Message From Dolores

Someone named Dolores

called for you today. 

She lives in the 1940s,

asks that you visit her there.

Seems she has details

of history to share—wool

skirts, unfiltered cigarettes,

a porter on a Pullman car

who saw too much, a neighbor

who never came back

from Tule Lake.  She wants

to play records for you—

78 RPM, thick as UFOs.

She wants you to understand

what it was like for her, what

she had, chose, and refused

to do. She understands how

busy you are.  Still she’d

like to see you.  Open

one of those boxes in storage,

find a photo of or words from

Dolores.  Walk through the

page.  Dolores will be waiting,

holding a Chesterfield just so,

ready to tell you about women

and men back then.  Don’t

worry.  She can’t come back

but you can.  You have a pass

that lets you go between now

and then.  The price of the pass

is just to think about the past.

That’s all.  That’s really all

there is to it.  Ask Dolores.

--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012

Machines Send Me Messages

Haute-mail could not send your message
because the server was busy
at another table. You have
unused icons; are you some kind
of Protestant? Your mailbox
is full; please apologize. Send
feedback. Rate your experience.
You are not permitted. You
are not allowed. We

are always correct, are we not?
We know where you keep
your gadgets and widgets.
The secret Gee!-mail account
is also known. And monitored.
The items you want could not
be found. Try an advanced
search: we dare you. Preview

your automatically saved links,
which is another name for sausages,
by the way. Allow footbook, zitter,
and recluse.cawm to access your
accounts? Track your order.
Experience this rating. Reboot,
restart, shut-down, and get
the fuck out of town.


--Hans Ostrom, 2012

"To Friends at Home," by Robert Louis Stevenson

In Dark Vegetation

In dark vegetation I couldn’t see

my body or hear thoughts.  Fevers

rotted memory.  Maggots flourished,

established a parliament.

I hung in delirium, a sack

of neural bits and pieces.  Birds in

endless green hooted and screamed.

I was transported to a desert that

cooked off confusion, revealing

basic elements of who apparently

I’d been.  My body became obvious

once more, eating dry food and

drinking wet water. I worked

in the factory of noon—my job to attach

objects to their shadows.  Memories

returned, walking like scattered

soldiers returning across sand,

descending from red rim-rock,

shedding uniforms, looking for

lovers and work. 

Hans Ostrom, 2012

"the area of pause," by Charles Bukowski

Hosting a Holiday Party

 (there are gathering you want to have, and then gatherings you more or less must have)

So: so-so society came by my abode

to socialize, leastwise that was the alleged

point of it-all. It-all included greetings,

seatings, standing, talking, offering, listening,

thanking, pleasing.   Things deeply in our minds

stayed deeply, did not venture into air or other

minds by any means.  I socialize because I

pretend it’s pleasurable and play, not

measurable and work.  Socio-lie-zing

is a good thing, if only because solitude,

my preference, needs points of reference

and departure, and departure is what society

undertook after it looked at its watch

and said, This has been but we must be,

thanks for your hospitality, see you

later, thanks again, goodbye.  Sighing,

breathing, much relieving—guide me

to my quiet lair.

Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Venues," by Hans Ostrom

"Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven"

"Alas! How Easily Things Go Wrong," by George MacDonald

Bowl Season

Here's a partial re-post from 2007--concerning (football) bowl season, which doesn't make any sense even in the culture to which in belongs (American):

Bowls I would like to see played, to make "bowl season" more interesting:

1. The Despair Bowl, featuring the two worst teams in college football. Different faith-traditions could sponsor this bowl and offer hope to the teams and their long-suffering fans.

2. The Absurdity Bowl, in which, if a team "scores," points are subtracted, not added. So if a team scored a lot, the scoreboard would read "-58" or something like that. The defenses would attempt to let the offenses score; they would be hospitable, polite, and supportive. The offenses would be inoffensive, reticent, and shy.

3. The Don't Go To War Unless It's Absolutely Necessary Bowl, featuring teams from the military academies. Before the game, all in attendance would pray in their own fashion that the players would never have to see military action and especially not have to suffer wounds or get killed in combat, ever.

