When?
What do you mean?
How come?
Where is it?
Why should I?
Who cares?
Why bother?
What the Hell?
How, exactly?
Where did you get that idea?
When may I expect an answer?
How much?
What's going on?
Where are you?
When did it happen?
Who found him?
Why did she leave?
Who knows?
Why me?
How long do I have?
What are the odds?
Where will I go?
When?
--Hans Ostrom, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Friday, October 19, 2012
Reaganomics and Its Metaphors
A link to an older post about the rhetoric and images of "Reaganomics," from my other blog, which concerns politics and language:
http://politicsandlanguage.wordpress.com/2010/05/04/reaganomics-in-the-portmanteau/
The post's title is "Reaganomics in the Portmanteau"
http://politicsandlanguage.wordpress.com/2010/05/04/reaganomics-in-the-portmanteau/
The post's title is "Reaganomics in the Portmanteau"
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
This Digitation
An ant on a twig in a flood
can't conceptualize all that wet
force, nor can I even fake-imagine,
that is to say bullshit my way through,
what this digitation of being-human
is-or-means. My eyes and hands
sometimes attach themselves
(they are mammalian)
to that screen or this, and
this touch-screen or that
keyboard are twigs in the
something, which is of a something
else inside a whatever it may be,
which is purveyed retailishly.
I'm no more than a furloughed
extra in one of coding's lesser
dreams. Maybe you're an electric
fruit-fly, nothing personal. Maybe
we're real holograms, or holygrams,
merely faking ironic asides on
shit they call social media.
Perhaps most happenings now
pour forth frothily from corporate
virtualizers. That G to the P to the S
can pin my point doesn't mean
I'm being or that I'm found.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
can't conceptualize all that wet
force, nor can I even fake-imagine,
that is to say bullshit my way through,
what this digitation of being-human
is-or-means. My eyes and hands
sometimes attach themselves
(they are mammalian)
to that screen or this, and
this touch-screen or that
keyboard are twigs in the
something, which is of a something
else inside a whatever it may be,
which is purveyed retailishly.
I'm no more than a furloughed
extra in one of coding's lesser
dreams. Maybe you're an electric
fruit-fly, nothing personal. Maybe
we're real holograms, or holygrams,
merely faking ironic asides on
shit they call social media.
Perhaps most happenings now
pour forth frothily from corporate
virtualizers. That G to the P to the S
can pin my point doesn't mean
I'm being or that I'm found.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Alive, I Am Allowed
Alive, I am allowed
to perceive large pieces
of whatever this stuff
is we call the world.
Today (what is today?)
I feel the arrangement
to be such a strange
and temporary contract,
one I never signed
but one I greedily fulfill.
Sunlight comes under
blinds, a jet plane high
sounds like an air-duct's
mumble, and later I must
go collect some things to eat.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
to perceive large pieces
of whatever this stuff
is we call the world.
Today (what is today?)
I feel the arrangement
to be such a strange
and temporary contract,
one I never signed
but one I greedily fulfill.
Sunlight comes under
blinds, a jet plane high
sounds like an air-duct's
mumble, and later I must
go collect some things to eat.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Precise, Indifferent, Fluctuating
Hiram liked to piss outside in any season.
There's little reward in asking why.
It does have something to do with men.
Inquire of them. Or not.
Hiram, in socks, no shoes,
pissed outside in a rainstorm.
He said to himself,
"This is outstanding. It is right."
As urine flowed through
his cock into sodden grass
lit dimly, he thought, "One
trouble for humans is
that the universe is
absolutely precise (he
was looking at things
that could be only
what, when, and how
they were), in constant
flux, and indifferent to
human preferences.
Hans Ostrom 2012
There's little reward in asking why.
It does have something to do with men.
Inquire of them. Or not.
Hiram, in socks, no shoes,
pissed outside in a rainstorm.
He said to himself,
"This is outstanding. It is right."
As urine flowed through
his cock into sodden grass
lit dimly, he thought, "One
trouble for humans is
that the universe is
absolutely precise (he
was looking at things
that could be only
what, when, and how
they were), in constant
flux, and indifferent to
human preferences.
Hans Ostrom 2012
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