A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.

Wednesday, July 24, 2019


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Jacaranda Tunnel.

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What it is is two Jacaranda Trees
planted along the same longitudinal
on the south side of Inglewood Blvd.

They post up fifty feet into the air,
dusky, purple billows, that tumble into
a momentary tunnel over sidewalksides.

It's their takeover factor, sheer spectacle,
dueling cumulus branches, that toggles my awe
into something more feral and focused than zeal.

Except, I've come to put my infant son to sleep.
And, stumbled upon this enormous lavender aberration,
and, now, have to keep from erupting in the sharp sun?

Under the trees themselves, carpeted mauve wilt
that stains paint jobs and tinges the makeshift tunnel
drawn by the two Sumo jacaranda trees straddling Inglewood.

The mid-management palms grow away from las Jacaranda gemelas.
In fact, you won't find a plant not perturbed by the brightness
of their tasteless display, vegetation can be so shameless.

In the middle of the Jacaranda tunnel is a mail truck.
It is parked at the mouth of the tunnel on the other side
of all this purple, but there is no mailperson in sight.

Saturday, May 11, 2019


Immigrant Croupier
by Yago Cura

My great, great grandfather was a Lebanese ocean croupier.
Rolled the dice on Argentina as payout with my tatara abuela.
Debarking Buenos Aires, tongues calloused by Spanish knots,
they handsplained their way through racist-ass aduanas.

Teleported themselves to the middle of the country to secure dough.
Raised a family flanked by immense grass deserts of desiccant wind.
Without their gamble, my parents don’t ante on that freight ship’s hold.
They don’t overstay tourist visas, or buy a house in Brooklyn to fill with din.

If neither I nor my sister are born, the junta wins, and my parents lose.
The existence of this very poem becomes ensnared in red date stamps?
Relax, I make it to California because my tatara abuelos establish abuse
of odds as their hedge in the face of exile, erasure, and military gavels.

It is not luck which brings me to the brink of this continent
to commune with my predecessors, and polish the wilderness
of their bruise.

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Oda al Masche

Maradona says the squad is you plus 10.
In interviews, he amps you up by calling you a pitbull
(he should’ve called you a dogo).

What Maradona’s ig’nant-ass means is that there
are few who will sweat or bleed more
for the Albiceleste than good, old Masche.

Quizas, what Maradona doesn’t have the nuance
to say is imagine how far Argentina might get
with an entire squad of Masches?

For Christ’s sakes, you’re only the second
Argentine in the world with two gold medals!

And, little beast, your slide tackles are guided,
precise strikes, all-in, all-ball, that leave strikers
blubbering indignities to the ref.

Your instep decimates plots, foils chance volleys,
serves to redirect possession, served to bulwark Barça’s
almost impenetrable perimeter.

You bark at the strikers and bark at the lumps
and somehow are always dragging forward the threshold
of a dire future we are about to escape; you’re known
for bringing teams back from their brinks.

Masche, 8 years you built at Barcelona,
3 or so at Liverpool, Corinthians, River Plate
and now, Hebei China Fortune Futbol Club?

Back to Pellegrini, I guess, your trainer at
River Plate, your salad days at the club that
broke you and Tevez off, so you fools might shine.

Sure, you lost some time at West Ham.
You might have developed a mild case of soul cirrhosis.
Guardiola might have molded you into something you don’t like,
a solid, center defender, but people say Masche
and that stands for something, it means something resolute.

Masche stands for slide-tackling Robben’s incursion in 2014,
even if it means tearing your anus; Masche means limping off field to fanfare.

Masche stands for frustrating divas like Ronaldo with a little too much contact
because every cop’s got to have some criminal in her and every criminal has got
to be able to think like a cop.

Thursday, June 15, 2017


Jamila throttles into the lobby of the library; there is blood in her eyes, which forces her to squint deep.
She wants the name of the motherfucker that told her mother the only place she can work is Dollar Tree.
She wants his name, his motherfucking badge number, and the FICO score of his old lady.

I tell her I am the motherfucker she is looking for, which comes out all wrong (I don't clinch the emphasis).
But, that I never would have told her mother the only place she can work is Dollar Tree. I tell her, I told her.
I told her that the only place that might accept papers applications in this neighborhood is Dollar Tree or Family Farms.

Jamila in a NY JETS jersey and sparkly sandals; Jamila, tough customer on a vendetta query, looking through motherfuckers.
Jamila, all employers force applicants to pilot their websites, so they can assess their protocol-pulse and proclivities.
Jamila, I would like nothing more than to be the motherfucker that helped your mother get a job, but I can't.

Bring her to my computer class on Wednesdays so she can learn some new skills and come hang out in the air conditioning with us.
Jamila, libraries love your mother, libraries love mothers in general, libraries are full of motherfucking mother-lovers, Jamila.

Monday, June 12, 2017


Cavity, After Death, 2017
by Jesús Aldana-Alba

This is ugly music for ugly people with ugly friends who like it that way. Now, I’d never heard of Cavity before being asked to review this album, so, I’m not going to be comparing it to any of their past efforts.

I’ll start by saying that, “After Death” is reminiscent of so many other records that have done that sound well. Nonetheless, it is far from a mediocre endeavor. Whereas Sleep is heavier; Neurosis more intellectual; Boneworm, more psychedelic; and, Sub Rosa and Pallbearer, more elegant, Cavity’s latest is as reliable as winter rust.

By the 3rd track “Fangs On Beyond” the album begins to sound exactly like what you might guess it sounds like from the title: a couple of bare, mid-paced, super-aggressive tracks that pound away on heavy, dirty distortion-drenched guitars and vocals, exemplified on side 1, for example, by tracks like “Scalpel A.D. and Neanderthal.”

The vocals are captivating throughout though; they do have a very scratch-your-eyes-out sort-of feel to them. And the lyrics - what I could make out of them, anyways - are thoughtful

The cymbal work on the first track gives it a bit of Industrial flavor, at first; then, the track gives way to a slow, bluesy churn that makes one want to get ink. “Neanderthal” starts to feel like an unfolding, of sorts. Maybe, it’s the slight wobble between the instruments, as if the time signature is just a suggestion, but, this unmooring ends up working in Cavity’s favor.

I imagine that if you could slow time down to a crawl, and be a fly on the wall inside of an Internal Combustion Engine, you’d hear the sounds of After Death’s side 1. After that roar, naturally, follows the paranormal rust and blues of side 2. If you’ve ever heard Neurosis’ Sovereign, (Cavity’s track) “Fangs” will sound familiar. It’s noisy and jarring and tribal--a bit Sci-Fi, too. The track scrapes across the sky like nails on a chalkboard (but we, that is my ugly friends and I, like a little pain here).

The album’s closer, is gold. “Collision” is so sparse, at first, that it feels quiet, despite it being loud, as loud as an unexpected thrah-rattling while walking alone in the desert. The percussion is adroit. And the vocals - THE VOCALS!!! - they go from sweet and delicate to reckless, ebullient hooting, like Michael Jackson at a Mr. Bungle hostage situation.

All in all, After Death is a very satisfying record, perfect for drowning out unruly neighbors while you solder cables or cycling through your yoga routine. Personally, After Death has a meditative quality you might want to blast while you slap some glue on some art, which if you think about it might be the highest compliment one could pay to a band.

Buy the album, here: https://www.secretserpents.com/products/cavity-after-death