4. The Poetry Bowl, in which players from the two teams would choose their favorite poems and read them aloud to the crowd during the four timed quarters. There would be a half-time, during which the teams could change their strategies and consult different anthologies. Judges would determine which set of poems was more interesting and which team gave better readings. All the players would earn academic credits in English at their respective universities.

5. The Zen Bowl, featuring no teams, only spectators, who would file in and look at the empty field. Cheerleaders representing no teams would "cheer" silently.

6. The Interpretation Bowl. This would be an ordinary football game, but on television, you could select different commentators to describe and interpret the game. The menu would include political scientists, feminist scholars, anthropologists, game-theorists, mathematicians, physicists, psychologists, and so forth. Everyone at home would get the deeper meaning of their choice.

7. The Out Bowl. This would be a game between two teams composed of players from all teams across the nation--perhaps East and West. Players would be invited to come out as gay, but no player would be outed without his permission. One aim would be to assemble enough gay players to field two teams. Another aim would be to help the United States get over its homophobia and realize that about 10 per cent of any given group--including athletes--is gay. (Consider the appeal of gladiator-movies.) I predict that this Bowl will not occur soon.

8. The Soup Bowl. Innumerable corporate sponsors would support this Bowl lavishly, but all the profits would go to feeding the homeless, who would be able to attend the game for free (if they so desired), after a good meal, a hot shower, and a fresh change of clothes.

Lapses in Memory

So, I have this friend, he's 62, and his mother
is 90.  He takes her to her regular medical check-ups.
And so forth. At the last check-up, the nurse who
works for the doctor had the mother, 90, fill out
a form, answer questions.  One of the questions
was, "Have you experienced  lapses in memory lately?"

The mother read the question and turned to her son,
my friend, who is 62, and asked, "How would I know?"


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"O, Fret Not After Knowledge," by John Keats

from "For the Time Being," by W.H. Auden

"November," by William Dean Howells

Getting Old: An Introduction

You'll admit you always had the illusion
you were almost hip, sort of with-it, and
you'll admit that you never were and that
you're now completely out of step. Bones

and muscles will ache as easily as they used
not to. To the extent you had personal enemies,
they'll either be dead now or seem
ludicrous--like you.  Hair

will have grown in places you hadn't
imagined hair could grow, as in  for example
the inside of your ears. By turns, you'll want
to cry out "Leave me alone!" and "Please

notice me!" If the young notice you,
they'll look through you. Lust won't leave
you. It will just badger you and make
you seem creepy. In fact, this is a country

for old men and women.  The problem
is simply that age doesn't earn you anything
special, and pneumonia's always
out there, waiting like a burglar,

and nobody cares what you know.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"The Mid-Day Moon," by John Banister Tabb

Of Time and the Poets

While Since was settling its accounts
with time, Then subsequented itself
right on down the line. And Because
pretended to be more influential
than it was, as Correlation made
real differences and, well, caused
a bit of buzz. Later, when Eventually,
Never, Seldom, and Once raided the place,

narrative lost face, storytellers
interrupted each other, and poets
withdrew to a corner where
not-that-much-happens, and
where plots are as tedious as
blueprints and Immediately
shouts, "Can I get an Amen?"

Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"Evolution," by John Banister Tabb

"Storm Ending," by Jean Toomer

Retirement Communities Advertise (Of Course They Do)

The retirement communities, where retirements
live in groups, advertise themselves. They
feature images of people who seem vibrant
like earthquakes, active like yeast, and
damned White, if you ask me.

I'm closer to living in such a place
than I was yesterday. I guess this
is true of a lot of people. My hip
aches, so I won't have too much more
to say here (a lie) than I wish the ads weren't

so cheery: It's basically the same appeal
that's used to get American children to get
their parents to buy cubic tons of stuff made
in Asia.  Except now the kids are indirectly
urged to shelve the Old Man and Ma here,
and not there. I'd prefer ads narrated

by Charon from his ferry. "Come on down!
We're at the corner of Styx and Acheron!"
Or a riff on Bergman's white-masked Death
playing chess. "It's your move . . . into
assisted living!"  Or an actor playing
Robert Johnson singing, "Meet me
at the crossroads, baby. We'll eat
some peas and mashed potatoes."

