Visit Blog
Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.
#david joseph ostrowski
writelikefools2021 · 14 days ago
Text
The Best Mint Julep I’ve Ever Had - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 30
i do not want that fresh air of living outside of new york
i do not want the green that comes without the city’s encroaching mewing legs
perhaps the city makes the natural necessary perhaps the the city is the natural
the piece of guarded lens you didn’t know was going to change your life
for the better or for the firmness of being a body living life
fully and with a bravery a courage that doesn’t know how to stop
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 15 days ago
Text
End of Big Earth - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 29
the silver slate of the swear word for goodness couldn’t have anything less to do with putting out to pasture the slightest bit of boy or other some sort of human being that would wage its war against the stain of sanded down body be it body of land or man or salt saturated water and then the fern is with leaf and the the cliff is with rock and it’s all roped off and there’s no way getting to it volume of cop and rabid dog is parasitic and i can’t stand it the word is just a letter and the paragraphs are ripping up until the moment the cheered up moon disappears into its own exceptional suspect darkness
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 16 days ago
Text
This and Many Other Islands - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 28
new york can come out of nowhere it can protrude and harden from rock
and sterilized crystal and woken glass and sand and hand and shattered earthquake
old begotten buildings of the unpaid and unfortunate the underclass of the overlords with battered wages
oh the work to sterilize the earth of tended brown man hand to slice the rock and pillage the already tended soil
to come down hard and never go up again to river and then to psalm out from salted slaughtered valley
open palm and clenching fist now pewter now rainbow or gold now everlasting end of relief to hardship or some other thing
to cliff face and ribbon and rope and beginning again same old chord changes you can’t miss you’d know them anywhere
here in the coming end with light of sun and break of day is this the verb for revelation is this a sign
oh permeation of dying entity will you not entice my rhythm oh idling car and bespoke townhouse virtual reality simulacrum
what wave and winding orifice is this the uncontrollable island that is new york and anthill lust and symposium dirt and dust-ridden mantle
however high the flame of candle whips it is bound to do so violently
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 17 days ago
Text
The Land of the Brave - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 27
going well for you, is it, in the land of the brave? i sat through funerals and festivals and haircuts and elevator rides,
and nothing of value happened and i don’t think i was all that blessed. i never jumped ship, and perhaps i’m not all that better for it.
devise you your stunted riddles, your handmade truths. perform you your miracles—there are no mindful eyes watching.
i slopped through the mud on my way to stealth hell, and dripped through the roof like a leak in the living room.
television glass and static touch for the rangers and airpilots, and snickers bars and carports for the rest of us.
how old the stout city of concocted languishing nuances; how cold and blisteringly feverish the orange sun
convalescing with her ocean crash and bow-backed mountain ranges? on the ode and after the smart kindness.  
the world drinks its syphillic water.   the world bounds and rebounds.  
the world doesn’t need this land of the brave—it ensures it.
howling in the distance, a man explains, “we are in a relationship.” by no greater good than his own, the man sighs and lays his head down for nap.
elsewhere in same brave land, random brown man outside a rite aid begs a passerby for money.
when turned down, brown man ridicules passerby for stealing. he is called a name.  he is right in his accusation.
again, same land, different place on that same land— a woman with gnarly fingers coughs on the subway, craning neck,
bathless and above water.  she is gotten away from by any and all those that perceive her like a damned spot out.
i can conceive of greater things than to be forced buried by whatever dark amniotic monster is soon to be birthed
from this bloodsoaked, crisscrossed, stolen land. way out across my body from you is the other end
of the thick and bad bed.  we sleep tangled and shoelaced— imperfect and perfect, complete and incomplete.
there are other countries, other lands.  they listen in; they don’t. there are movies at play, radio dramas, still lifes.
on and on its rivers they go, braving their way, getting in the way of mine. the strangling, struggling, strawman arguments of it;
and then the normal and haphazard and great goodness god glory of it. the fascism gets contained in the puttering stuttering heart of it.
