COSTA RICA
BLUE BOOK POEM #1
22 September 2016
All the way through -
Over raised formed forked tree roots
That dig into the ground
The way human hands would
All the way through -
Near coiled snakes lying
Near the the cleared path
All the Way through
Under the thick forest canopy
Enough to blanket from the sky
Wave away the sun
Because he cannot enter here
Wave away the rain
After his first light raps
All the way through - her
entrance anyhow
Loud and round and presence:
She made everything grow.
All the way through
Hard boat shoe squelch
On volcanic ash
Gnash with a scratch
And a puddle splash
To match
Dirt on our hands,
Hands and legs
All the way through -
To Costa Rica’s largest tree
With roots like barricades
Walls, raked high and flat
With elephant aged folds
And thin trees
That cling like newborn
babies -
Squeeze for mamas milk.
All the way through
To the top
Where nothing is actually finished
Where Mt. Arenal
Is still shrouded by fog
Where it is trees and fog
Endless sky and
Nothing.
All the way through
Some invisible parted lips
Inhale and inhale and
Expose the lagoon,
Inhale and inhale
And expose the base
Of a giant
And inhale:
The peak foaming at its mouth
ON THE CARTAGO BASCILICA
October 2016
A bent bronze left arm
A tarnished silver eye
A heavy pair of metal lungs
Permanently inflated
I sell all these parts and pieces
At the mouth of a church Dribbling
angel gold
The mouth of this church,
Dipped in Arabic conquest fashions,
Doesn't tell that story of appropriation right quick.
"Remember my roots though
This is pure Christian."
One lady who is white-
bloused and smells like the water from roses
walks on bent knees
through ornate corridors, past divine stained
glass and biblical scenes.
She
will stop at the foot of an ivory pillar
Somewhere before la Negrita
Built up so high on a throne dripping with god
(Because when the conquistadors took land
in the name of gold,
the son of god became the sons of greed
and no one really separated the two)
La Negrita is bleached white by a sun beat heavy with greed
She is la Virgen de Los Angeles
dripping in god
And gold had nothing to do with it
And god has nothing to do with this
When the white bloused woman is finished she is hallowed out and is still not enough.
So I yell SAINT FOR SALE!
And I get all the looks
An arm here a leg there
And I get all the looks?
Maybe because they are spit shined and sun dried
With that old greed
Maybe because they empty out the pockets
And weigh down the prayers
and no one
Knows how to set either free .
Someone must have told them
The god we agreed on
Enjoys these bits and pieces
I know It wasn't me.
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