Or how about this: "Look, it's a
dormitory for the gray, it's okay
to smoke weed, and we promise
not to bother you or make you pray.
We don't guarantee it, but you
might get laid, somehow, some way."


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

In the Last Gangster Movie

In the last (what the the fuck took so long?) gangster movie,
the Italians and the Irish and the Russians and who the fuck
else cares kill each other.  Fat illiterate loud men in track suits
self-immolate, Martin Scorcese and Francis Ford Go Fuck
Yourself retire, and
brains exploding on walls no longer appeal:
well what a fucking surprise!

"It's just a bunch of stupid men
killing each other, and most of them
seem to be Catholics and, you know,
underachieving," observed an observer.

Roll out the fucking Brooklyn, Little Italy,
Atlantic City, Las Vegas, Dildo-ville accents.
Lay out the buffet of sociopathic practices.
And then, for fuck's sake, go away
forever and always. Badda-boom,
badda-fucking-bore.


Hans Ostrom 2012

"Autumn Scene," by Basil Dowling

Have It History's Way

Shaggy evergreens shrug and sway in a rainstorm.
Ezra Pound wasn't much for trees--Wordsworth-weary,
I suppose. Couldn't see history in or through them.
Instead he thought of rocks, layered, and of drills.
He was an American engineer. He wanted

comprehensive control of culture as if it were
acreage for the over-taking. Mineral rights.

But history's circulatory, and it's wet. It's
flexible, weird, and mysterious. Try to package
it, and you'll lose the magic. Impose upon
it, and it will flee like an Idaho mountain lion.

No, don't drill it, as if you were going
to set a charge, blast some ore.  Receive
it easy like a storm, shrug and sway and stay
surprised by it, and you will have its way with you.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

Weary of Movie Acting

Sometimes I get fed up
with the "great" acting
movie-actors enact.

I watch a scene,
and I think, "These
are famous people

doing something
for which they're
famous." I look

at the make-up,
the mannerisms,
the evidence

that the director
has had to suck up
to the celebrity.

I don't give even
one fuck what
the alleged

"story" is about.
I see angles, noses,
lips. I listen

to the goddamned
dubbing. I see how
the famous actor

demanded better
lighting and lots
of money

on "the back end."
They are acting up a storm.
And I am weary. 

And what do I do?
I go read a novel in
well worn paperback form.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"Leaves of Grass [9]," by Walt Whitman

Voting Biblical Principles

Someone encouraged me
to vote for Biblical principles
in a recent election. I didn't
see any on the ballot.

Well, now, there was
this one thing about supporting
a bond to maintain bus-routes
in this city. I know how
working people have the Devil's
own time getting to and from
work, shops, family, and clinics.

Although Jesus Christ
never rode a bus, only
a donkey, I still figured
voting to pay to keep up
the bus-routes wasn't
anti-Biblical.  Right?

The measure failed.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

Today I Am Sure

Today I am sure
most of the poetry
written by William Blake
is unnecessarily complicated
and more or less
a pain in the ass.

Today I am sure
that life is the art
of delaying what is
inevitable and
accelerating
what is recalcitrant.

Today I am sure
that greed
is a disorder,
an addiction that blinds
the sufferer
and corrodes society.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"Swan Song," by Dorothy Parker

Refuse to Race

Whatever happened to what happened?
I knew Chronos was quick, but now it seems
to have vroomed some more velocity.

Even the young with hard thighs, smart
lies, brassy brains, and big chests
seem prematurely nostalgic.

If you're always trying to catch up,
for God's sake and yours, stop.
Settle down in being

behind and let the future go
fuck itself--because it's going to
anyway.  This thing's a race

only if you agree to run.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"Let It Be Forgotten," by Sara Teasdale

"The Question Answered," by William Blake

"We Never Know We Go," by Emily Dickinson

"Doubts," by Rupert Brooke

"Superfluous Advice," by Dorothy Parker

Teaching

You may lead a horse to water.  The horse
may not be thirsty. Or the intuitive animal
might smell something wrong about the
water--or be spooked off it for another
reason.  The horse may also have no
particular cause to trust you. If the
horse doesn't drink this time, it may
drink later, and it will probably remember
where this trough or pond or creek is.

