Tuesday, September 17, 2024
Friday, September 13, 2024
She Hasn't Washed Her Hair Since Moab
She hasn't washed her hair
since Moab. She's sickof all her clothes, dull and drab.
Phoenix might change her luck--
you never know. Or it might cook
her brain with its unholy heat.
West is her dominion. Tacoma,
Oakland, Reno, Tonapah, Needles....
High mountains, mesas, plateaus.
Her rebuilt 1970s Ford--
it's her favorite friend, grumbling
like a big hungry lion.
She hasn't washed her hair
since Moab. She'll get that done
tonight in some damp motel.
Rest for a day in rough sheets,
get back on the road, and find
a job. Might be some form
of love in whatever town. You
never know. Or actually, you do.
That psychic in Sedona said so.
hans ostrom 2024
Monday, September 9, 2024
In No Time At All
(at Walnut Canyon, Arizona)
In a time designated September,
among short pine trees, and feelingthe high mountain heat, I look
across a deeply gashed canyon
and a thousand years--not time at all!--
to small homes people made
in gaps of limestone,
with sandstone rocks for
outer walls. Overhead,
crows, ravens, and hawks
whirl, riding the updrafts
of hot air. How quiet the Sanagua
generations must of have been.
I imagine murmurs and giggling,
sometimes overlain with shrieks
of illness or birthing cries. Little
traceries of smoke rising from
cook fires. People working to live.
I turn away from all the history
hiding in those crafted caves,
look down at a lichen-etched rock,
walk to the paved parking lot
to drive--in no time at all!--the roaring
machine back to Flagstaff and
its massive crops of housing.
hans ostrom 2024
Friday, September 6, 2024
The Word Woman
for the memory of W.B.
She remained available to words
any day of time or night. Sang
words if they wanted thrumming,
mumbled humbled ones, bathed
others in black ink. Words
were people in her mind. Without
them she couldn’t imagine the
something she’d be without them.
Come on, come in, she said when
they arrived. She fixed a place
for each, knew most of their
morphological needs. They
knew they might denote, connote,
obscure, shade, or just freely lie
around her home.
Toward words she truly
tried to act the perfect hostess.
Thursday, September 5, 2024
Wednesday, September 4, 2024
Where She's From
She's from Earth. From anyplace
on there where she breathes air,
eats food, drinks local water. Where
she's conversed, slept, danced,
followed customs, chafed against them,
shown respect. Where she's been helped;
and helped. She's from Earth. I think
all of us are. Maybe we should try
the habit of thinking we're from there.
Here. Because we are, and thinking so
might clear away some clutter,
smother some friction-fired heat.
She's from Earth. She likes it
here okay, when people find their
ways to get along. On Earth.
hans ostrom 2024
Sunday, September 1, 2024
Saturday, August 31, 2024
Wells Fargo Employee Found Dead at Office Desk Four Days After Clocking In
My feeble hopes embarrass me:
that she died quickly with minimal pain
(define "minimal"). That she found
the tunnel of light pleasing. That
friends found her pets, if any, alive
and saw to their care. That . . . .
She clocked in but didn't clock out.
She sat alive, then dead, for four days
while electrons of her colleagues
who worked from home flitted around her.
"There are worse ways to go," I think,
followed by "Oh, shut up." Media told
the story only because it
is click-bait. I clicked. Her name
is Denise Prudhomme.
Friday, August 30, 2024
Wednesday, August 28, 2024
Tuesday, August 27, 2024
Monday, August 26, 2024
Use Your Imagination
Your imagination uses you
when you use your imagination.It's like walking a burly, leash-defying
dog. Like lecturing a cat
about excess leisure time.
Your imagination goes
where it will and then slobbers
on you. It will yawn, lick itself,
curl up, and sleep where you sleep--
and hiss if you try to move it.
hans ostrom 2024
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