Thursday, July 5, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Lines for a Brief Meditation
Just breathe.
Thank you.
Fo sho.
Fuck off.
No way.
You bet.
Who knows?
Bite me.
What next?
Why? Sigh.
Sigh why.
Now, then.
Right on.
Let's roll.
Hell, no.
Heck, yeah.
Be cool.
Say what?
Damn straight.
All y'all.
Love, love.
Now, now.
How, now?
When, then?
Not now.
Do this.
Bye bye.
Farewell.
Just breathe.
[Repeat, as needed.]
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Thank you.
Fo sho.
Fuck off.
No way.
You bet.
Who knows?
Bite me.
What next?
Why? Sigh.
Sigh why.
Now, then.
Right on.
Let's roll.
Hell, no.
Heck, yeah.
Be cool.
Say what?
Damn straight.
All y'all.
Love, love.
Now, now.
How, now?
When, then?
Not now.
Do this.
Bye bye.
Farewell.
Just breathe.
[Repeat, as needed.]
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
In City Lights Books, 21st Century
In City Lights Books, 21st century, one young
cashier, trans-gendered, wears a gold silk turban.
There are tattooed Asian characters on each
finger. It is a regal performance of difference
and what's hip. A sign reads,
"Abandon despair, all ye who enter here."
Cute--and isn't that more or less Disney's
message, too? The old Beat bookstore's
a wee profit-center now--"like a library,
where books are sold," but not lended
or given away. Debit, credit, cash.
Truth is, there was as much counter-cultural
spirit in a Willie Mays basket-catch, a Navajo
steel-worker's shift, a Chinese laundry-worker's
laughter, and a Mexican's quick apple-picking
fingers as in On the Road or Howl.
Ferlinghetti's an entrepreneur,
Jack and Allen earned canonical turf,
berets off to them, well done.
In the U.S., youth and capital absorb all cultural
revolutions that can be commodified. Which
ones can't be commodified? The turbaned
cashier asks her co-worker, "Will you try
to keep this job part-time, or just take the
higher paying one?" The latter says,
"Receipt with you or in the bag?"
The best minds of any generation are
widely dispersed, hard to identify,
impossible for any one to claim, and
often not known until much later.
Some minds in bodies pass by the
bookstore in sunlight. The space once
occupied by Jazz at Pearl's is up for lease,
estate commercial, estate real.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
cashier, trans-gendered, wears a gold silk turban.
There are tattooed Asian characters on each
finger. It is a regal performance of difference
and what's hip. A sign reads,
"Abandon despair, all ye who enter here."
Cute--and isn't that more or less Disney's
message, too? The old Beat bookstore's
a wee profit-center now--"like a library,
where books are sold," but not lended
or given away. Debit, credit, cash.
Truth is, there was as much counter-cultural
spirit in a Willie Mays basket-catch, a Navajo
steel-worker's shift, a Chinese laundry-worker's
laughter, and a Mexican's quick apple-picking
fingers as in On the Road or Howl.
Ferlinghetti's an entrepreneur,
Jack and Allen earned canonical turf,
berets off to them, well done.
In the U.S., youth and capital absorb all cultural
revolutions that can be commodified. Which
ones can't be commodified? The turbaned
cashier asks her co-worker, "Will you try
to keep this job part-time, or just take the
higher paying one?" The latter says,
"Receipt with you or in the bag?"
The best minds of any generation are
widely dispersed, hard to identify,
impossible for any one to claim, and
often not known until much later.
Some minds in bodies pass by the
bookstore in sunlight. The space once
occupied by Jazz at Pearl's is up for lease,
estate commercial, estate real.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Don't Write About That
Don't write about that just
because you saw it and saw it
as you. Write about this, the folly
of a human trajectory as it's
superimposed on the universe,
which is a large, ongoing explosion.
Someone will say something
about concrete images, show-don't-
tell, that sort of stuff. People
never weary of it. To you
it will sound like the sound
of a handsaw going through pine.
You'll pretend to listen but wonder
not why someone is talking but
why someone is talking to you.
Write about this.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
because you saw it and saw it
as you. Write about this, the folly
of a human trajectory as it's
superimposed on the universe,
which is a large, ongoing explosion.
Someone will say something
about concrete images, show-don't-
tell, that sort of stuff. People
never weary of it. To you
it will sound like the sound
of a handsaw going through pine.
You'll pretend to listen but wonder
not why someone is talking but
why someone is talking to you.
Write about this.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Fans of Soccer, Fans of Football
To fans of soccer ("football"), American
football ("football") looks like a muddle
of armored giants that periodically
organizes itself, bursts into chaos,
then settles into entropy again. The
field is marked in rows, an accountant's
worksheet, so business-like, so American.
To fans of American football, soccer
looks like a picnic of ants, a tedioous
lesson in futility (hours of no goals). The
field's an expansive meadow ready
for a housing development. There's much
activity and arguing but little productivity,
so European.
To many people, sport means too much,
as do most human activities. We indulge
in seriousness, especially, oh yes
especially where play is concerned.
So European, so American.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
football ("football") looks like a muddle
of armored giants that periodically
organizes itself, bursts into chaos,
then settles into entropy again. The
field is marked in rows, an accountant's
worksheet, so business-like, so American.
To fans of American football, soccer
looks like a picnic of ants, a tedioous
lesson in futility (hours of no goals). The
field's an expansive meadow ready
for a housing development. There's much
activity and arguing but little productivity,
so European.
To many people, sport means too much,
as do most human activities. We indulge
in seriousness, especially, oh yes
especially where play is concerned.
So European, so American.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Her Cool Naked Breasts
Her cool naked breasts:
so lovely to kiss. And
to suck. And her response
to that, subtle moans, a
word, and something like
laughter in her throat.
Then comes a kind
of gentle tumble into
the physical, mental
rest of it, the rest of
it, such riches of the
instants in which
two lives overlap.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
so lovely to kiss. And
to suck. And her response
to that, subtle moans, a
word, and something like
laughter in her throat.
Then comes a kind
of gentle tumble into
the physical, mental
rest of it, the rest of
it, such riches of the
instants in which
two lives overlap.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
At a Restaurant Alone
Sometimes, when
you go to a restaurant
alone, the person
who greets you says,
"Will there be just
one, then?" You don't
know why the future
tense is used. And
you feel as if you've
committed an error.
Maybe, you think,
you should say,
"No, let me go back
out the door and grab
someone so there will
be two," or "No,
there's another person
inside me, trying to
get out," or "No,
set a place for each
of my three
imaginary friends,
in which case there
will be four, then."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
you go to a restaurant
alone, the person
who greets you says,
"Will there be just
one, then?" You don't
know why the future
tense is used. And
you feel as if you've
committed an error.
Maybe, you think,
you should say,
"No, let me go back
out the door and grab
someone so there will
be two," or "No,
there's another person
inside me, trying to
get out," or "No,
set a place for each
of my three
imaginary friends,
in which case there
will be four, then."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
May I Clarinet Your Thighs?
"The formation of substitution and contamination in speech-mistakes is, therefore, the beginning of that work of condensation which we find taking a most active part in the construction of a dream." --Sigmund Freud, Psychopathology of Everyday Life
May I clarinet your thighs
and explicate your savanna? If
you charm it to be desirable,
I should like to alluviate down
on the excellence established
between your doric expenditures.
Listen: Let me emigrate with you
on blue and mahogany. Let us
forest the open-air museum of our
deft velvet, our fragrant fur
and slick, moist rubrics.
Oh, my dearest pungent storm,
please tell me how you'd like your
candelabra ordained in ecstasy!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
May I clarinet your thighs
and explicate your savanna? If
you charm it to be desirable,
I should like to alluviate down
on the excellence established
between your doric expenditures.
Listen: Let me emigrate with you
on blue and mahogany. Let us
forest the open-air museum of our
deft velvet, our fragrant fur
and slick, moist rubrics.
Oh, my dearest pungent storm,
please tell me how you'd like your
candelabra ordained in ecstasy!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Descriptors
bookworm, voluptuary, clodhopper,
fool, lummox, clown, dark horse,
horse's ass, sleeper, empath, recluse,
gadfly, hick, draught-horse, coward,
knot-head, stalwart, naif, hustler,
rabble, contrarian, soft-touch,
laborer, pedant, poet, scavenger,
hack, scholar, idealist, vagabond,
hayseed, addict, loser, winner, dunce,
nobody, cast-off, straggler, pussy-hound,
scribbler, true-blue, oaf, lover, dabbler,
sensualist, mystic, literalist, plodder,
plodder. Plodder.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
fool, lummox, clown, dark horse,
horse's ass, sleeper, empath, recluse,
gadfly, hick, draught-horse, coward,
knot-head, stalwart, naif, hustler,
rabble, contrarian, soft-touch,
laborer, pedant, poet, scavenger,
hack, scholar, idealist, vagabond,
hayseed, addict, loser, winner, dunce,
nobody, cast-off, straggler, pussy-hound,
scribbler, true-blue, oaf, lover, dabbler,
sensualist, mystic, literalist, plodder,
plodder. Plodder.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Stuck in a Blues Song
I'm going down to the river. I'm
stuck in a blues song. Going down
to the train yard. Stuck in a blues
song. Going down the road, down
to a reckoning. Been stuck in a blues
song so long. Gonna get
evicted from an empty place, convicted
of a crime I did not do, and conscripted
to work in just an awful damn job, oh
yes. Going to go down to the juke joint,
where the blades flash and I lose my
cash, stuck in a blues song. Yeah, my
baby's long gone and I'm stuck, no luck,
yeah; yeah, stuck in a blues song.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
stuck in a blues song. Going down
to the train yard. Stuck in a blues
song. Going down the road, down
to a reckoning. Been stuck in a blues
song so long. Gonna get
evicted from an empty place, convicted
of a crime I did not do, and conscripted
to work in just an awful damn job, oh
yes. Going to go down to the juke joint,
where the blades flash and I lose my
cash, stuck in a blues song. Yeah, my
baby's long gone and I'm stuck, no luck,
yeah; yeah, stuck in a blues song.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Entertainment
...The lovely and tainted Matilda,
ladies and rattlesnakes! Please
fire a round of a pause for Matilda!
Next up for your mooing pleasure
is the Present. Watch as two trillion
compressed images hammer your
optic nerve. Staggering is a normal
response. The bleeding will stop.
For paranoia lasting more than four
hours, call a fish, make a wish,
and give yourself an encore. You've
been a terrific audience!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
ladies and rattlesnakes! Please
fire a round of a pause for Matilda!
Next up for your mooing pleasure
is the Present. Watch as two trillion
compressed images hammer your
optic nerve. Staggering is a normal
response. The bleeding will stop.
For paranoia lasting more than four
hours, call a fish, make a wish,
and give yourself an encore. You've
been a terrific audience!
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Desired Things
They're looking in a window
at things to buy. They
couldn't say why
they want the things,
except the items seem
fantastic. The light is such
that one of the people sees
in reflection the ghostly image
of a person who lives
on the street and works
full time at persisting. The
eyes of the buyer hover
on the image of this other
and then adjust to ignore
that light, that image, and
to see through glass again
at the desired things.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2012
at things to buy. They
couldn't say why
they want the things,
except the items seem
fantastic. The light is such
that one of the people sees
in reflection the ghostly image
of a person who lives
on the street and works
full time at persisting. The
eyes of the buyer hover
on the image of this other
and then adjust to ignore
that light, that image, and
to see through glass again
at the desired things.
Copyright Hans Ostrom 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Html: Poem
and so you stand or sit
and drop these packets
of words into the electronic
river. off they float--
and yet they stay,
retrievable, for the river
flows and freezes both at once,
visible to all, theoretically.
in practice the electronic river
is a vast obscuring mass,
an orderly crash
of infodataimage.
these word-packets
are lost and found,
gone and here,
disappeared and
recovered like the legendary
vowels missing from the ancient,
mysterious word, Html,
the pronunciation of which
the imaginary scholars
at Borges University
bicker about over
glasses of claret
in the Minotaur Library.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
and drop these packets
of words into the electronic
river. off they float--
and yet they stay,
retrievable, for the river
flows and freezes both at once,
visible to all, theoretically.
in practice the electronic river
is a vast obscuring mass,
an orderly crash
of infodataimage.
these word-packets
are lost and found,
gone and here,
disappeared and
recovered like the legendary
vowels missing from the ancient,
mysterious word, Html,
the pronunciation of which
the imaginary scholars
at Borges University
bicker about over
glasses of claret
in the Minotaur Library.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Advertising: The Literary Genre of the Age
After, oh, 1920, let's say,
advertising became
the dominant literary genre.
It's stories, images, and ethos
hold culture's imagination.
Advertising's the myth,
the epic poem, the novel,
the drama of our age.
Other genres pretend
at the edges, play at their
old importance. It is assumed
that publishers advertise novels,
especially best-sellers, that studios
advertise films, especially
block-busters, and that other
studios advertise music, but
novels and films and music
and the rest
publicize advertising,
the master genre
that sells space, real
and virtual, and that turns
a profit, which is the god
of our creation myth.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
advertising became
the dominant literary genre.
It's stories, images, and ethos
hold culture's imagination.
Advertising's the myth,
the epic poem, the novel,
the drama of our age.
Other genres pretend
at the edges, play at their
old importance. It is assumed
that publishers advertise novels,
especially best-sellers, that studios
advertise films, especially
block-busters, and that other
studios advertise music, but
novels and films and music
and the rest
publicize advertising,
the master genre
that sells space, real
and virtual, and that turns
a profit, which is the god
of our creation myth.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Monday, June 25, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
Difference-Maker
The universe is big.
It doesn't care. It
goes on forever.
We don't. Still,
today I saw
and heard a woman
laughing. So by
definition, the universe
produces humor and
joy, not to mention
women. That kind of
fact can be a real
difference-maker.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
It doesn't care. It
goes on forever.
We don't. Still,
today I saw
and heard a woman
laughing. So by
definition, the universe
produces humor and
joy, not to mention
women. That kind of
fact can be a real
difference-maker.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
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
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
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
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
Friday, June 8, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
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
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
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
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
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
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
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
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
Friday, May 25, 2012
When the Tongue
When the tongue
touches the perfect
place linguistically
or physically:
an ecstasy,
most certainly.
—Hans Ostrom, 2012
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
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
Tuesday, May 22, 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
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.
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.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
Two Travelers Meet Inside a Phrase-Book
“My name is Carmen,” she said.
“The Post Office is over there,” he replied.
“Thank you! It is one o’clock.”
“Goodbye! How are you?”
“Do you speak English?”
“The stranger is weeping.”
“My factory is on fire. No thank you.”
“Excuse me!”
“That dog is frothing at the mouth.”
“You’re welcome.”
“My passport lies under your thigh.”
“Where is the hospital?”
“The train leaves in ten minutes.”
“Please put this on.”
“Will the coup d’etat last all week?”
“Yes, the museum is my cousin.”
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
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