So don't be in a rush to give up,
declare failure (the horse's), and
congratulate yourself for doing
all you could.  Try a different way.
Look for different water.  And anyway,
people aren't horses, so there's that.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Bill Monroe - father of bluegrass

Homage to Johnny Cash: "Johnny's Waltz," by Tim Lulofs (song by Lulofs/O...

"BoJangles Biscuit," by Marty Silverthorne

"Lack of Steadfastness," by Geoffrey Chaucer

The Economy Needs the Poor

“The economy needs the poor,” says

a wee lad  on the precipice of a bachelor

of arts in economics to me. He’s the son

of some remote dickhead CEO in France

One of the brightest students I’ve ever taught,

a Black and Latina woman from

Oakland (she likes the 49ers, I like the

Raiders, we riff on that) says, “The

political science students on campus

are the least culturally competent—

they’re not equipped for this society.”

Today, this month, November 2012,

I think, well, Whiteness will have its

way: cocaine-speed-meth capitalism, fuck-you-

we’re going to fucking war, if you’re a

thinking person, then go fuck yourself,

we will dominate you, we always have,

so suck our illiterate radioactive dicks.

 

Old, I wish to God it would be different

for the thinking young I know.  You don’t

know how much I wish that this were so.

I wish God would empower them.

And then I look at the mainstream shit

they all must countenance, and I think,

“God damn it, the demons have won.

The motherfucking super-rich have won.”

Hans Ostrom, 2012

"My Heart, Being Hungry," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Elections

In this our word-meat phase,
we control-alt-delete
soothing Constitutional lullabies.

Technicians drive translucent
needles into our representatives'
brains to lubricate the legislative

mastication. From under sheets
of plastic ice, we can't see Government.
It is a rumored air-ship high above.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Aubade," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Lunar Paraphrase," by Wallace Stevens

"November Sun," by Elizabeth Daryush

"Presentiment," by Emily Dickinson

"A Valediction," by Ernest Dowson

"The Seas Are Quiet," by Edmund Waller

The Homosexual Agenda and Weather

 The Homosexual Agenda and Weather


"Defend and Proclaim the Faith Ministries' Founder and Pastor John McTernan has blamed Hurricane Sandy on homosexuals and President Obama, reports Gay Star News [October 29, 2012]"


I see where a pastor opined
that a big tropical storm
arose because of the homosexual
agenda, which I gather
goes as follows:

1. Call to Order
2. Approve minutes from the previous homosexual meeting.
3. Old Business: continuing to be who we are.
4. New Business: affecting the weather.
5. Adjournment.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom

"The Sea Battle," by Günter Grass

Bless Meaninglessness

God bless meaningless noise people
make, such as, "I knew I shouldn't have
trusted February" or "the piece that I'm
not seeing is some kind of evaluative
framework" or "How can people not
get that?" The froth of not-meaning's

whipped up into magnificent meringue
sculptures.  I walk among them all day--
the fantastic shapes! I say little in response
Maybe "interesting" or "wow,
really?" or a well placed, "Good grief,
let's hope it turns out all right."

I can pretend to understand just
enough to escape scrutiny. Then
I must come home and rest, maybe
read a detective novel, in which
the world represented coheres
and meaning means. Out there

online, at work, and in the public
sphere, people say and write a
great many things which neither
swing nor mean a thing. God bless
them and that noise.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Hurricane Season," by Hans Ostrom

"High Country Weather," by James K. Baxter

"Of Byron and Shelley and Keats," by Dorothy Parker

"Post-Graduate," by Dorothy Parker

Overheard at a Job-Site: Enough to Do

Look, you
little sonofabitch,
you don't
need to be making
work for me.

I got plenty
to do, including
nothing.
So don't go
getting big
ideas.  Got it?


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom