Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Canon For Time War—Pars I: The RR Xing.


                               “I want to make a film in which
                                 the audience is hunted down and killed.”

                                                                Aaron Zomback


Changing tempo is not changing time.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

Changing tempo is not changing time.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.


In changing tempo time remains the same.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

In changing tempo time remains the same.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.


Clocks are lobsters.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

Clocks are lobsters.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.


Shoes talk and see.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

Shoes talk and see.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.


You left your feet in the automobile.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

You left your feet in the automobile.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.


Your eyes are televised.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

Your eyes are televised.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.


You whirl around the second hand.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

You whirl around the second hand.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.


The hour remains the same.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect.

The hour remains the same.

Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect....


Doppler Effect....



E. A. Costa 8 April, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

The Space On The Bat Room Floor (Van Vliet Again)


My nose here.
Her rose there.
Your toes bare.
Our rows share.
Their clothes tear.
Daisy chain puller.
Puller. Puller.

E. A. Costa 7 April, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua
________________________________________________________________ 
* "Green chain puller" was a worker who pulled raw, green
lumber off the line for sorting. Later "chain puller" was a
worker who fed into or removed material from automatic
machines or machines operated by another worker.  Don
Van Vliet never explained his use of the term "chain puller"
but it is still a commonly used job description in certain
industries.

Monday, March 2, 2015

Salida de los poetas invitados hacia el aeropuerto


                     Cuando por mí descienden y se agrupan
                     anchas temperaturas matinales,
                     y han gran fiesta cerval en los caminos.

                                                      Eunice Odio

I.

They fall through attenuated clouds

from all points of a tiny map:

Laplanders singing reindeer,

Tobagonians on water skis,

Icelanders rowing inflatable longboats.


Arrived, others sum:

“We! We poets of the world! 1, 2, 3...n + 1,

We the invited--Nosotros los invitados!”



II.

“Long ago,” says a pair of yellow shoes,

“I had a long talk with Professor Morelli.”

“Who is Professor Morelli?” asks the red dress.

“Professor Morelli is dead,” answers the shoes.

“When did he die?” asks the dress.

“I don't know,” answers the shoes, “in fact
he was dead when we had our walk.”

“I see,” says the dress.



III.

Growing fingernails and beards,

in sandals and shaking hands,

wearing berets, scarfs and tropical shirts,

patting one another on the back,

strolling, eating and drinking,

smoking, hawking books and autographing,

they read viva voce and try to raise the dead.

It is less fiesta than carnival in the streets.



IV.

“Professor Morelli used an alias,” whispers the shoes,

"He was a critic of Renaissance painting.”

“I see,” whispers the dress, “but why are we whispering. No one hears us anyway?”

“Why not?”



V.

It is February

(Februa Romani dixere piamina patres)

when social evils--la arrogancia,

la soberbia, el desamor, & el machismo)

are specimened, cleansed, loaded into a coffin,

and marched to the sweet sea,

where they are dumped unceremoniously

like so much middle class plastic.

Beggars, mystified, watch intently.



VI.

In morning coolness
by the sweetwater sea
a boy on a bicycle
leads a chestnut stallion
galloping behind
on the long slack rope....

The radio blares:

¡ATENCIÓN! ¡MUCHA ATENCIÓN!

Las Señoras Arrogancia y Soberbia son muertas.

Los Señores Desamor y Machismo son muertos.

The funeral cortege is leaving from the Church of Mercy.

¡Descansen en paz!



VII.

Roundtables
(no knights)
Books Fair
(and unfair)
Craft(s) & crafty.


“POETIC IDENTITY CARNIVAL”
(thematic racemes of ego)


Folk dances, music, recitals.


LOUDSPEAKERS & Privatized Enterprise
(including hard and soft sell):


¡Es tiempo para dar vivas al amor!


¡Viva amor!


¡Es tiempo para la ESPERANZA de una humanidad
más sensible, más justa, menos violenta!


¡Viva esperanza!”



VIII.


“Are you a poetess?” asks the shoes.


“I am not invited,” responds the red dress.


“You speak English, it seems.”

The dead speak no natural language.”


“Aren't we speaking English?” says the shoes.


“You may think so,” says the dress, “but what
would your Professor Morelli say?”


“Robert Frost says that poetry is what is lost in translation”, says the shoes.


“And Vincente Huidobro says poetry is what is translatable”, says the dress.


“From and into what?”


“Exactly. Professor Morelli retails
that the most identifying features
of a great painter's work are minor details
churned out reflexively, like ears.”


