Friday, January 29, 2021

Gull Amongst the Crows

 the gull's a white viceroy

in pink rubbery footwear,

strolling stiffly

amongst a dozen crows

outfitted in workaday black.


they respect the gull's

size but not its authority.

an improvised contest

for useful slimy stinking

morsels sauteed 

in city refuse juice ensues.


the crows of course caw-cuss,

bounce on wire-feet,

wield their gleaming beaks.


gull says nothing,

gobbles great pieces

of anything likely 

to nourish. and finally


rolls out a rising shriek,

a fantastic prophetic scream,

an explosive ode to life. 


hans ostrom 2021

Yes We Saw the Sea Again

upon further refraction
that piece of golden
sea we saw smeared
itself with a pink sheen.

language, our tour
guide, narrated
the event with syllables
marinated in purples,
blues, yellows, grays.

as such, the sighting,
a constant birthing
of scene, seemed all
the more profound for
having nothing to do
with our seeing. still,
sacredly we saw the sea.


hans ostrom 2021

Nobody Beats Tacoma

 (reposting one from a while back)


Here's how it works: Beginning as North 27th Street,
North 21st Street just gets its confidence up
when North I Street slugs it and takes over,
only to be vaporized by South Yakima Avenue,
which morphs into something called Thomson.
The streets of Tacoma are so mean they're
mean to each other. Nobody beats Tacoma. Nobody.

Seattle has forever misread the meaning of Point
Defiance. It's not a park or a peninsula,
or a place to play dress-up on your bike.
It is a destined middle finger pointed
vaguely north. Put a penny
on the railroad track down by the port,
and you might well summon Guy Fawkes,
Richard Brautigan, a Chinese laborer,
or a skeptical Puyallup woman, pre-contact.
Whoever it is will take your penny
and invest it in a cloud-cone
hovering above Rainier like the saucers
Kenneth Arnold saw, 24 June,
1947. About the time

you think you have Tacoma solved,
you find yourself on a suspension-bridge,
with a dog, and the bridge starts
writhing like a boa constrictor. Then
it flaps and twists, snapping itself
free from blueprints, taking a dive
like a punch-drunk stevedore
trying to earn a buck at a smoker
in 1931. The dog lives. If you remind

the tattooed woman at the drive-in
that you ordered everything on your
burger, she will tell you, without
animus, "That is everything."
Nobody beats Tacoma. You have
to understand: Tacoma is more
than a grit city that keeps its
bourgeoisie on a leash like a pit bull.
Tacoma is a sense of humor.

Once you get that, it may take decades,
you'll understand everything. I
mean, really, after embedding
yourself in a group of eccentrics
at the Parkway, the Acme, or
the Goldfish Redux taverns, you'll see
the folly in naming streets
and other ambitions. You'll realize
you are Nobody, the only person
ever to beat Tacoma. Good night.




© a month ago    cities • aliens   

Tuesday, January 26, 2021

"Clarksdale," by Billy B.

Video: Song about Clarksdale, Mississippi, and the blues. Music composed by Billy B, song performed by Billy B. Lyrics by Hans Ostrom. Video by Dan Callnon.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKK_FoHXuFs

Monday, January 25, 2021

Toad Ode

toads I know
like dry heat,
look like pebbled
fists of meat.

they spit
and stink like
grizzled men on a
sizzling street.

they're not friendly
like frogs.
avoid bogs.
don't sing. thing

is, every memo
a toad sends
recommends leaving
toads alone. so

i've done so.
oh, I might say
hello as I go
on my way.

that's most,
that's all. toads
I know, they kind
of hop-crawl.


hans ostrom 2021

Sunday, January 24, 2021

Truck Driver's Aubade

 Listen: sunrise stirs bugs

in dry grass. The long

whine of a steel guitar

curves into a thin blue highway.


This peace is easy to take, I'll tell you.

We kiss, kick off covers

light as dead butterflies,

and grab each other, laughing.


Your radio drops out a three-chord,

two-minute-fifty song,

too much like other songs,

just like those tin napkin


and sugar dispensers

that look alike always alike

on sticky plastic countertops 

at all them truck strops, 


where I’ll rest elbows,

the thick roar of sixteen

tires still in my ears. Darling,

if I chat up a waitress 


while she's filling my 

Thermos with coffee,

know it's only out of

habit and good manners. 


