She said it again, and he kicked her Asian wave poster(the same poster she said they were going to use to line the cabinets, etc.).
He thinks, fat chance, getting me to flip the script with fait accompli ducats; I have what I have for the moment and then I have to scrape again.
They were in this together, but it felt like irreversible scramble, a jumble of minors in a delivery truck, something inconsequential given then a gambit orbit.
He just wanted to say, damn! Can't we just hold this pattern of weather, there
is something comforting in knowing there is an account that we can pilfer,
A trust fund that waters the house plants, A butler that takes Masters to the park,
A decimal, smack dab in the middle of your ventricle.
There is that job opening up, my paperwork in the hands of languid secretaries.
My documentation is in your coat pockets, she said, and it sounded like a threat.
Like, take your hands out of your pockets, slowly, or I will consider extreme prejudice when I exterminate the jargon. You are all talk, and it shows, it shows.
He thinks if aspects are so sticking-out obvious, then why grow criteria for toil.
He thinks I am a student and this does not apply to me.
She thinks that when she is pregnant there will be a dance to the finish.
There is so much filtration that accompanies the speech of triggers;
the indigent know the accent, and I can explain it tuto.
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.