Monday, October 30, 2023

They Teach Us to Adapt to Them

Crows, those shadow-shouters,
seem to live in towns amongst thick trees.
Out of their twig-walled cottages,
here they come, gliding, flapping,
bouncing, yelling. They're quiet

during almost all their hours,
but their noise makes you forget
that--like a ratchet-voiced hermit
who bickers with imaginary
invaders, scaring hikers. Crows

maneuver us into adapting to them.
So many creatures do. Given
the billions of us, they all have to.


hans ostrom 2023

Knuckles

Splendid that the word
in English should begin with K,
hard like bone. Make a fist.

There they are, those knobs
in a slanting line, fingers
bolted to them. Make a list

of all the species they knew
before they went to work
for us. People put rings

on fingers, shape and paint
nails, read palms, shake
hands, caress with soft

finger-pads. They might
even tattoo something
sinister near the knuckles,

which no matter what keep
working shifts in the grip
factory, uncelebrated, scraped.

Rub the knuckles of one
hand with the other hand's
fingers: a gesture of thanks.


hans ostrom 2023

Chomsky-Foucault Debate on Power vs Justice (1971)

Sunday, October 15, 2023

Bayou Blues

 Sulfur yellow sky
seals in obese,
humid air.

Just sitting on
our slumped porch,
us, still we sweat creeks.

A sick boat motor
coughs over there
on the bayou canal.

A sedan drives up.
Looks like a Fed car.
Our neighbors scatter

like water drops
on a griddle. We
have to breathe

this air. We have
to breathe this
here hot, wet air.


hans ostrom 2023