"If he had been one of us, he would have shut up."
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Night rain arrives
from time faraway
fraught with tears.
Glowering in mournfulness,
bowing to howling wind,
she darkens stars and moon.
In sinister whispers
her prosody intensifies.
The shadows are all ears.
Then as she came she is gone,
untraced in eyeless silence
between wakefulness and dream.
it was the same dream:
a roughly human form two-legged and armed
wading empty of matter through
the plenitude of night.
Where nothing meets nothing
there is electric skin.
He named it negative man
after a childhood bogey
haunting a closet.
At the top of the stairs
behind that door—ghosts.
It wasn't until he had been
in the northern rainforest
for nearly six weeks that
he came face to face with Wolf.
He sat straight up out of deep sleep.
Wolf was watching yellow-eyed, wiry and unscrupled.
In retrospect he understood the glance:
wholly ferocious corporeality whose every strand acts as one.
But Wolf waits and watches,
calculates and decides:
if not this night, some other
in endless time ahead and behind.
Coming up from the gorge
smelling of forest,
drowning unpersoned and quiet in it,
not even hearing one's own footsteps--
straight into Deer's motionless stare
not six feet away.
There was no decision to freeze:
just two demobilized for infinite minutes.
He smiles and raises his hand.
Deer bounds effortlessly to the left,
indifferent under uncounted points.
Somewhere in Québec
he walked into the ancient Roman village,
first century or thereabouts, no doubt French,
thus underneath it all somewhere in Gaul.
Stone farmhouses and outbuildings,
tools left leaning by small stone sheds.
The village slept.
Dogs did not bother to bark.
They trusted one another through the night.
At last he is permitted to pass.
Later he talks to his father long distance.
“Would you like to be a senator?” he says.
“A senator? What are you talking about? Have you gone mad?”
“Not that kind of senator,” he says, “and not in these obscene times.”
Blizzard begins like a sneak thief
stealing off with the drab ground.
Soon trees are wearing white wool.
The cosmos is slowly muffled.
He walks quietly in heavy boots.
Every step the world gives way
a fraction of an inch, protesting softly.
Half wild dogs
are the most dangerous.
They run in packs.
They are not afraid of man
because men do not know
their unseen side.
He walks up from the highway
to the summit of a flat-topped hill
and is ambushed by a perfect triangle,
lead dog facing him.
He stands stock still
gripping the walking stick.
They return the favor,
which is: not one inch more.
There is no transcript,
for nothing is said—no word or bark.
He backs slowly between the pickets toward the rear,
right and left, awaiting their captain's orders.
Before he turns down the grade
he smiles to himself.
They watch him all the way
back down to the road.
The captain nods and they disappear.
E. A. Costa June 8, 2014 Granada, Nicaragua
Friday, May 9, 2014
there was no room
to pack snowstorms...
IN THE COLD SUN
RISES LIKE STEAM
FROM THE SEAMS
OF BLACK SOIL
el rocio....(the dew)
In the carry-on
fit only two seasons of four:
summer and winter, dry and rainy.
MANGOS THE SIZE OF CANTALOUPE
(sliced in wedges & eaten like melon)
Toil is a mystery here
like the inconsistent sea.
GLIDING INTO THE NEWBORN SEASON
UNDER FULL SAIL IN ROLLING GALLEONS
Razón y caparazón
Lives ANY snail apart from its shell?
Where is the asylum if not in self?
CREATURES OF THE NIGHT
NEVER INVADE THE DAY.
IT IS YOU WHO TRESPASS.
LOOK TO WHALE OIL & ELECTRIC LUCUBRATIONS.
She is no maid
in luminous brocade
to be nursed or cursed.
She stirs ever so softly
with small-cupped tea
and songs of youth....
IN THE MERCADO THE SILHOUETTE OF AN AZTEC
in the desert dryness of winter
whoever is sane waits for rain.
“it is landscape imaged in landscape, it is the map that is the territory....”
[spits & pisses]
The transience of beauty, the transitoriness,
what is its inverse? The permanence of the ugly,
its Calvinist eternalized universe?
Or does that too pass, giving way again to....
IN THE FAR EAST
SELF IS NOT ATOMIC
Semana santa es la semana
cuando el Cristo resucita y los precios
suben con él.
Where is the suspense in this passion play?
What if Spring never returns? What if bread
never rises (even symbolically)?
Even Christ doubts.
