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, May 28, 2008
makes me nostalgic
sleeping on benches
in the Olympic Village
in the Mediterranean
gravel while vagrants
train kites and fly
from the coin returns
of the telephones
and juggle indolence
between the fingers
of their seaweed toes
and union jack flagpants.
makes me heady
in the ways of elder
makes me thank the galaxy
pigeons can't soar
far from the loam
of the sun,
that sponge of dirt.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Oh Lord of sine loco
I have been to Flushing
and had to take the twenty-five
gingerly down Kissena.
I have ridden the G past
midnight from the Queens'
hemisphere into Brooklyn.
I have been on the M sixty
with flight attendants
and Greek Venuses.
I have hailed gypsy cabs
in the Meatpack, and passed
on hyenas at LaGuardia.
But I was not aware Dr. Cho
had a MathRoom. That is something
I had yet to peep, seomthing ex-
hilarating and schemasmashing like
making out on the ferry or being
startled by a rat posse or putting
your ear to public phone without
watching the receiver or wearing gloves
to handle materials that could crumble
if you sneeze the wrong way.
No sirs, I did not get that communique,
the delegates did not make mention, zero
motions, because if I had I gaurantee
that I would have made that call, done
that thing that would land me transfixed
in the jowls of Dr. Cho. I would have
backpeddled from the Battery to the Cloisters;
I would have put my bookbag in the face
of a pissed off lady; I would have made
offerings to Guadalupe with duct tape
and hominies; I would have howled with
severe melancholy from the tops of tenements.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Last paper for Cataloging class and I pick the Schomburg because it is three blocks from my apt. in Harlem and I pass it every day, every day that is which I take the 2,3 or head downtown on Lenox. And it is tied to the Countee Cullen which is my library, the one that I patronize the most by trying to keep up with my late fees. I have been in the Schomburg before, actually last semester when I had an into to reference course. The outside, the skeleton, of the structure is almost entirely of glass; panes stretch over almost all the building. During the day it gives a clean impression, but at night, the panes on the first floor are lit up by monitors, and the library sort of scintillates. It is definitely part and parcel of the beautification movement in Harlem, especially as it pertains to refurbishing, updating the hulls of more-than-slightly-used municipal buildings. Also, the Schomburg is right across the street from Harlem Hospital, and the pair of buildings form a nice concordance of concrete and metal. Especially, since a nice row of trees greets the visitor as she walks into the building. I know the Schomburg has already been integrated into the life of this community because I often see a line outside, of impeccably dressed African-Americans, making the cue for some event or promotion.
Inside the library, the facilities are pretty amazing. They have at least 14 computers and a reference island that is the first thing you see when you come out of the elevator. In the back, there is one of the copy stations used by the NYPL and several microfiche readers. But it is the atrium library that is the real gem. Inside there is an amazing mural depicting what I forget, but it is stunning, I remember. And all over the walls there are books you can pull straight from the shelf, and alot of them are kind of fragile, or just kind of old and musty.
Friday, May 9, 2008
This mother minivanning
on Edgecombe n fivefive
rapping wif her lilman
about ducking jabs and jukes
saying just loud enough
I will fuck up a nine year old
Or the guy waiting to be buzzed
in and axes me if I wanna buy some oil
for my house, or if I have a corra?
La grande Mamalota with donkeybunz
who boxes some dude's backpack because
it's in my face, mister, your bookbag
keeps going all up in my face
Or the dude called out for not being blind
at all by another guy that says he lives
in the projects with the fake blindman
and his name is something like Lester
something that shuns utterance
and wears onyx knock-off espejuelos
playing the public knee-jerk
rattling his cup-o-change.
I swear and just now Charles
Awanda tried to sell me some insurance
after Friday nite futbol and felt it was appropriate
to throw his weight over my shoulder and drag
me into his inner auditorium and is surprised
when I tell him I don;t know who my provider is
I don believe in the Industry of Medicine.
(Furthermore, for a straight week I had ringing
in my left ear: a hollow of grillos, and the HR
saboteur told me I'm not eligible until June
but that I can flex my COBRA.)