Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
And On Forever
*
*
*
And On Forever
A brisk wind blowing
across a high mountain
meadow continues
after I imagine it, after
I die. It goes on and on
forever in that place.
Copyright 2012
*
*
And On Forever
A brisk wind blowing
across a high mountain
meadow continues
after I imagine it, after
I die. It goes on and on
forever in that place.
Copyright 2012
Ghosts Are Comfortable
*
*
*
*
*
Ghosts Are Comfortable
When ghosts want to take a break
from ghosting, they sometimes visit
my place. They know I won't
expect anything from them--
not fright, news, melodramatic
Hamlet-crap, or broken dishes.
To be a ghost is to be
a permanent yearning.
It takes a lot of energy.
I've always understood
that about ghosts--
how hard they work.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
*
Ghosts Are Comfortable
When ghosts want to take a break
from ghosting, they sometimes visit
my place. They know I won't
expect anything from them--
not fright, news, melodramatic
Hamlet-crap, or broken dishes.
To be a ghost is to be
a permanent yearning.
It takes a lot of energy.
I've always understood
that about ghosts--
how hard they work.
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Friday, January 27, 2012
Fact and Miracle
*
*
*
*
Fact and Miracle
The sun stays on
all the time. What
is the difference
between a fact
and a miracle?
I wonder how many
people around
this world tonight are
looking for proof of something.
If you are reading
this, then you are
alive, and that is
excellent news. What's
the difference between
a fact and a miracle?
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
Fact and Miracle
The sun stays on
all the time. What
is the difference
between a fact
and a miracle?
I wonder how many
people around
this world tonight are
looking for proof of something.
If you are reading
this, then you are
alive, and that is
excellent news. What's
the difference between
a fact and a miracle?
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Don't Know, Do Know
)
)
)
)
Don't Know, Do Know
i don't know why. i
do know why. i do,
i don't, know why.
why, no, i don't
know why. i know
why i don't know
why and don't
know why
i know. i don't,
i do, and i
don't know how
it is for you.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
)
)
)
Don't Know, Do Know
i don't know why. i
do know why. i do,
i don't, know why.
why, no, i don't
know why. i know
why i don't know
why and don't
know why
i know. i don't,
i do, and i
don't know how
it is for you.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Lemon Harangue
]
]
]
]
Lemon Harangue
hey, it's hard to do
anything. yeah, but
you have to try. hell,
we all start out as
squirming blobs of
flesh and then
get push-pushed
to join reality.
later we get
volunteered to
join this mess,
society. with
a system like
this, who needs
chaos? for
today, stop
haranguing
yourself, although
it's a good word,
harangue.
do what you can,
if you can, and
know that doing
anything is hard.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
]
]
]
Lemon Harangue
hey, it's hard to do
anything. yeah, but
you have to try. hell,
we all start out as
squirming blobs of
flesh and then
get push-pushed
to join reality.
later we get
volunteered to
join this mess,
society. with
a system like
this, who needs
chaos? for
today, stop
haranguing
yourself, although
it's a good word,
harangue.
do what you can,
if you can, and
know that doing
anything is hard.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Dramatic Noise
/
/
/
/
Dramatic Noise
in the next motel
room, someone's
talking, with volume,
on a telephone.
words get stripped
of their wordness
as they pass through
stuccoed sheet rock.
so what i
hear sounds like
the intense language
of a huge insect
that is related
to a small
electric drill.
it's fascinating.
there's drama
in this noise.
hearing the words
would diminish
that. the noise can
be an argument
about anything.
i'm sad when
the sound stops
and the walls
of the room
i am in begin
to advance on
me, flashing their badges
of splendid, cheap
mass-produced art.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
/
/
/
Dramatic Noise
in the next motel
room, someone's
talking, with volume,
on a telephone.
words get stripped
of their wordness
as they pass through
stuccoed sheet rock.
so what i
hear sounds like
the intense language
of a huge insect
that is related
to a small
electric drill.
it's fascinating.
there's drama
in this noise.
hearing the words
would diminish
that. the noise can
be an argument
about anything.
i'm sad when
the sound stops
and the walls
of the room
i am in begin
to advance on
me, flashing their badges
of splendid, cheap
mass-produced art.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Sydney Greenstreet's Younger Days
*
*
*
Sydney Greenstreet's Younger Days
today i heard
a woman say
of sydney greenstreet:
"in his younger days,
he was probably
light on his feet."
Link: "The Sydney Greenstreet Blues," by Richard Brautigan
poem copyright Hans Ostrom 2011
*
*
Sydney Greenstreet's Younger Days
today i heard
a woman say
of sydney greenstreet:
"in his younger days,
he was probably
light on his feet."
