goodluck345 COSTA RICA

the phillipino man is telling me about plans and designs as he wedjes a board under the ridge beam for the afternoon pour. I been coming here every morning for the dark coasta rican cofee that they brew strong at 6am, he’s building a traditional tee house by the pool, him and his sous chef cabana boy and maids, they all descend at 6 from some orgy at the top of the pitched roof main house over the kitchen. he’s offered me shiatsu, but a mans hands on my body always bring up unrelaxing questions, so I prefer women to massage me.” I dont think your writting for some internal reason” thats what he says, hes an academic. he doesnt know me. hes living off some phd he wrote in brussels on the theory and language of symbols, but now he just wants to build and plant trees. its a seductive thought for me but one thats never worked out. having a plan that is. im thinking about a baselitz, some young pink boy bearing a club malisciously between prudent gums. the language of symbols can either be sterile or deeply personal, it depends on who you want to commune with. I look out onto the three pools in the garden, there are 6 flagstones that approach them in a rainbow arc evenly spaced bordered by cut crab grass. out here in costa rica. theres a fuckin plan. the tiled pools bear the name blue, probably from bergen wharehouse, industrial kitchen stuff to ward of salmanilla. the river rocks that make up the non skid pavers meet in some 6 inch isthmus between the pools, a qyivering line that lacks weight and sexuality, like a turds falcid cock, or a mesage board seeking platonic playmates. thats as far as a plan ill get you. the red tin roofs of the stucco bagotas remind me of candy cane striped metal awnings in whitestone queens, the wooden icycle motifs under the rafters were cut from panel board and routed one after the other. where are you baselitz, wheres the boy with the club, hang me upsode down in the sun like a grape going backwards. the line of my back, like the belly of mexicos pacific coast is teradactoled and vicious. baselitz new the only hope for the estranged was deeper into the darkness. the dark roast is worth the trip, and like a good new yorker stupidity turns me on. “maybe Ill shoot out to the waterfalls today” my cabin at the vista verde has new sheets, cause the lady changed them yesterday, some kind of indian batik under the black net, and an american quilt motif under the white one. gotta shoot up to limon in a couple days and get my package then down to panama, thats enough of a plan for me, Ill leave the engineering to those more suited to mechanical drawings. “whatcha reading”, david the fillipino asks, his boytoy fixing the fly on his velcro board shorts, Id hate to see that pillow. hes got his feet up on the plastic table smoking under the bogottas ridge beam, the dogs by my feet shake a flea, and the airs getting hot as the sun makes its way down the street. the ocean 10 feet away looks alot like dad did last night, grey and impatient, and my coffees turning cold, the milk like a sour apple hard candy under my tongue.”tropic of cancer” I tell him. he laughs grabs the plumb bob with a spark plug on the end and goes over to the grid laid out where the tea huts gonna be. over his shoulder he chuckles. tico sperm gurgling under his nose. “now thats just nonesense” I want to read him the last paragraph about matisse and god and some russian cunt thats made an appearance the last couple pages, but decide Im not equipped. “good luck with level three four five and whatever else”, Im back down the road before the sun devours this place.