Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
This Is Your Uncle Vinton
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This Is Your Uncle Vinton
This is your Uncle Vinton calling:
You say you don't have an Uncle
Vinton, and you close the call.
Actually you do have an Uncle
Vinton. He's a secret, me. I was
going to mention a few other things
you may not know. But that's all right.
You'll be fine not knowing them, me.
You may recall in quiet moments
the calm assurance of my voice when
I said, This is your Uncle Vinton calling.
Our disconnection will be our only connection.
--Unless of course you call me some night
and say This is your niece, Verona, calling,
and I say, "I don't have a niece named Verona."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
)
)
)
This Is Your Uncle Vinton
This is your Uncle Vinton calling:
You say you don't have an Uncle
Vinton, and you close the call.
Actually you do have an Uncle
Vinton. He's a secret, me. I was
going to mention a few other things
you may not know. But that's all right.
You'll be fine not knowing them, me.
You may recall in quiet moments
the calm assurance of my voice when
I said, This is your Uncle Vinton calling.
Our disconnection will be our only connection.
--Unless of course you call me some night
and say This is your niece, Verona, calling,
and I say, "I don't have a niece named Verona."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Gray Boulder
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I Say That Gray Boulder
I say that gray boulder will always be
there, knowing it will be gone--but long
after I am no longer. I say it because
I need at least a stone to stay where
it was, where it is in my mind,
which needs rock to be more
than memory. Mind wearies of its
memories, its common stock. That
gray boulder's under cedars.
I sat on it, age six, and experienced
the expansive fluidity of sight, thought,
light, impulse, and sensation all children
know but don't know they will lose.
I say "that gray boulder," and I know.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
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I Say That Gray Boulder
I say that gray boulder will always be
there, knowing it will be gone--but long
after I am no longer. I say it because
I need at least a stone to stay where
it was, where it is in my mind,
which needs rock to be more
than memory. Mind wearies of its
memories, its common stock. That
gray boulder's under cedars.
I sat on it, age six, and experienced
the expansive fluidity of sight, thought,
light, impulse, and sensation all children
know but don't know they will lose.
I say "that gray boulder," and I know.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Rush Hour Poem
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Rush, Our
Convenience, steel, and efficiency
in automobilian form get reduced
to viscous troughs of traffic, giving
us time to work on futility, self-loathing,
and heart-attacks. Someone named it
the Rush Hour. It's when rushing ceases,
and it lasts several hours; otherwise,
it's a great name. The oligarchs prefer
that we travel this way, stopped
in vehicles built to go, sitting in a
holding-cell atop rubber tires and
with payments due. It's a great system.
It really is. And so sometimes we
lean on the horn or shout at the
windshield, our impotent spit
flying, to express sad rage or
to misbehave farcically.
Copyright 2011
{
[
]
Rush, Our
Convenience, steel, and efficiency
in automobilian form get reduced
to viscous troughs of traffic, giving
us time to work on futility, self-loathing,
and heart-attacks. Someone named it
the Rush Hour. It's when rushing ceases,
and it lasts several hours; otherwise,
it's a great name. The oligarchs prefer
that we travel this way, stopped
in vehicles built to go, sitting in a
holding-cell atop rubber tires and
with payments due. It's a great system.
It really is. And so sometimes we
lean on the horn or shout at the
windshield, our impotent spit
flying, to express sad rage or
to misbehave farcically.
Copyright 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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