Man In Store Standing In Front of Mops

Lots of mops for sale, I see.

Some end in rectangular sponges
(harvested from rectangular seas?).

Some end in wigs of rope, some
in plastic absences to be filled by
the legendary "sold separately."

If I stand by these mops too long,
I'll worry someone. But where would
I go? Not to the meat department,

certainly not to the carnival
of cereal boxes full of sugar.
Perhaps to red fruits and green

vegetables? For now I'll stand
and stare, thinking of my grimy
floor, and I will try "acting normal"--

a strange state of being.

hans ostrom

Move

Move through dew

on grass like an eel
muscling itself between
canals. Move

into light and shadow,
the dappled landscape
of your life. Ride
like a child

the silly contraptions
of commerce--escalator,
elevator, metro, & sad,
sagging bus. Keep

going, knowing
you're probably not
going to get anywhere
special fast, except Here.

hans ostrom 2023

Ineffectual Hell

If Hell exists, Hitler

must be there, and Stalin,
and slave owners....

So what? Hell can't undo
evil's horrors, unkill
the slaughtered, comfort
those battered to death
by racism and hatred of women.

The most hellish thing
about Hell seems to be
how useless it is.

hans ostrom 2023

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For the Number 12

No one liked eleven,

an ignored child. But you,
twelve, they doted on.
You wore the 2-more-than-10
like a crown. You came

to denote half a day, a
year, a box of moons, a
site for mid-day meals,
a gang of star-gods.

The military treated
you strangely--turning you into
"straight up"--or zero,
when time begins again.

You became midnight's lover,
noon's boss, the clock
in a church or a brothel.

You were born even grander
than 10 and live between it
and the squad of teens,
alone except for your odd
sibling, eleven, who loves
you no matter what
and see you as the end
of childhood.

hans ostrom 2023

That One Night When You Were Eleven

Cold and dark already,

before dinner time, the long
bus ride up Sierra mountains
leaving you stunned: some years
later, you'd say "bummed out."

Your brothers--gone to suburbia
for high school. Your parents--
no longer in love. Outside--
true darkness of a wilderness,
your neighbor.

Boring homework, an hour
of TV (a single shaky analog channel
survived the canyons), books
in bed. And one night when

you are eleven, semen surges
out of you. The feeling scares, thrills,
and soothes you so much,
the door of a spaceship opens,
you enter, and you begin your journey
to a galaxy of women and orgasms.

You smelled the strange smell
of cum. You lay still in darkness.
If you said anything, you probably
said, "Wow," or "God." And time
and space rolled on beyond the mountains.

hans ostrom 2023

The Dark Matter of Love

Physicists know what dark matter

does but not what it is. (So it's like
love.) It exerts gravity like mass--
a bunch of matter. It's probably
made of particles because what isn't?

Otherwise, the scientists know nothing,
call it "dark matter" for now, and watch
it work, doing their galactic math. I

love her. I don't know what love's
made of, but I know the force it exerts
on me, and what I do for her
because of it. For me, that's good
enough, and of course I assume
that particles are involved.

hans ostrom

Gravity Tune

Scientists, that crew,

which and who change their
minds based on evidence (a wild
concept), have heard the thrumming
waves of gravity rolling
through the universe. This
music isn't new. Our
hearing it is. Hey, maybe it

runs the tune to which God
boogies--or maybe not:
I'll await the evidence. Meantime,
it's somehow fine to know some
among us have heard paced pulses
that mass pulls through space.

hans ostrom 2023