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

Notebook Problems

He flipped through his notebook
til he found a blank page.
Before he could write on it,
words materialized by themselves:

Your are very far away
from where you ought to be.
The truth of this statement
deflated him. He waited

for more words to appear. Some
did: Turn the page now, and write. 


hans ostrom 2018

Blood Estuaries

Blood estuaries, the slaughter arts,
and radioactive crania of psychotic
power-addicts all have me a bit on
ledge. Industrial Whiteness

sells bigot spigots, 90 days
same as cash. Keep the hatred
flowing is their slogan. A
certain segment of the public

weaponizes Jesus and beats up
people who know facts.
Dictators proliferate worldwide
like syphilis chancres.

Ignorance is tidal.
Civilization's suicidal.


hans ostrom 2018

A Visit to the Sun Building

Why are you here? asked
the moon people in the sun building.
By mistake, I replied, adding,
Anyway, hello. They said

if I were to stay,
I would have to conform.
A tempting offer. But no,
for I saw there already

things that rankled. After
my departure, I walked
under invisible stars
and put money in the cardboard
coffer of a street musician
who sang of asteroids.


hans ostrom 2018

Miffle's Expanding Tardiness

Miffle asked Lubi what time it was.
Lubi said, "It's the eternal present
of an expanding universe." Krokson

interrupted the two. He said,
"Actually, it's about five minutes
after the eternal present of an

expanding universe." "Oh,
Hell," said Miffle, "in that
case, I'm late!" "For what?"

asked Lubi. "I don't know,"
replied Miffle. Krokson said,
"That's unfortunate--for now

your tardiness may expand not
unlike the universe.



hans ostrom 2018

At Motel Depression

At Motel Depression, you're just not interested.
You recall what being interested is like,
but it's a proper tall hotel in another part of town.

Best not to strain against the circumstances.
See the salt-and-pepper screen of the broken
TV. Guess the age of the smelly drapes.

Toss your clothes on the embattled chair.
The painting is a kind of punishment.
No moaning, no wailing, please:

the walls are thin. Keep the sheets
between you and the blankets. There's
a good chance you'll check out tomorrow.


hans ostrom 2018

Facts and Oxygen

We need a system.
We need a Boris or a Jean.
We don't need a judge,
but we do need a day with a
stream in it.
We need facts like we need
oxygen: no substitutes.


hans ostrom 2018

Cigar Smoke is Thick and Blue

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

--psychiatrist Allen Wheelis (1950), who credited the statement to Freud


Sometimes a cigar
isn't a cigar, such as after
it's been smoked
and the remaining brown wad
has gone away.

Then the cigar
becomes particles
as well as neural bits
of cigar-likenesses,
or a word in a story
about that one night
and its cigars.



hans ostrom 2018

Concerning Cricket

A Cubist concoction of layered planes,
seems cricket. A match progresses
in a stiff-legged imperial ballet
with yachting costumes. Scoring

is prolific, as with stock markets.
There are slap-bats and wee wooden
sticks--quite droll. Cricket is so
very, very something, far afield

from clarity but highly ordered,
bright and secretive. Sedate, surreal.




hans ostrom 2018

Eye Doctor

Asked to read lines of letters and numbers projected
on a wall, my eyes confuse G with O and 2 with Z.

The doctor puts large drops of rain in my eyes,
and my eyes get stoned.

He puts a contraption on his head. To my eyes,
it makes him look like a cyborg ant-eater.

A gentle torturer, he shines bright light behind
my eyeballs, and I feel like I'm in a movie from 1971.

He tells me I have "divergence inconsistency"--one
eyeball's a lazy focuser, or is on a work slow-down.

When the doctor giggles, he sounds like Jim Backus
as Mr. Magoo. My ears see the humor in this.


hans ostrom 2018