"Ill Luck," by Charles Baudelaire

Jury Duty

We passed through voi dir,

my dear, were made peers

of a rococo realm, with its

perched presider and purchased

persuaders.  We nodded at passing

evidence, became a dozen guilty

buzzards asked to shadow

a creature offered on an altar

called The People.  We heard

arguments open and close

like shutters banging in the wind.

In a room, our opinions

accumulated like snow.  In that

drift was buried our decision,

which we seized.  The facts had

whispered to us, “He is guilty.”

We listened to them and repeated

what they said.  The defendant

bowed his head.  Shadows

of our doubt followed us outside,

where, greasy-winged, we joined

The People leading perfectly

legal lives.

--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012

"By the Pool," by Arthur Symons

"The Cat-Lady," by John Barlas

"Teacher," by Langston Hughes

"Teacher," by Langston Hughes

Experimental Aircraft

[one from Red Tales, another blog I keep]


Once there was a woman who wished she didn't know so many things for sure. She'd learned not to try to convince people of what she knew, for they believed they knew things for sure, too. Arguing fatigued her. Besides, eventualities would demonstrate what was true better than she could: this she knew, too.

For instance, her husband took up the hobby of flying small experimental aircraft. When he'd told her of this new pursuit, she'd said, "I love you, and consider the word 'experimental,' please. When a cook experiments with a spice and fails, the result is merely an unappealing dish. When an experiment in aviation fails, gravity wrecks." Her husband had scoffed. He was jolly.

Later, when he showed her a red aircraft of startling design, she knew the plane would fail--before takeoff, she hoped. The experimental aircraft simply looked too much like art and not enough like engineering to be competent in the sky.

News of the fatal crash shocked her though she wasn't surprised. She grieved deeply. There's knowing, and then there's experiencing. Several weeks later, an attorney informed her that although her husband had intended to purchase more life insurance, he hadn't gotten around to doing so. There was some insurance, some money, but not a lot, the lawyer said. Her husband hadn't secured her economic future.

"I know," the woman said. "It's the way he was, and it's the way things are." She didn't mention how she knew that, as the plane approached the water, her husband had said "I'm sorry" to her, as if she were in the cockpit.

The little red plane didn't have a little black box, so there was no recording of her husband's last words. This absence pleased the woman, for she'd always preferred the knowing over the proof, wisdom over argument, and information over events, which could be brutal.

--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012

"Cats," by Charles Baudelaire

"Zen Acorn," by Harryette Mullen

Two Aphorisms About Poetry

There's kind of a good news/bad news thing about aphorisms.  The fact that someone would write an aphorism, and call it that, and make it public suggests a level of arrogance: "Hey, I'm about to impart some wisdom--uh, pithily."  "Is that so? Well,  I can't wait."

Good news: the pithy part.  It's all over very quickly.

2.. Poetry concerns what most people--for many reasons, some of them excellent--prefer not to think about. Sometimes one of these people reads a poem and afterwards is glad he or she read it and thought about whatever it was the poem concerned.

2.  In one respect, poetry is like petrified wood, for it intrigues not because of what it is but because of what it seems to be.

--Hans Ostrom 

Used to Be a Place

There used to be a place.
Remember? It was a shop
next to that other place we
used to go. That was back
when we knew were to go,

knew who'd be there when
we went, what would be said
and bought and sold. We
knew where sunlight would fall,
but even those angles have
changed since then. So many

places have replaced those places
and so on. That's retail for you:
a series of disappearances adding
up to bewilderment, plus tax.

Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"As If a Phantom Caressed Me," by Walt Whitman

"The Vision to Elektra," by Robert Herrick

"Green," by D.H. Lawrence

Potential Side-Effects

(re-posting this one)


Discontinue taking this medicine if your hair
turns into snakes. If you experience an erection
lasting four hours or more, then we must assume
that, for better or worse, you have a penis;
anyway, attach a small flag to the erection
and declare yourself emperor. If, after
taking this medicine, you start swallowing
pebbles, it probably has nothing to do
with the medicine. Other side-effects
may include spending too much money
on this medicine, the desire to organize
parades, death, twice the number of toes
you now have, a craving for goats' hooves
pickled in brine, and a heart-rhythm
that sounds like the samba. If you experience

a sudden drop in self-esteem, expect
your doctor to hang up when you call,
assuming you can find a doctor. If
you actually took this medicine,
then it's already too late, and an aged,
unbathed shaman will be escorting you
to another zone of time and space--
not necessarily forever; don't over-react.

As with all medicines, keep this one
beyond the reach of lemurs and hippopotami.
If you have any questions, write them out
on a piece of paper and eat the paper.
We're a pharmaceutical conglomerate.
We're not your friend. What
is it with you people, anyway?

Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

When the Tongue

When the tongue
touches the perfect
place linguistically
or physically:
an ecstasy,
most certainly.


—Hans Ostrom, 2012

Thank You, Rogers

Thank you, Rogers, for your fine report
on our profit-outlook. You're fired. It's
a matter of over-head. Consult the
etymology of "capital" and work
on your resume, you diligent piece
of human resources.  As for the rest

of you: Fuck off. I got my bonus,
dare me to justify it, I win, you lose:
I am the point at which nihilism
and profit meet, baby.  There's nothing
like the high you get from sniffing
the spore from the lip of the
titanium-lined abyss.

I go to church, there is no God,
I wave the flag, there is no nation,
I fund a family for whom I'm alien,
there is no nature, it's raw material,
and long-range planning is
what suckers do. Toodle-oo.

The game is to sell tomorrow
today.  Rogers, be on your way.


Copyright Hans Ostrom 2012

Technopressed

He lived his life
along coordinates befixed
and bedazzled by bots, drones,
satellites, servers, monitors, screens,
programs, screeners, and sites.

His life was a program
born of programs composed
in a binary language.

Technology expressed him/
expressed him not.


--Hans Ostrom, Copyright 2012

Conversation Between A and B

A: Would you rather look at an image or read a page?
B: Read a page.
A: What's the wildest sex you ever had?
B: Define "wild" or "wildest," please.
A: (Defines.)
B: (Answers.)
A: My god, I didn't expect it to have been that wild.
B: It was a long time ago.
A: That's a non sequitur. . . . Would you rather talk on a land-line or send/receive "texts"?
B: Land-line. Or send/receive a letter.
A: You mean paper, stamps, envelopes, closing, opening?
B: I do mean that.
A: How many times have you Skyped?
B: One and one-half.
A: Okay, I think we have enough evidence to suggest that you are old.
B: It was a long time ago.

"Satisfaction Haiku"

oh oh oh oh oh
oh Oh oh ohohoh oh.
OH, oh, oh, oh oh




--Hans Ostrom, 2012