"He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven," by W.B. Yeats

"Jane Austen Has a Headache," by Hans Ostrom

Jane Austen has a headache
from watching all those god-damned
adaptations of her books.
Film's too easy. Life is heavier
and slower than film, not pretty.
Life smells of chamber-pots,
rotten violets, horse-farts,
men's wigs, and mildew.

Obviously, thinks Jane's headache,
the main actors come from the new
aristocracy: celebrity. Off-camera,
they must be insufferable and stupid.

They don't know about Jane Austen,
her world, the smells and diseases,
the lovely cage of womanhood.
They don't know her headache.

They simulate the houses of her world.
They use industry-standard makeup,
lighting, and costumes. If the headache
weren't so bad, Jane Austen might be
alarmed.


hans ostrom

"Timidity," by Hans Ostrom

The systems fear timidity more than courage.
Timidity's a unique form of resistance:
not calculated, forced, or feigned.
Thus it must be broken, is the logic.

Demonized. Degraded. Turned into terror.
Timidity's the bravery of instinct.

The systems need people to cast off
less useful responses, leaving the ones
that help extract the most value.
Thus timidity must be turned into fear
or numb surrender.  One someone says,
"Don't be shy," consider it an order
and respond accordingly.


hans ostrom 2014

"Sociopaths," by Hans Ostrom

I've encountered quite a few sociopaths.
Some were famous poets. Some were
academics. Some both.

One sociopath patted me on the back,
just below the right shoulder, three times.
There was no sense of connection. The
interaction let me know I could be a tree;
his hand, a chainsaw.

Another sociopath grabbed my ass
(the right cheek) at a large crowded
wake. He could have been massaging dough.
(He had a cooking show.)

One of these two sociopaths is dead,
and the other might as well be.
Every so often, I wake from
a malformed nightmare. Something
about hands fashioned from metal,
eyes from ivory. I am not recognized.


hans ostrom 2014

"The Absinthe Drinker," by Arthur Symons

"The Donkey," by G.K. Chesterton

"Much Madness Is Divinest Sense," by Emily Dickinson

"Upon Julia's Breasts," by Robert Herrick

"This Is My Letter to the World," by Emily Dickinson

"The Poor," by Carl Sandburg

"Jesus and the Condominium," by Hans Ostrom

Somewhere in the United States, someone
is trying to sell Jesus a share
in a condominium-scheme. Christ
is told He may vacation anywhere
in the world using a complicated
point-system. First He must pay
a lot of money to participate
in the point-system. Did

a counterpart to the verb, "to vacation,"
exist in Aramaic? Jesus is trying
to remember. He thinks it's a miracle
that people fall
for such scams. Christ notes

that sales-eyes are not on the sparrow,
and sales-affections lie not
with the poor. After he says

"No" the seventh time, he adds,
"I live in Heaven for free
and come here to Hell only
on business.Therefore this package
is not for me."


hans ostrom 2014

"Opinions," by Hans Ostrom

Opinions, the styrofoam peanuts
of human discourse, proliferate;
are almost weightless; annoy
so much they wither us. The more

opinions most people hear or read,
well, the more they think they
should cultivate their own. A few
respond another way. They constrain

their points of view, refuse to argue,
wait for evidence but rarely
trust it. They're just fine with
saying "I don't know." Terrifying words.

Sometimes I place the word "opinion"
next to the word "onion." It is fun
to look at them side by side. Always
I prefer "onion" to "opinion."


hans ostrom 2014

"Out Fairly Far," by Hans Ostrom

We're fairly far out now, well
past the harbor. We float on darkness,
look back to diminished city lights.
Stars gain candle-power. The sea

makes more sounds than we can
listen to. None of us knows
why we're out here, not really.
All of us fell short of

our dreams for ourselves. The
dramas of our lives are small
but exhaust us still. There is no
captain. We take turns at the helm.


hans ostrom 2014