“Ears?”


“Yes—earlobes too.”



IX.


Domingo, day of rest—before dawn:
the rhythm of a push cart
on the fastidiously laid
paving blocks of the street,
horse trots, motorcycle rasps,
loud speeding trucks, a few automobiles.


Stray dogs bark in the local dialect.


Bicycles add to a silence everyone hears.


Cock crows.



X.


Face finely carved marble, tresses long and black,
lips painted fire-red like the dress.


“What's your name?”


“My family name on earth is Hate.”


“Hate? Your name is Hate?”


The dress, long and shoulderless,
flows behind as she turns and glides away.


Tú soñarás conmigo esta noche,” she says
and is gone.



XI.

The invited collect apophoreta & depart for the airport.
They disport, they shake, they embrace and disappear without a trace.
The winged word is avión.



XII.


By the open door
of the Iglesia de Guadalupe
a young man draws the ropes
rhythmically like oars,
rowing the sound of bells
throughout the town.


Vultures soar over freshwater waves churned by high wind.


One shoe says to the other:


“Look!”


She stands on the beach,
white naked vapor
facing the sunrise, arms raised
in supplication:


Arrogancia! You are the overweening hubris of our seas fresh and salt!


Soberbia!--you are our mad and invincible pride!


Desamor!—you are the intricate wiles of our mind!


Machismo—you are our bravery and courage at any cost!


The beggars, mystified, listen carefully.





XIII.


The yellow shoes awake,
rub their eyelets left and right
& gaze at one another in fright.



E. A. Costa 2 March, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

The State Of The Barnum


                   L’information, c’est la poésie du pouvoir
                                                                Guy Debord

Tonight we turn the page.

Combat over. Thank you
for your service to the one percent.


Be we freer than any nation
to write “future”.

Ben and Rebekah home to dinner every night.

New tools to stop bailouts (until the future).

Middle class work.

EARN my veto.

Everyone gets a FAIR shot.

Let's get back to World War I + II

'Wages not the job of government.
Waging war the job...'

I want I want I want....
Not everybody gets.

Let's write, “Bright future”
100 times on the blackboard
 which is green.

Thank you God.

E. A. Costa  21 January 2015  Granada, Nicaragua

Friday, January 16, 2015

El Capitan (Scaled)


….the testimony of the other climber
                in the Jurassic Records....


Called well who climbs as a duet
with nineteen fingers up a spell
of particulars like razors in concrete.

It is a chess game and a logic tree
branching luxuriously in the brain
done as endless tasks and mindless pain.

It is a game of go, of place and area,
where the other side doesn't care
except to stand granite-still and stare.

But this is day. At night under ancient moons
the frozen face becomes a high white sea strewn
with glowing shadows hewn two-faced out of stone.

Of those monuments it is decreed: he will never speak,
and only find again as times gone by on another peak.

E. A. Costa  15 January, 2015  Granada, Nicaragua






Sunday, January 4, 2015

Logica Universalis


Being just anybody is a thankless task.

Everyone asks questions but no one wants answers.

What they want in the end is approval:

that anyone is the exception, and they the universal.

Eugene Costa 4 January 2015 Granada, Nicaragua

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Ritornelle


                         “Tell me more quickly what I lost by this....”

                                                                (William Empson)

In endless undressed summer
we kissed with the same lips,
shared the same secret,
slept in the self-same dream:

The cream and music of her skin
is an aria in heat, coloring and flushing,
blushing and cooling, turning burnished
copper in the sun.

In immeasurable tryst she sweats
& glistens like a harlot at full gallop,
twisting and arching, murmuring and squirming,
burning luminous through the night....

Who numbers how long a while it lasted--
how many suns & moons, how many comets and eclipses,
how many solstices:

It is an opera of two characters in search
of welded flesh, with spacious entr'acte
in equatorial Africa, horned and prickly,
voracious in hunger & lioness' bloody lipstick....

How long was the desert night and cold sand,
with rattlers and scorpions under darting feet,
dancing the self-same gypsum in one intoxicating beat:

It is the ballet in which the ballerina first discovers hips,
snaking locomotively under the severest, gravest star,
animating a sandpainting diagrammatic with hourglass hours...

Does anyone know when winter came, when music fell
frozen to the snow?

Which physicists, which mathematicians name the cosmos
where self-same twice-born near invisible smile persists
through burning eyes of ice?

E. A. Costa 3 January, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua