"The Difference Between Despair and Fear," by Hans Ostrom

"Images Coalesce," by Hans Ostrom

I have come to believe
(note somber rhetoric)
that when the images
don't coalesce (there
is a chrome fender in
manzanita, a desire in me
to seem clever, billions
of objects and animals,
blue fabric, scalded flesh,
nothing, hydro-electric
dams, nothing, no connection,
and "surrealism" is no excuse,
shut up) we need to
let them be art.

The images coalesce
because to see patterns
has been drilled into us.
Capitalize. The images
coalesce because
our brains evolved,
along with much of what's
on the surface, and our
brains change what's here,
manufacturing patterns.
(Incidentally, who am I?
No, I mean really, who
am I?) The brain is
at home, that is.


hans ostrom 2014

"Date Palms in San Diego," by Hans Ostrom

ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, University of Puget Sound

"Welcome to the Middle Class," by Hans Ostrom

To those concerned:
Welcome to the Middle Class.

Feel free to make as many
distinctions as you can
about things and people,
politics, art, food, animals,
and nothing. Feel free.

If you don't have an opinion,
make one up. We will assist!

Always spend more than you make.

Never relax, not really,
especially when you have
scheduled relaxation,
which is also competitive.

Cultivate a certain sensibility.
Keep score. Strive.


hans ostrom 2014

"Silver Glide," by Hans Ostrom

In the silver car
you're driving, where
did you get it, we snake
gracefully on a highway
that follows the curves
of hills near the sea,
hills embroidered with lights,
lights lining streets
and avenues. And the sense
of the sea in the dark.

And yes I know tomorrow
the car will be stolen,
you will blame me even
though you are my alibi,
and I will sit on a hot
sidewalk, staring
into sunlit murk of mist
and smog. But tonight it
is, will be, and was good,
a silver ride, a generous
glide through oblivion.


hans ostrom 2014

"Blues Talk," by Hans Ostrom

Blues talk, blues and talk, the need
to feel something, something real,
the want to break something,
to break what's learned by rote, take
the parts and heal them together
one time with the sacred and the frivolous
itch to play:

such is the incubatory campaign
that elected 12 bars
and gave jazz a lasting victory.

And you, you, you will want
to spend time with music made
by people with a freed inmate's
attitude, a worker's not a warden's,
and surely, surely not a guard's.

"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