty gun-barrels aimed
at one another. Vermin gnaw
wires of
ambition. Only the fiddler
playing for oily coins is happy.
These faces, these faces, these
faces twist toward scream.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
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