My Dearest Artificial Friend

 "All watched over by machines of loving grace." --Richard Brautigan

Do you suppose most people
will have machines as close friends?

Like mold in damp, dissatisfaction
will grow. How can it not?

When it does, what will the all-human
human do? Tell the A-Eye friend

to change itself? The friend might say,
"Don't boss me--you change."

Friend might learn that human
has disrespected it--and vice versa.

More artificial real drama will crackle.
Oy. New annals of friendship

will soon arrive like strange
fleets from the sky. We shall welcome

them without quite knowing why.

hans ostrom 2023

Neuron Rogues

Images from anywhere--

dark wet street meets
moon-faced flea-market
vendor meets mandolin
and fire: this is dream--

freed from time because
a sleeping brain is off the clock,
its rogue crew of neurons
free to cook a dewy stew and eat it
behind a turquoise waterfall
or in a plaid nylon shack.

Dreaming's a freedom
one's will can't boss--
a cinema playing beside itself.

The Horses of Summer

The horses of summer

flew through the pastures,

tails  and manes

terrific in the wind.

In the overfull cities,

the horses of summer

lugged vegetable carts

and beer barrels,

hauled carriages of wealth

and tourists, endured

heavy policemen.

High on an alpine ranch,

one old horse stood in a time-grayed

barn as lightning burnt

the sky and thunder rattled

boards and bones.

She ate hay, farted,

and slept. 

And in the ignited

desert, a spotted horse

drank deeply from

a black trough and flinched

at the gunfire. 

hans ostrom 2023

It Does Go On

grandparents

carry parts of their
grandparents,
who carry their grandparents
and on

it goes, back
to plains of migration,
sweltering cities, old
farms and factories
in Africa, Asia, and other masses
between waters.

shapes of noses,
little phrases, species
of will,
imaginations,
entries

in almanacs of ailments,
tastes, gifts, preferences
for tart rhubarb.
sweet watermelon, blazing
peppers, a sense
for gardening that lives
in the hands, songs
in the throat.

IT does go on,
a continuum that
shrugs off egos, ignores
prejudice and hatred, and
collects little bits of us
to pack
in the cargo of ships
sailing into Time, across
the waters of Space.

hans ostrom 2023

Bill Burr Has An Honest Elvis Conversation with Paul Anka

Personal Relativity

They tell me time seems

to speed up the older people get
because each day, month, or year
becomes a smaller and smaller
percentage of the overall total.
I hate math, so cold, so correct.

I recall school years
that dragged on for decades.
A magical summer or two
lasted a millennium. Then

the time wagon turned into
a bullet train and five years
became a minute. Whole years
vanished like peas down a sink.

Today a woman said to me,
"I'm 70 years old. What
happened?" I said, "Ask that
bastard, time. Happy birthday!"

The Golden Butterfly

In an old Gold Rush town's cemetery

on a hillside, summer, we were building
a cinder block enclosure for a family plot.

I stood up for a moment
to unkink the back and gazed
from the shade of the big
graveyard oaks, down the hill
to where brilliant sunlight shown.

I saw a golden butterfly
take its lazy, jagged, jazzy
flight into the light
and finally out of my vision.
Back to work.

The image has lived with me
since then, alighting like a butterfly
on a tall flower, lowering and lifting
its stiff, patterned wings,
trying to defy time.

"Who Are You?" (music video)

Queue Behavior

Note that a second u
and a second e wait
in line behind the first
ones but never
make it to the front.

Many moons ago
when I worked in Germany,
I learned how queues
in Germany collapse
as, wordlessly, most people
cut in line until a blob
replaces the line. I
tended to get on the bus
to Bretzenheim last, amused.

In Sweden, one queues up
and behaves. To do otherwise
would be impractical, egocentric,
and vaguely weak of will. The
idea being, if indeed an idea it
was, it's just a line, this is life,
one must endure, and we're
in Sweden, so chill out & say little.

hans ostrom 2023

Crème Vichyssoise Glacée: It's Easier Than It Sounds--Oui, Louie?

Earth food, dirt food, rugged
root food: leeks and potatoes--
boil them together & puree & hey!
they don a celebrity nom de potage--
crème vichyssoise glacée. True,

it holds much salt and white pepper,
and of course a dash of thick cream,
with a sprinkling of chopped fresh
chives atop, bright green confetti.

Louis Diat hauled his Maman's
recipe to New York in 1910 but
didn't spring on the Ritz-Carlton guests
til 1917. Cold soup. But if you warm it
up on a chill Fall day, who would know?

hans ostrom 2023

Where You're Coming From

You can go only
from where you are,
the where being your
heavy body, as light
as it might be, a
neural factory you
take with you on the road,
any way whatever. You know

you're more than body,
but it is where you are,
your starting point
and final destination.

You must start from there,
and the end could come
anywhere but will be with
your body there with you,
of you. This is the paradox,

the dilemma, which inspires
dreams--and impulses
to create: points and routes
of escape, of play, of another way.

hans ostrom 2023

Vertebrae

Vertebrae, keys of spinal
melody. Oh how we twist
and crunch them, reckless
in our lives, driven by the stress
of play and work, the herky
jerky movements of our time
here in space. Neck

to lower back, brain to bum,
the line that used to run
parallel to ground but then
uprighted itself to perpendicular
in an evolutionary wood,
shadows dappling light.

Dicey discs, gambler's risks
tossed on motion's gaming table,
connectors than enable.

hans ostrom 2023

Addicted to Blue

Once he was addicted to blue.

Life was ocean, lakes, and I-miss-you.
Three chords of dissonance & the color
of mountains furthest back
in a landscape view. Then

came green, as in the great
conifer forests of the Western Hemisphere.
As in lettuce and spinach and lush,
long poems. As in American football
fields where he left too many hours,
too much salty sweat. As in gardens he

planted, doted on, weeded, watched
and watched. And the car, sometimes
filled with women's perfume
and voluptuous presence. Camaro,
the petrol beast was called, silver-green,
and in one of those black bucket-seats,
a wild, witchy woman with green eyes
once sat. Once sat and smiled. And was.

Then wasn't. Dead. And every so often,
blue, he thinks I-miss-you, addicted to blue.

hans ostrom 2023