Every sentence is brushed water,
instantly crystal ice,
instantly a cloud of steam,
instantly lasting a thousand years.
Do you notice Villeharduoin noticing Dandulo
metamorphosing into Macchiavelli?
Do you notice Baltazar Gracián,
a Jesuit of all things?
Do you notice Rabelais big-gutted
with fine food and drink?
Do you notice Villon?
Do you notice De Sade not noticing De Sade?
But, my friend, everyone who is anyone
and his denial of Duchamp as a mustache of milk.
No? Isn't it so?
“This is no postcard from the edge,” reads Debord's postcard
“This is the edge that cuts.”
E. A. Costa 11 January, 2016 Granada, Nicaragua