Four Women

Four Women

The young barista applies
eye-makeup with great care
each morning, early, before
the first coffee-drinker awakes.

The older cashier at the food store
has dyed her hair a bright blond.
She takes her cigarette-breaks
outside the cafe. She once said,
“It comes back around, you know,
if you’re kind—it comes back
around to you.”

From behind the machine,
the barista now watches the older
cashier. The realtor wears
nylons and high heels all day.
She must never appear to be
impatient or weary. There must
never be the smallest flaw
in her clothing. Her eyes
and mouth have hardened.

The blond cashier, smoking,
watches her get into
an expensive car, which
is red and freshly polished.

The high school student
with brown hair that was dyed
black but is now splashed
with green walks past the red
car talking to her phone. Her
clothes don’t fit, aren’t
meant to, and sunlight shines
on the small of her back
and the dimpled top of the crack
between her buttocks. The realtor
and the blond cashier notice
all of this in one glance.

The cigarette’s snuffed out,
the red car’s engine starts,
the barista’s already preparing
a beverage for the talking girl—
something with a lot of sugar
and cream and chocolate and
caffeine—and the talking girl,
who is a woman, now notices,
maybe for the first time,
the subtlety of the barista’s
eye-shade, and with one hand
now tries to pull up the tight,
low-waisted jeans, which slip
back down, and the barista, letting
some steam out of the machine,
says, “Here you go!”

hans ostrom 2012

Welcome to My Year of Living Poetically

Do you ever stop and think about the magic of words? How the hell do we take the static storm of instinct and the velvet chains of desire and articulate them so that we can maybe, just maybe, understand one another in this maze of conflict and confusion?

Do you ever wonder how your fingers find the right keys without you consciously thinking ‘this one, nope over here, yes, that word! That’s the one.’

Do you ever sit with a pencil and freeze from the possibilities of a blank white page?

Words have a will of their own and every time you let them loose, they bring about a turbulent power. Good, bad. Like us, it is all a matter of choice and intent.

Wield them wisely, friends. Wield them kindly. Words are among the last of this world’s wild magic. They should never be tamed or chained.  Just pet them enough that they purr and if you’re lucky, curl around you on a cold winter night.

I am thirty-three years old today and this is my year of living poetically. I will (over)share words with you. Words that resonate with my not-so-sophisticated soul. There will be an abundance of quotes, art, and poetry (all the bad poetry will be personally written by yours truly). This is the goal for my thirty-third year on this earth, to reawaken the delight of possibility by searching and sharing some magical words every day.

 I absolutely suck at follow-through so I hope that by putting this commitment into words, the the magic will sustain us and that you won’t mind stumbling along as we wallow in the enchantment and wonder of words. The feelings they from, the delight they deliver, and their ever mysterious ways. 

The more the merrier. Welcome to my Year of Living Poetically.