Implied Narrative from a Language Lesson

(translated)

Can you please be a little more
quiet? I want to hug you. I
want to kiss you. I need to use
the bathroom. I want to move here.



hans ostrom 2018

Good News: You Seem to Exist

"That there is something is the first, most obvious, and best known thing conceived by our intellect and all the rest follows" --Umberto Eco, Kant and the Platypus 

"I think; therefore, I am"--a bit self-centered,
Rene. "It is, even if it's not what it seems

or seems different depending who or what
records the seeming"--awfully inelegant--
but better? Here's the thing:

something exists. Can I I be more specific?
Can the something? The questions answer
yes implicitly, being more specific themselves.

Here is a word: exits. Exits exist, or seem so to you
and so they do, and therefore so do you, so take one

to a fine and rational place.


hans ostrom 2018

Thumpers

Hail Grace, full of Merry, how
does your garden grow? And another
thing: why are people
who are full of hate and empty
of sense in charge of things?
Is it just tradition?

Blessed art art, at least
it's a vector in which to stuff
the rage of futility, the roar
of despair. Jesus, Christians

have made up a bunch of crap
about you, turning you into
a white supremacist policer of sex
& gender and a lobbyist for guns and greed.
They preach the "gospel of wealth."
No, really. Thugs, they really
thump the love out of the Bible.


hans ostrom 2018

An Under-rated State of Being

Beside a creek, we discussed creeks.
At a table we talked of American
depravities--acidic combinations
of sex-policing, racist hate, and greed.

In a bookstore, we spoke of sex.
In many places, we used language
to evade. Hiding, we sometimes
told the truth. We asked questions

in anger, illness, lust, inebriation,
shock, exhaustion, and fear. We
fiercely expressed certainties
that, seen later, were all wrong.

At our best, we had nothing to say and
said nothing: an under-rated state of being.



hans ostrom 2018

You Take Requests

You're performing every night
inside your head. You play piano,
you play shame. You play

dream flute and percussive
regret. You turn rain into harp
strings and fear into drums.

A low tuba of worry
supports an anxious violin.


hans ostrom 2018

The Talk Artist

She kept talking. I let her talking
be the sound of a creek, an abstraction
made of sound waves.

Then her talking began to sound
like a sea, rising and retreating.
It mesmerized me.

"Does that make any sense?"
she asked. I roused myself
from hearing to answer:

"Yes, and it's beautiful in its
own way," I said, referring
to her talking. That

induced her to talk more.
She was a compulsive talk artist.
She talked as if to breathe.



hans ostrom 2018

Our Magic Shows

I am a salamander.
Your are a butterfly.
You are an eel,
and I am a walrus.

I am a sand flea,
and you are an eagle.
You are an armadillo.
I am an owl.

As you well know,
you and I change forms
quite often, at least in
the magic shows

we improvise so as
to keep each other entertained.



hans ostrom 2018

On Being a Professor

Being a professor
is like being a lounge singer.
It's hard work.

Small crowds
with big expectations.

You develop your act.
Then you memorize it.
Finally it memorizes you.


hans ostrom 2018

Hello, Gray Salamander

Among the events occurring
in the universe today, one featured
a convergence of the life patterns
belonging to a salamander and me.

Ambystoma gracile is the alleged
name of this plump salamander's kind,
habitat--Pacific Northwest. Size of
a small lizard, gray on top, orange

like a fiery sunset underneath.
The head-lamp eyes were firmly
closed, he circular toes
mythically delicate. A chill

had wedged A. gracile between
nap and coma on concrete.
I picked it up by the tail
and moved it near a pink azalea

so crows wouldn't spot it.
It arced its body in slumber
and opened its mouth to mime
complaint before I set it down.

Our meeting has made me
committed to becoming
an affiliate member of the Pacific
Northwest Salamander Society.


hans ostrom 2018

Chewing Moon

As I reached for the moon,
it shrank to the size of my hand.
Then it turned into a disc
no thicker than a sandwich.

Coincidentally, I took two
bites out of it. The texture:
that of sugar granules.
Taste: smoky lemon.

The moon in my hand bled
dark green where my teeth
had seized lunar flesh. Stung
by self-rebuke, I put the moon

back where I had found it, or
almost. It healed in its orbit.


hans ostrom 2018

Bar Codes

Draperies, and some of the folds
bunch together. The merchant
has pulled them across the whole
window in order to hide from customers.

Rain came straight down that day.
At the same time, wind plowed
it into mountains like harp strings.
We were desperate for beauty.

Was the wall in that baked town
painted white at first, with black
stripes added later? Or black
first, white lines later?

From my roasting room across
the street, I kept asking such
questions in my stupor,
in my visitor's defeat.


hans ostrom 2018

It Will Be Our Secret

Tell me a secret. One
that belongs to someone else.
Change the name to prevent
feelings of betrayal--or glee.

Indeed, alter the secret.
Create, embellish. Make
it as rare as you want.
Too weird: What does that

that even mean? Go ahead,
tell me the awful inside
knowledge you've invented.
It will be our little secret.


hans ostrom 2018

The Second Syllable is "Vice," After All

I have some advice for you.
Actually--no, no I don't.
I suppressed it. What a relief
for both of us I think you will
agree. Advice is well intended

only 6% of the time, well
received 3%. As to its
efficacy, that would be
lower than 3%. It's mostly
old news, bad memory, a

control-tactic, a hunk of blather,
or just plain wrong.  I just advised
myself not to give advice unless asked,
and even then . . . .I'm taking
my advice. Someone has to.


hans ostrom 2018