it doesn’t brave anything.  it doesn’t compare. it contains multitudes.  it will never amount to shit.
the land gayly responds to its own silly, small-minded norms. there are valleys composing soliloquies for me; for you.
there’s nothing to say.  i can’t consume fast enough to keep up with these bodies of water.  i can’t live weakly enough
to thrive in this heap of hay fever and boom box problem. the taxes are sky high.  brave me this constant that turns
its stereo too loud, too boom, too on that no one can care, no one can think, no one can listen.  maybe the song rings true
the same way that the evidence of what are things has died in an everlasting and neverending way.  the same way
that the soon and sad things are harder to bury, harder to let go off.  the brave land is sloughing off its weird skin.
it will double over and go back again.  it gets dirt in its hair. it tumbles.  it tricks.  it fools.  it divebombs.
the land and its cities have been laid out to pasture by those forced to give labor to it, to birth it till it comes.
next time i see you we’ll both be laid up together, trembling our breaths together, sloshing our sweat together.
next time we’ll have to have more of that stuff—the kind you don’t know what to do with; i’ll show you what the fuck to do with it.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 18 days ago
Text
The Word - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 26
the word was is and he had it pouring out his mouth
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 19 days ago
Text
All Three Birds - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 25
the biggest slide is from top to bottom
this film is an examination of all the eeriest and weirdest parts of being considered stranger or being wanted at least likely part of being wanted because
maybe the ruthlessness of the heart is worrying about loving someone tonight
and how it is you’re going to do that
and what it is you’re going to do when you do that
there are always easier ploys than having those two birds in the bush but if you can ever make it happen try to get three or more birds
you don’t have to let go of what you’re holding in order to pick something else up
4 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 20 days ago
Text
I Didn’t Write a Song - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 23
reflecting turn of glass and sky with papered fern cast wide and lengthy shadows on the carport roof of rust and spade like some consolation for lack of sun or lack of shade
i fell asleep on the car ride home with only ten minutes left and two miles to go her lawn was filled with all kinds of debris wide-mouthed jars and gnome heads looking up at us
the moss it grew over everything and now mosquitoes burn in their ivory-covered lemonade the population ten to one i’m not a fast learner but i’m gunning for a quick result
it may have been cowardice but it was something to do in this podunk town there is nothing to do the ghosts of the highway stumble back to their subliminal homes and trailer car graveyards
he comes off as an asshole some of the time but if he hears you acknowledge that he may cry he might shuffle his hands like a deck of cards and burn down like a house and shatter like a stem of wine
i didn’t leave notice i just made leave explaining explanations just seems like a waste of irony and i’m no good at meta analysis so attaching more metas feels sort of redundant
he may not be the lover she needs at this time but the sex will be better and half the price for the nerve of the win and for the steel of the nerves i ought to remember there’s no such thing as deserve
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 22 days ago
Text
Pavlov’s Dong - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 22
the story isn’t that i knew from where the bell sound came, but rather that i came to where from the sound of the bell.
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 23 days ago
Text
Everything a Squirrel Can Do to a Tree - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 21
the prolapsing of the perfect watermelon culminating in the career of a podcaster collecting the stories of real truck drivers and their changing world with country guitar and warm saloon swoon harmonica talks beef jerky and big contracts and peterbilts and environmental crises and cdls and edls and the digital reservation of the e-log and the crank or meth or jesus they use to keep awake and everything you see in the store and everything that you buy online and the inner workings of the organism of the american innerstate highway system with its writings and collidings and halibut ridings and salmon cooked on semi engines and the truck that changes the person versus the person that changes the truck and the public relations of it with the uber freight and the embracing of technology and the loss of jobs and the difficulty of lifting and the aging of the drivers and the grip of corporations and the politics of the southern state and the utilization of restrooms by truckers with disabilities and the rating of docks in an app for drivers and the sex workers who live on the blowjobs they give to truck drivers and the families who wait for their drivers to come back home and now the ice is slick and the unions are dying or the sun is too hot and the unions are protesting but the iron is on fire and it will never stop striking and woody guthrie lives in the margin singing a solid strife song about something american as much as it is unamerican but there may just not be time for those encounters anymore
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 24 days ago
Text
Untitled - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 20
the workday is a hard beak, a wide beak, and a tall one too.  tops for getting it right
on your first try, for being browner than the sun and happier than its shine.  when
you get your feet wet, i worry you’ll get hard, like the beak of the day, or like the
sun does to leather.  i worry you’ll wear out like a pair of green mowing shoes.  i
worry you’ll turn to paste, having to conform to the whiteness of the brownness of your
weathering.  but i don’t want you to go away. don’t turn to rain and wash out your
shining sun.  don’t pale.  don’t do what’s required of you to persevere.  change
what’s perseverance in order to require. can you see that your sun is brighter
than all the others?  can you see the brown of the other leathers?  that’s the whiteness
of their paste drowning in your shine. it is up to you now to heal them back to light.
the beck will peck and gouge and snip at you.  turn the beak to a kiss.  lift up your
beautiful brown working hands.  wage the war of everlasting kindness.  you can take the bus.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 25 days ago
Text
The Midwest Ghost - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 19
little glitter of the sun’s sands now boast, do they over the shadowed falls of the midwest coast. in rain and fall and caterwaul, in sunset trees and shit of bees, the warping wind and fire flume casts its goodness and its doom. lovely lecturing beanstalk and avenue and riverwalk. tenement and country car or burial and city bar. liver’s wasted saturday charms are highway’s lips and desert’s harms. trash in heaps and hay in bails, while runners win and a schoolboy fails. lastly castaway dilapidated malls with water’s puddles in its halls.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 26 days ago
Text
The Burning of the Bread - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 18
older than day and collapsing in the mouth teeth to the wall but nearly half as straight welling up with moonface and chattering away wine and lipstick glass on white paper placemat
child fingered gelatin a rotten ruby red sound of metal tongs some silver on the stem little apple rind and little crystal man the power of the range is smoking through the room
wellfire flume to richer poorer make chewing shelled meat mountain in microphone again shower in the cast iron liquored up with marks to telephones with friends and ivory tinkling
the horns are going smaller than pirouetting gem the right words to describe the nose of what it is the naked slobbering sulk of keeping the peace hour in the fountain containing tongue and cheek
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 27 days ago
Text
The Charming Young Dictator - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 17
had a lovely day in the mind cellar and saw sleeping there the big old unsatisfied vertex of an unfinished shape.  meanwhile, the paper was boring and going to bed wasn’t as i remembered it.  the perfect sight would be relinquishing everything. in so many words, that is precisely what i decided was required of me.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 28 days ago
Text
Man Who Writes Songs Good at Job - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 16
likely it’s the dashboard where you forgot your shirt intimation of a theme that no one understands now it’s just the novelization of every street light turn it down backwards just to turn it up in the deserted quiet night night kitchen deserves a pilot light i can still picture the verse until it goes away every day needs a replacement and sometimes side by side perhaps as a reminder if that’s what it deserves the moon is loaded light and did we see it naked the pine covered that moon we did not see it naked as if the pining was a restoration of the silver water’s edge but if it is i cannot judge i thought i knew what happened but it was years ago reveals in street light all these people watching windshield shows unafraid of getting caught in recklessness and bother september catches up with them in orbit madness bright the tightness of a stretching tom photograph is slated to appear in this the filming of sightseeing taking all these years to go all these people love to stand we do not see them naked the picture reflects them naked
the picture reflects them naked we do not see them naked all these people love to stand the filming of sightseeing taking all these years to go photograph is slated to appear in this madness bright the tightness of a stretching tom september catches up with them in orbit unafraid of getting caught in recklessness and bother reveals in street light all these people watching windshield shows i thought i knew what happened but it was years ago but if it is i cannot judge as if the pining was a restoration of the silver water’s edge the pine covered that moon we did not see it naked the moon is loaded light and did we see it naked perhaps as a reminder if that’s what it deserves every day needs a replacement and sometimes side by side i can still picture the verse until it goes away night kitchen deserves a pilot light turn it down backwards just to turn it up in the deserted quiet night now it’s just the novelization of every street light intimation of a theme that no one understands likely it’s the dashboard where you forgot your shirt
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 28 days ago
Text
I Thought That I Heard You Laughing - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 15
winking at me lonely longing cincinnati tireless spinning it is winging in the punch and all the pins get set up like clockwork a burden to behold and so weighty it’s got me laughing i’m too slender for this burgeoning dream
waved away like a siberian plague with a flesh too cold for any dead things to crawl on so that all the dead things are dead past their dying too dead they are laughing beyond crying i’m too inoculated for this powerful lie
wide open and shrieking cincinnati a movement distorted and wicked and ready for their punch and poison frozen hell or something better than laughing i’m too necessary for this towering sky
whyever should i care when you scream where would i even run to hear it if we lie here we can hear the trains of cincinnati from a place above it higher than the feeling of laughing i’m too novice for this somber news
well i thought i heard cincinnati singing because i thought i saw the world fall apart all the seas and their stars receding it is a place beyond the sound of laughing i’m too childish for this animal odyssey
we won’t be making it in this televised town it’s like the hollywood that opposes hollywood and i get shaken from my punch-addled dream with a screaming that only comes after laughing i’m too joyful for this happy good-bye
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 29 days ago
Text
You Happened in My Lifetime - David Joseph Ostrowski
radio and airwave doing wrong night of little vastness and a towering-above-me kind of noise bullied vinyl plastic and perplexed light shears on the driver’s side the truck is backing up again the town is closer than the river’s waste the scenery of holy high and lowest low we are rambling beneath street light viscosity of troubling the water’s edge it is your hair parting ways voided like a star of days millennia ago coiling in the sheets at night and rustling pillow feathers they let me ride in the bed i’m plotting nervous encampments naked the yards are all awaiting you we’re looking up to the headlights of warning highways from the sun at night we pissed away in the street lights like the children we were years ago can you turn up the radio i still remember you naked against the body of the rattling truck like two women in a painting does the mood strike you to wrap around me like a snake to squeeze me still from breathing to reduce my lifelong struggling we are the scales of the water’s edge the serpentine winning of the killing snake but the truck gets decommissioned and the radio was busted testament to the waistband’s shifting but you happened in my lifetime the story of the drive is a bandit sandwiched between memories of kissing and raising other children remember being children remember being naked remember the street light
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · a month ago
Text
Hindsight - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 13
we didn’t have psychics working on our team we were just small little warlords on our own making plans we went against whatever grain we could find we didn’t have the forethought that would scare someone
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · a month ago
Text
A Handful of People Looking Up - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 12
the black rock quarry is an amazing place to look up at perpetual night sky and stare
and the interstellar message projecting its molecular conundrum and hazardous speech
with all the self awareness of a two cell fetus with all the stopping starting of a two cell fetus
so we have the greetings of the humpbacks in undersea finality and outer space wilderness
like discovering the mouth on one’s own face like coming alive after experiencing death
the big deep bubbling darkness is filled with pockmarked light and parading dancing silence
except maybe there are crickets and maybe birds perhaps there’s a wave unseeable as a particle
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · a month ago
Text
Being Koi - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 11
little strangeness in the pond is happy— looks not to be ragged, looks to be fond of swimming; happier now than would to be something somewhere else.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · a month ago
Text
But She Would Never - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 10
my mother would always talk about how she wanted to live in a house with a bench in a big bay window but she would never consider living in a house old enough to contain any of those things
my mother would always talk about how she wanted to live in a house with a built-in breakfast nook and an island countertop in the kitchen but she would never consider living in an urban environment where a house would contain any of those things
my mother would always talk about how she wanted to live in a house with french glass doors to a den or study and white crown molding around the perimeters of all the rooms but she would never consider living in such a way that she would intrinsically deserve any of those things
4 notes · View notes