[nothing is resolved by western science: eclipses
have beginnings and endings with repetition only
in their middle]
Listening to Hollanders talk for a week:
they never repeat, just expand like balloons.
They are grandiose in their small-mindedness,
building elaborate dikes and filling all the little crevasses
with their fingers.
BELOW THE LINE OF THE HORIZON
SANDSTONE WALL BECOMES DAWN
LIFE IS A NARROW LEDGE DISPUTED
BY TOURISTS ON MULES
WALKING IS A GLIDE DOWN A LONG GRADE...
What to do with a poem
that roams from place to place
in sub-atomic space?
What to do with a rhyme
that is a hundred years
OVER THE DRY PEAKS
THE BLUE OF THE WIND
IS NO FIGURE
TAUGHT BY ROTE
TO BLINDED CHILDREN.
IT IS A SPECIFIC SKY,
Just between our six tongues
(two searching, two denying, two affirming)
a word that rhymes with lizard
that names a county in Kentucky
which Ferrer is Dreyfus
where in the USSR U-2 was downed....
THIS CREATES SPACE
WHERE A CLOCK TICKS
IN HETEROGENEOUS SECONDS:
arma virumque cáno....
HERE ALL QUESTIONS
ARE ANSWERED TRUTHFULLY
or not answered at all....
There the fruit
you & you.
In this water
Do you smell the lights flashing?
Once upon a time
no one ever invented
Twice upon a time
everyone misunderstood it.
Thrice upon a time
and crickets rubbing
their legs together
Have you heard the babbling books?
Have you seen clothesless nymphs
singing by the still pools of satellite dishes,
This is Narcissus & the Missus
kicking off their shoes
after a hard day's worthless work of 7x8
Darkness is their fortress wall.
Flickering is their intellect.
is all the rest
they ever get.
E. A. Costa May 9, 2014 Granada, Nicaragua
Friday, March 14, 2014
"The essence of parrotry is the realization
that what is called hard is not necessarily hard,
& that called soft not necessarily soft..."
(Pseudo-Gracián, Un cœur simple)
En voz alta:
In the morning a jet black clarinero
picaresquing through void conjured
its name in Spain and summoned up
a cloud of orangutan that ate the sun.
In the evening same raven—for it was a raven--
devoured the moon
leaving only craven shadow
through which to soar unseen.
Por el altavoz:
IS NOT PARROTRY
En voz alta:
The Holy Virgin emerges from the Cathedral
riding a wave of arms and floats around El Centro.
As she passes all cover their eyes
so as not to be compromised. ¿Por qué?
Por el altavoz:
PORQUE (after Buñuel) TODAS LAS VIRGINES TIENEN CULOS
En voz alta:
The sharks return to the sweet water sea
speaking Chinese. Chi fan le ma?
On the grey shore wash up tell-tale cans.
A beggar sleeping on the streets
is translated to Olympus as a pumpkin.
Jack-o-lantern laughs succinctly in Latin:
Veni, vidi, lexi.
Sky rains down a bolt
from the blue.
The word AZUL
in every text
Ash-edged lacunae in sundry editions remain.
It is Sunday.
A young German girl—zaftig--
holding open a volume
behind her back has AZUL
tattooed on her round right
A delegation of clarissimi
is dispatched to investigate.
They confirm the significance of AZUL.
Photographs are taken.
Bystanders are interviewed.
The report is printed, bound & sent
to the Great Pyramid in the CAPITOL.
Por el altavoz:
STEP RIGHT UP, STEP RIGHT UP.
En voz alta:
Gold coins fall from the sky
inseminating selected Danaës.
It precipitates toads.
Blind men speak in tongues.
The lame hear.
There is an earthquake
joining the Atlantic and Pacific.
Night descends in a slurry
of ash and torrential rain.
Por el altavoz:
PARROTRY IS KULCHUR.
(a veces no está demás decirlo....)
E. A. Costa 14 March 2014 Granada, Nicaragua
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
If you want wide go elsewhere
or on your side turn yourself
perpendicular to the pull of the earth
left and right
excavate with your eyes:
dig the sky
and fly into the bowels of the globe
and shrink down
freeze and burn
and in elastic mirth be renewed.
E. A. Costa 11 February 2014
Thursday, January 23, 2014
In the vast night the sky hangs lower than the treetops...
(William Carlos Williams after Meng Hao-jan)
Distance is steps.
Interval is time between.
Space is where unfolding.
Touch stone or water or sky.
That is active voice.
Stand skin against the wind.
That is passive.
Put index finger to nose tip.
That is middle.
Three voices speak in different tongues.
At times all agree.
At times they don't.
At times one or another or all are quiet.
There are different ways to cover
longer distance in equal intervals:
Speed up pace.
Speed up pace and lengthen stride.
The last defines simultaneity.
Look at the reflection in the mirror.
The reflection is not you.
Left and right seem reversed.
If you move, the reflection moves.
If the reflection moves, have you
or is it the mirror?
Walking is a procession of falls.
A foot lifts off the surface,
another lowers down upon it.
Walking is the rise and fall
of left and right.
A one legged man
who hops progresses.
He coils and spings.
He pounces and bounces.
He does not walk.
Crutch or cane serves as leg,
so unveils the triangle,
so unveils the fall,
so unveils the swing.
Effort is expenditure.
Effort is stretching.
Effort is reaching.
Gait is Scots for gate.
Walking is opening
and closing a gate.
Body is joints.
Body is pivot.
Body in movement
is three voices.
Body is swing.
E. A. Costa 23 January 2014
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Gat-toothèd was she, soothly for to say....
is a flight of stairs
and arriving earlier.
A million ironically christened years
learn a new tongue:
how it curls and folds
how it tastes
how it forms sound
springing from inner darkness
how it licks and mocks
how it flicks and kisses and diddles.
Do you deny you are so old?
Who do you suppose you are
Asterisms pivot on point of view.
The department of poetics monitoring the planet
is nigh as the nighest cabaret:
You are eating too fast and too much
and drinking without quality or taste.
Dentition is flawed in upper and lower case.
The prescription is joints as agile as tongue
and lips and much less middle.
Water world is one of the triter ideas
of sly midnight dreaming dry.
Is there is anything more tragicomic
than mentula and cunnus doing time
in the prism of an endless present tense?
Poet-economists are mildly interested
in monkey monoculture
as anteaters lust for termites.
Behold three samples
from the Bureau of Poetic Leisure:
What went on soft feet
rides in exoskeletons
spreading traffic jam.
Juice is chemical.
All interest is abstract.
Sperm counts diminish.
You once lubricated
gaily in night forest.
Nowadays all crawl....
Indifferent poeticrats report:
the species is close to all measure,
thus exiting into illusory and hellish recess.
Eggs never address everything.
If consistent, they are not complete.
If complete, they are not consistent.
Goedel is caviar
seeded in some far future
in another species' past.
That is why he is always cold.
It requires blameless saintly waitress
with a heart of gold and sterling broth
to warm his digits and feed him slow food.
Even Einstein at the speed of light
does not formulate the missing diastema.
Would you like to play chess, planet to planet?
Hold out three hands.
Pick a color.
Reality is technology.
Gravity sends this message.
Levity is the only reply.
There are no shaggy dogs.
All are short, smooth and hairless.
Don't be careless.
And don't be late.
It is always twilight
due to the black and white light
of so many suns.
Day wears spectacles that block black light.
Night wears ones that block white.
In the interval--myriad naked eyes:
she walking white in moonlight
she walking black and shining at noon
she walking on the shore in middle light honeyed
Glassine is an aspect of protein and anatomy.
To see roses use rose.
Any time is plural.
Every time is singular.
Time itself is dual.
The present moment lives
about three seconds
of any order of magnitude
and in any direction.
Sages sleep underground like cicadas
for tens of millennia.
Wake them rudely
& assemble a delegation to ask:
What color is dawn in the womb? What crude color sunset?
They will move their lips soundlessly.
Their tongues will flop like rude fish
in amniotic fluid.
Then they will go back to sleep.
Sex is beyond understanding
as terror metaphysicalizes
and pleasure becomes error.
The planet is green and transparent like a net.
During eclipse eight hidden moons form an octagon
The salt sea swells and foams into orbit.
Literate couple, triple, quadruple or quintuple.
Unlettered rut prepubescently,
are replete with the raw flesh of summer,
inseminate at harvest,
and give birth to Spring.
Night winter rain cools with music, dance, and drink.
Minstrels stroll and sing.
It is the speakeasy between unnumbered blasphemies.
Do numbers have quantity? Do numbers dance?
How many numbers collide by chance on the head of any pin?
Does not Aquinas labor like Hercules through Aristotle
for the pure sin of grand & unthrottled sonoluminescence?
(E. A. Costa 29 December 2013 Granada, Nicaragua)