Link: "The Sydney Greenstreet Blues," by Richard Brautigan
poem copyright Hans Ostrom 2011
Wood on Water
>
>
>
Wood on Water
i now set this out
on waters of
Electronic Ocean
like a small
piece of wood--
white pine
i don't know
where it will go
except anywhere
it's particular
now--of particles
diffused
it could end up
being scanned by
an entity in
another galaxy,
a disappointed
decoder
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
>
>
Wood on Water
i now set this out
on waters of
Electronic Ocean
like a small
piece of wood--
white pine
i don't know
where it will go
except anywhere
it's particular
now--of particles
diffused
it could end up
being scanned by
an entity in
another galaxy,
a disappointed
decoder
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Far Away and Above
*
*
*
*
Far Away and Above
If you don't have any
expectations, everything's
a surprise, and the crowd
of disappointments gets
thinned considerably.
So I'm using a day
off as a day off
from expectation.
Just breathing
is an accomplishment--
vital, in fact.
Far away and above,
a light airplane
buzzes in the
ear of the sky.
I hadn't
expected that.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
*
*
*
Far Away and Above
If you don't have any
expectations, everything's
a surprise, and the crowd
of disappointments gets
thinned considerably.
So I'm using a day
off as a day off
from expectation.
Just breathing
is an accomplishment--
vital, in fact.
Far away and above,
a light airplane
buzzes in the
ear of the sky.
I hadn't
expected that.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Monday, December 12, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Love Poem Put Together Before Reading Guidelines for Assembly
#
#
#
#
Love Poem Put Together Before Reading Guidelines for Assembly
I love you very mulch. I mean much. I like
the way your berries ripen on your vines, baby,
and I don't mean literally.
I like your skin. Suddenly that doesn't
sound like a compliment.
Hey, the connection between laughter
and sexual attraction is something
I've often wanted to discuss with
strangers I'm standing in line with--
your thoughts? Words can possibly
express how I feel about for you,
I mean feel about you. That's
what words do--they feel about
and then they express. Like:
I love you! Look how easy that was.
I vow to you that I will bake you an apple pie
as diligently as I would bake it for anybody
else. But to me, you're not anybody else,
okay? I wrap this poem up for you now.
Please take it. I don't want it back. I'm
so fond of you I'd like to fondle you
right away. In other words, totally
in love with you: me.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
#
#
#
Love Poem Put Together Before Reading Guidelines for Assembly
I love you very mulch. I mean much. I like
the way your berries ripen on your vines, baby,
and I don't mean literally.
I like your skin. Suddenly that doesn't
sound like a compliment.
Hey, the connection between laughter
and sexual attraction is something
I've often wanted to discuss with
strangers I'm standing in line with--
your thoughts? Words can possibly
express how I feel about for you,
I mean feel about you. That's
what words do--they feel about
and then they express. Like:
I love you! Look how easy that was.
I vow to you that I will bake you an apple pie
as diligently as I would bake it for anybody
else. But to me, you're not anybody else,
okay? I wrap this poem up for you now.
Please take it. I don't want it back. I'm
so fond of you I'd like to fondle you
right away. In other words, totally
in love with you: me.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Political Sign
^
^
^
^
Political Sign
Visible only for a while longer:
a white, blue, red candidate's
sign (name now inscrutable),
lodged under a green, brown,
yellow mass of blackberry vines,
brush, and ferns.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
^
^
^
Political Sign
Visible only for a while longer:
a white, blue, red candidate's
sign (name now inscrutable),
lodged under a green, brown,
yellow mass of blackberry vines,
brush, and ferns.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Friday, November 25, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
boxing poets
most people don't think
about poets. no reason to.
so many more urgent matters
to attend to.
some people who do think
about poets like to box
them up. this
poet's in the small-press
box, that one's in the gilded
box of anthologized fame,
this one is political, that
one performs, this one's
of the street, that one
from the colleges, this one
is Great, that one must
not be thought of as Great.
some boxes, history
made. we can keep
some of those, let others
of them go. we'll use
our judgment, our
experience. we mustn't
not own up to history--
that is the main thing.
the rest of the boxes,
we can throw out. a
person either writes
poetry, or doesn't,
and the most recent poem
is the kind of poetry
the person writes.
poems don't go to
college or teach there.
they don't drink wine
or work as fry-cooks or
go to war or lie down
for peace and get kicked.
of course, many poets
are only too eager to
jump in a box or push
another poet in a box
because poets are just as
stupid as other people
and often more so.
if you're a poet and
are eager to categorize
yourself and other poets,
you probably need to
settle down.
write a poem. or don't.
read one. or don't.
start from there. work
your way forward. take
your time. surprise yourself.
try this: write one word.
what kind of poet does that
word make you? really?