You know my heart growls

like a diesel for you when

dawn spills across the hood

of the Peterbilt, and I think


ahead to gearing down on

the grade sloping into

your place here where 

the creek sings out back. 


circa 1987/2021

Saturday, January 23, 2021

Apples of the Ear


[revised]

[one of the great moments in jazz history]






The apple doesn't fall far

from the tree except in quantum summer

when Newton's head doesn't/does

exist and Atom & Eve



know what they don't know, 

a good first step

into the wormhole of Paul

Gonsalvez's "Diminuendo/



Crescendo'" 27 tenor sax 

chorus solos, 1956, in that

momentary eternity

wherein all the tightly knit

notes of Ellington's orchestra



became/become perfectly tart-sweet

apples in a God's-ear of time.

A Night of Bluegrass

 [revised]



Go on and cut the top off-a that mountain

to get your coal, Mr. High Pockets. You

can't cut that high-pitched wail out of the air

where the mountain was

and shall ever be, in God's eyes.


And all them strings get picked and strummed,

chorded and teased, til here comes a

tightly braided tune, careful and true,

like the long gray hair

of a matriarch reading her Bible in blue

moonlight, rocking and praying She's


as heart-broken and reconciled as a ballad

about some young'ns gone too soon. Music

of the hills distills sadness, strains it

through an upright tradition

that Nashville goddamn tried to ruin.

But could not. And will not. 

Friday, January 22, 2021

The Old Cloud Con

 [revised]



A "magician" came to town.
He explained what information was--
different, he said, from our tools,
animals, and plants. He asked

where we kept our information.
The usual places, we said:
Boxes, pockets, minds.
Oh, he said, give it to me,

and for a fee, I'll keep it
in a cloud for you!
In a cloud? we asked.
Yes, in a cloud, he said,

and for a fee! For me! We 
then kept the "magician" under 
guard for a while after
that exchange because

he was so obviously a
scoundrel. Soon we let
him go, unharmed.
We gave him information
A "magician" came to town.
He explained what information was--
different, he said, from our tools,
animals, and plants. He asked

where we kept our information.
The usual places, we said:
Boxes, pockets, minds.
Oh, he said, give it to me,

and for a fee, I'll keep it
in a cloud for you!
In a cloud? we asked.
Yes, in a cloud, he said,

but for a fee! We then
kept the "magician" under 
guard for a while after
that exchange because

he was so obviously a
scoundrel. Soon we let
him go, unharmed.
We gave him information
about where to travel
from here and 
options for 
a new career, 
in a cloud. 

Thursday, January 21, 2021

Almost Blue in Chicago

Between Michigan and State,

she was caught without a coat

among wrought-iron intricacies



of histories.  Her sheer blouse

panicked in cold air.  She was

going somewhere.  Her schedule


showed a route of escape.  Not more

than a block from State

and Michigan, she again seized


a grip on fate, held on, got back

in the swing of the thing, yes,

back in the sway of her days.


hans ostrom circa 1990/2021


Wednesday, January 20, 2021

seagull in time

seagull high
up on a pole
sees dawn come 

early enough 
today to face
fully, light

dyeing white
feathers pink.
to me, it's still

astounding how
this whirling
sphere (which we

don't own) 
sidles so slowly
up to its local

fireball this
time of year,
this time of 

time. I itch
to dig in muddy
soil, the tip

of my old
shovel worn
into a concave

crescent line. 


Tuesday, January 19, 2021

Silver Valley Vision

 

this river swims in time.  this sky

flies through emptiness.  we live

forever every moment as love

falls into people.  fuel consumes

fire, and rain drinks Earth.  I saw


a thousand angels moving through

a silver valley.  low clouds

picked them up, changed them

into snow, conveyed them over

mountains, let them go. oh, let them go.


hans ostrom circa 1995/revised 2021

 

Silver Boat, Golden Sea

hey stray dog: nobody's
going to let you in.

though human, you 
own a sad canine karma.

hope will only mock you
later. turn back to streets,

lots, woods, or a one-room
apartment. enjoy pungence

and meals for one. watch
the moon get stuck 

in leafless branches. dream
you're captain of a silver

boat upon a golden sea,
a faithful friend at your side. 


hans ostrom 2021