"The Inspector," by Hans Ostrom

I don't think you're doing it the way
you're supposed to do it
(according to the specifications)
but who am I to say? And

if you're getting it done,
in this way of yours you use--
well, it's still getting done.
There is a right way and a

wrong way but at the same time
there are many ways. It isn't
logical I suppose as I have
phrased things. Anyway, consider

a mild objection almost to have
been raised. By me.
This is my job.
Sincerely, The Inspector.


hans ostrom 2014

"Politics," by Ambrose Bierce

"Two Lovers," by George Eliot

"The Caged Skylark," by Gerard Manley Hopkins

"Hinge Collection," by Hans Ostrom

Of course, this is just part
of my collection of hinges.

But it may give you some idea
of the variety and kinds of
hinges,
of their ubiquity, of the
range of their design.

Also, you will likely note that,
unattached to anything
and without box, door, or shutter,
hinges become absurd.

Sometimes I think they
look like awful jewelry
or modestly successful
instruments of annoyance.
I hate them so, my hinges.

hans ostrom 2014

"Far in a Western Brookland," by A.E. Housman

"Planet to People," by Hans Ostrom

"Well," said the planet
to the people living on it,
"apparently you will do what
you will do. But there is
this: remember that you
are not required for me
to survive, whereas
to persist, you need me.
Consider this a statement
of practicality, not one
of theory or art, politics,
religion, or science."


hans ostrom 2014

"To the Moon," Charlotte Smith

"Art for Something's Sake," by Hans Ostrom

Pater (Walt) wrote that all art
constantly aspires to the condition of music.

Some art, I think, aspires
to the condition of a sandwich
and a cup of coffee; some,

to the condition of
a large home in Bel Aire, California,
and you have to like that second e.

You know, some music
is not in great condition.
The same can be said of some artists.

Can art aspire?

I wonder if anyone called Pater "Walt."
I hope so. Because "Walt"

is musical, in its own way.
It's a beat. All art can
use another beat.



hans ostrom 2014

"People Are Terrible, No Exceptions," by Hans Ostrom

There are days when you'd settle
for running into just one person
who is at least less annoying
than you have become to yourself;
--and when even that is apparently
too much to ask.

So you go home loathing everyone.

Grudgingly, you think well enough
of yourself to get through the evening.
You observe your own quirky, tiresome,
reclusive behaviors.

You have no clue who
you really are or what
"really are" even means.
You have no interest
in finding a clue.

With disgust, then, you go to bed.
Sleep gives you desperately needed
respite from thinking of people
and your ego--that Self who's
just like everybody else.



hans ostrom 2014

"Have You About Had It?" by Hans Ostrom

You may have thought you were somebody.
Somebody like a joiner of wood or of metal pipes;
Like a CEO or a president;
A tribal elder; a teacher; a preacher; a shop steward.
Pillar of the community!
Maybe you thought you were a performer,
An artist; a critic—setter of tastes;
Or a citizen, oh yes—the authorities
Definitely want to know what you think.

Fool, you have been little more than an ox.
Ox, you have been little more than a fool.
You have been in harness, hauling the loads
Of shit that needs doing. You’ve been
Having your body and spirit broken,
Is what you’ve been up to. Boulders
Receive more respect than you. You’re
Worn out. You’ve been had. You’ve
About had it.

"Early One Morning,: by Edward Thomas

"Surreal Cat," by Hans Ostrom

Once upon a whatever,
as aluminum homes and nature
flew by where my windows
used to be, what with the tornado
and all,

there was a surreal cat.
Yep, that's what I have to report.

The color of her coat
depended greatly on
the nature of the magazine
one's eyeballs were reading to one.

"I think surrealism is bullshit,"
Margo said. "I think it is life
itself," replied Joe. Neither
one of them existed.

Things fall apart. That's
not necessarily terrible. Things
stay together--not necessarily
good. As to the falcon, the falconer,
and the goddamned gyres, who knows?
Seriously, Yeats can be
a real pain in the ass sometimes.

We at the Surreal Cat Corporation
appreciate your refraining
from talk of apocalypse.