The Rubberroom was Bellevue without meds. or smocks, but it had its share of sulking megaphones hollering, corridors!
its lot of madmeticians psalming gospel of imaginary numbers.
Anthony, The Mayor, was an ex-lawyer and Fellow who’d berate you with halitosis if you took his chair.
White-boy Ken taught P.E, ponytail and all; his shirt repertoire was either silhouettes of Haleakala or Molokai.
Connecticut-Mark was burly Gnostic in beardfleece; and, he had the ire of a saber-tooth with which he scoured the Daily from his village to sleep between pages of zoning-editorials.
Francisco gravitated towards black leather: Kangol de leather, chaqueta de leather, attaché; his bald head made him look like the Dominican Mr. Clean
like his name should be Brillantino, Mister Mistolín, Senor Sacamugre.
No shit, this loco self-published a novel about sugar peons
storming a plantation and murdering the owners
extracting their teeth with implements.
On the inside jacket:
a svelte tux—
muy, pero muy, svelte.
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.