In my muttsack, a slender volume on graft, glossary replete;
A monograph guns, petermen, and tools could have penned in the stir.
By chance, I looked in the foot stool on the porch. Inside the foot
Stool, a trove of Bromide tablets for the outdoor hot tub.
The dartboard console, toothless, from the shock of light splayed
By the miniscule lamp, a joke of a lamp if you ask me.
Hyperbole aside, marshes of detritus and window depots; a grid of winds
From nipple to chin and ear to ear, and all that marble on the Mall.
Jiggawatts and Torrs, seeping lovely; my flag unfurled, misfurled
In a fracass with Pinkerton over setting off the sculpture sensors.
For lunch, Polish sausages you can scabbard, a giant egg roll in foil
And the foliage banter of the standing silent nation, Arbitron-rated.
Think about the cheddar you can heave hustling headbands with the
Logo of the Bureau of Labor Statistics or Department of Labor.
And then Mailer appeared on the S.S. Raggea Dive, and started grinding
The Broadcast broads, and was told to put his shirt back on.
--For Jimena Wright Foley
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.