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


                         “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