Copyright Hans Ostrom
about poets. no reason to.
so many more urgent matters
to attend to.
some people who do think
about poets like to box
them up. this
poet's in the small-press
box, that one's in the gilded
box of anthologized fame,
this one is political, that
one performs, this one's
of the street, that one
from the colleges, this one
is Great, that one must
not be thought of as Great.
some boxes, history
made. we can keep
some of those, let others
of them go. we'll use
our judgment, our
experience. we mustn't
not own up to history--
that is the main thing.
the rest of the boxes,
we can throw out. a
person either writes
poetry, or doesn't,
and the most recent poem
is the kind of poetry
the person writes.
poems don't go to
college or teach there.
they don't drink wine
or work as fry-cooks or
go to war or lie down
for peace and get kicked.
of course, many poets
are only too eager to
jump in a box or push
another poet in a box
because poets are just as
stupid as other people
and often more so.
if you're a poet and
are eager to categorize
yourself and other poets,
you probably need to
settle down.
write a poem. or don't.
read one. or don't.
start from there. work
your way forward. take
your time. surprise yourself.
try this: write one word.
what kind of poet does that
word make you? really?
Copyright Hans Ostrom
which doesn't rule
if you feel worse
about yourself after
you go to your job
but are still glad you
have a job, then in
some countries, you're
in the majority, which
doesn't rule.
if you have no hope
of getting a job
you like, or even
a job, then in
some countries,
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.
if you're an american
and have no control over
what america does, then
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule,
and you are a citizen
of a super-power, an
empire, so you do
and don't rule.
if you don't believe
one goddamned word
about your place-of-work's
credo, mission statement,
bosses' rap, etc., you
probably haven't yet
lost all your faculties
of discernment, and
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.
if you've thought about
it carefully and decided
your life has no discernible
purpose except to keep
itself going and get
enough cash and things
to keep you and yours
going, you are experiencing
one form of the modern
condition, and things
could be a lot worse,
and in some regions
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.
if you think another
group of people besides
the groups you are in
rules, then you are correct,
probably, and you are
in the majority, which
doesn't rule.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
about yourself after
you go to your job
but are still glad you
have a job, then in
some countries, you're
in the majority, which
doesn't rule.
if you have no hope
of getting a job
you like, or even
a job, then in
some countries,
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.
if you're an american
and have no control over
what america does, then
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule,
and you are a citizen
of a super-power, an
empire, so you do
and don't rule.
if you don't believe
one goddamned word
about your place-of-work's
credo, mission statement,
bosses' rap, etc., you
probably haven't yet
lost all your faculties
of discernment, and
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.
if you've thought about
it carefully and decided
your life has no discernible
purpose except to keep
itself going and get
enough cash and things
to keep you and yours
going, you are experiencing
one form of the modern
condition, and things
could be a lot worse,
and in some regions
you're in the majority,
which doesn't rule.
if you think another
group of people besides
the groups you are in
rules, then you are correct,
probably, and you are
in the majority, which
doesn't rule.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
the attempt becomes a gesture
the attempt becomes a gesture
the man wearing a thin sweatshirt
and no hat stands at an uncovered
bus stop in freezing rain. he isn't me.
he's trying to light a cigarette. his
attempt becomes a gesture--
ludicrous but noble, less than
tragic but not bad at all.
he's inside whatever being alive
is for him, and i'm inside what
being alive is to me. i see him
from a warm place out of the weather.
if i were like jesus i'd go to the
man and perform a miracle--
like getting that cigarette lit,
or giving him money,
or giving him my parka, or
embracing him. he might
like all of that. except for
the embrace. he might
bite my nose off for that.
i don't do any of these things,
because it's easier not to,
and it's acceptable that i
think i'm not his keeper.
at moments like these, i
think of Bukowski,
who--i gather from his
words, i never knew
the man--thought like
jesus sometimes, i mean
with a similar toughness.
tough on everybody--
including, let's say especially,
the reflective, ignoble fuckers in
warm parkas out of the
weather.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
the man wearing a thin sweatshirt
and no hat stands at an uncovered
bus stop in freezing rain. he isn't me.
he's trying to light a cigarette. his
attempt becomes a gesture--
ludicrous but noble, less than
tragic but not bad at all.
he's inside whatever being alive
is for him, and i'm inside what
being alive is to me. i see him
from a warm place out of the weather.
if i were like jesus i'd go to the
man and perform a miracle--
like getting that cigarette lit,
or giving him money,
or giving him my parka, or
embracing him. he might
like all of that. except for
the embrace. he might
bite my nose off for that.
i don't do any of these things,
because it's easier not to,
and it's acceptable that i
think i'm not his keeper.
at moments like these, i
think of Bukowski,
who--i gather from his
words, i never knew
the man--thought like
jesus sometimes, i mean
with a similar toughness.
tough on everybody--
including, let's say especially,
the reflective, ignoble fuckers in
warm parkas out of the
weather.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
in the wheel
in the wheel
my Aunt Nevada kept a chipmunk
in a cage. it got fatter than other
chipmunks even though it ran
in its little wire wheel. we kids,
we liked watching the chipmunk
eat and run. that chipmunk is nothing
but molecules recycled now. i thought
of it today. at home, i know the truth
and value of being no one and nobody.
detachment. then i go out there again,
and one way or another, i get suckered
into running inside the wheel.
call it ambition, work ethic, pride,
fear, making a living, compulsion,
whatever. it's a wheel. i think the big
difference is the chipmunk
knew it wasn't going anywhere. it
saw that clearly. this running and
going and wanting credit for running,
they're worse than the Sisyphus-deal.
he had a task. he went somewhere.
he didn't want or seek approval.
how many billions of us are stuck
in the wheel? hell, i have it good.
i know that. but
it's a wheel,
and it's less than
absurd.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
my Aunt Nevada kept a chipmunk
in a cage. it got fatter than other
chipmunks even though it ran
in its little wire wheel. we kids,
we liked watching the chipmunk
eat and run. that chipmunk is nothing
but molecules recycled now. i thought
of it today. at home, i know the truth
and value of being no one and nobody.
detachment. then i go out there again,
and one way or another, i get suckered
into running inside the wheel.
call it ambition, work ethic, pride,
fear, making a living, compulsion,
whatever. it's a wheel. i think the big
difference is the chipmunk
knew it wasn't going anywhere. it
saw that clearly. this running and
going and wanting credit for running,
they're worse than the Sisyphus-deal.
he had a task. he went somewhere.
he didn't want or seek approval.
how many billions of us are stuck
in the wheel? hell, i have it good.
i know that. but
it's a wheel,
and it's less than
absurd.
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
box store
box store
a box store isn't
where they sell boxes.
it's where they sell stuff
they bought "in volume"
and marked up only as far
as the stuff would look
cheap.
i go to one of these
stores. it's where retail
items get one last chance,
like habitual felons.
i buy two bars of
Cashmere Bouquet soap
there because i need soap
and i've liked that name
for decades and it's a two-word
surrealistic poem.
the husband of the woman
in front of me in line to pay,
he's disabled. he leans on
one cart while she unloads
the other. they're around 40.
she hands him his retractable
cane, then unloads 2
rugs, 9 bags of gerbil food,
and 10 boxes of cereal.
as the cashier shoots
the items with his laser-gun,
he says to the other cashier,
"when do we get help?"
the woman in line ahead
of me to pay says, "are
you hiring?" the cashier
does not look at her and
says, "we just hired some
people. there's an application
over there." i watch
the disabled husband. he
keeps his game face. he refuses
to look ashamed. he looks
out but not down. i think
he was hurt on the job. badly.
like his leg is permanently wrong.
he still wears the jacket
with the label of his company.
his hair is neatly trimmed.
the cashier says, "will
that be credit or debit?"
the husband says, "debit."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
a box store isn't
where they sell boxes.
it's where they sell stuff
they bought "in volume"
and marked up only as far
as the stuff would look
cheap.
i go to one of these
stores. it's where retail
items get one last chance,
like habitual felons.
i buy two bars of
Cashmere Bouquet soap
there because i need soap
and i've liked that name
for decades and it's a two-word
surrealistic poem.
the husband of the woman
in front of me in line to pay,
he's disabled. he leans on
one cart while she unloads
the other. they're around 40.
she hands him his retractable
cane, then unloads 2
rugs, 9 bags of gerbil food,
and 10 boxes of cereal.
as the cashier shoots
the items with his laser-gun,
he says to the other cashier,
"when do we get help?"
the woman in line ahead
of me to pay says, "are
you hiring?" the cashier
does not look at her and
says, "we just hired some
people. there's an application
over there." i watch
the disabled husband. he
keeps his game face. he refuses
to look ashamed. he looks
out but not down. i think
he was hurt on the job. badly.
like his leg is permanently wrong.
he still wears the jacket
with the label of his company.
his hair is neatly trimmed.
the cashier says, "will
that be credit or debit?"
the husband says, "debit."
Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom
Sunday, November 20, 2011
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