Industrial humanity's become
a bad disease the planet suffers from.
Hans Ostrom, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Desire of the Keys
And the keys said,
"Let us off this metal ring.
We want to lead our
separate lives, travel
our chosen corridors,
try many locks,
and be seized
by an adventure of hands."
Hans Ostrom 2013
"Let us off this metal ring.
We want to lead our
separate lives, travel
our chosen corridors,
try many locks,
and be seized
by an adventure of hands."
Hans Ostrom 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Friday, February 8, 2013
No Answer to the Ocean
It's like this, maybe: A tide comes in.
It brings things you come to believe.
There they are, objects on glassy sand.
They're what's come of all your coping.
A stone, a crab-shell, a worn piece of
wood, a string of kelp. They're no answer
to the ocean. They don't add up to a code.
You keep walking on the beach,
trying to figure things out. There's
nothing wrong with that--walking,
wondering. What are you hoping for?
Hans Ostrom
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Elvis in the Holy Land
(based on found language)
Deadline approaching
to book
Elvis tour to
Holy
Land.
hans ostrom
Deadline approaching
to book
Elvis tour to
Holy
Land.
hans ostrom
Monday, February 4, 2013
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
Saturday, February 2, 2013
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