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.

Monday, June 30, 2008


Today I cleaned out the cabinet under the sink so my cat can kill the mouse that periodically shows its flash of fur while scuttling from the stove to the refrigerator.

I had been storing the toolbox and detergents, plaster spatulas, screwbags and Allen wrench anti-matter in the cabinet the mouse uses to portal from behind the wall to my kitchen, the pilfer labyrinth.

Y si el fucking gato, Calvino, no tiene that kind of commando ethos? Y si es muy pequeno para any deliberate weight, como un pounce sin ningun tipo de empuje?

Y si no es fast enough Calvino, or is intimidated by the vermin growl of the mouse, inaudible to us but surely a decibel affair for them?

Y si the mouse is an emissary of peace, a relative of mine or the cat's, here to deliver a message on apocryphal f.m.

Basta ya de boludeces y de entredientes postizos.

La poesia es pobre exterminador, pero la poesia es un host, a victim de circumstancias y fracasos. It is very simple: cats like to eat mice although they don't always eat them; sometimes, their teeth banter before with the mouseloam.

And they never tell you what to do with the carcass, as your cat gargles the sordid morsel abalone? They always leave that snipet past pertinent.

Thursday, June 19, 2008


Unemployed in Harlem sounds worse than Jobless in NYC.
Furthermore, Eternal Student in Neutral sounds more like a lifestyle
than Deficiency in Volition.
Grab Ass at Work just sounds wrong but imagine what it sounds like from
the portable where teachers are having desk-sex, or inside the labs where
there are Black, Marble Slabs.
And, Ambulatory Bootleg Agent is not more polite than Chinese DVD Lady on the 2 Express.
Is no where near the insensitivity of Mexican Mango Mujer or Dominican Gypsy Cabstronaut.
Skateboard Kids, call them Pointless Loiter Sports for they choose to vulture
and shave concrete when there are Proper Obligations to Delegate.
Graffitists are always on Operation Guerilla Handle because I would too if I
could write my name all day.
Bohemians surrender a portion of their face to Daddy, Inc. sounds mean although
Entitlement is a Real Disease.
Alas, the sound of something respectable is often more than pause solemn additive;
it is soundsmore and the Landscape of Propriety Holding Court.
The Galloping Kitten is the deal, tambourining down the hall eight minutes
from midnight--you can't mistake that nuisance--but it is also Kitten Entertained by Plastic Milk Corkscrew.
Likewise, we could say the Shameless Interpreter but might only mean that boosting
Time Magazines from the Children's Center Lobby is Automatic Blunder on Auto-Throttle.
The reality is Onanism is direct descendent of Euphamism and that the ranges of mountains are still churning Earth even though Solipsism is the sharpest drill, it is also enchantingly easy.
Euphamism for no one I say sounds almost Robespierrian like you are running towards
the guillotine, like there is terror in your cause, as if you were explaining to a dolt the Pillars of the Pillock.

Friday, June 13, 2008


Cura, what are your cosmological beliefs?

Cura: Immensity exists whether or not
I am on board with the heft of its existence;
immensity is a sovereign trench, a follicle in a mane,
infinte granules.

Cura, you are always carrying on about your hair
as if it were the epicenter of your planetoid.

Cura: Hair is a supernova bouquet made from
the left-overs of the implosion of the sun,
the filaments of a system aggregate which reads
your features much as we read the magnetosphere.

Cura, have you ever been incarcerated?

Cura: The one time I was in jail I turned myself
in at the Fordham Police Station to avoid a warrant.
When I say jail I mean the interrogation room I was held
in for four hours while they ran me for priors, which they
did as a courtesy because I was a high-school teacher.

Cura, why didn't you have kids with your ex-wife?

Cura: Love is all about valence, sometimes, your charges
are not only like, but unanimous in outcome; and, sometimes
you drag yourself to therapy because the co-pay is nominal
and you are looking for someone to make you say the obvious.

Cura, how can you smoke knowing what we know about smoking?

Cura: My ancestors were heathens of tobacco and coffee adulants;
their eyes were cannabis-green so they dazzled dull sobriquets
into descriptive handles; moreover, overcoming dependence
on the nicotine patch is only theoretically easier than overcoming
the dependence on the nicotine in cigarettes.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008


1. When bricks conspire with the sun, it becomes increasingly difficult for normal folks to loiter.

2. This creates shine streets, or deserted pillars of undiluted sunlight that blasts ultra-violent rays.

3. Prolonged exposure to these rays make folks hole up in their respective units with a compressor tied to their hump which dribbles cold, chemical exhale.

4. This exhale lowers the median temperature of a unit to a point of great wealth for consolidated energy providers and all the on-it employees they have to dispatch.

5. Greater demand brings with it great deliberation, and the folks wonder whether it is worth it to aestivate or not.

6. Their minds made up, folks burrow into the deliberate confetti of a pile of energy bills from respective consolidated energy providers.

7. They stay in this state until the sun and the bricks release their sway on the sunlight's devious seraphim, or until the revenue thresher is done collecting taxes on the blubbering compressors.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008


leaves pants in fireman-puddles
drinks all of Cochina's pop
drags me to Korean horror movies
shoots his dictator finger off at you
chooses not to cut his damn hair
even though he looks like Jackson
smokes tobacco like an injun
forgets to give Calvino his vitamins
drives like fugitive cabbie from Dakar
dances like a slow cock, I mean, clock
followed by the receipts of degrees
manifestos at the drop of a cockade
can not keep steady finances or job
eats these repellant turkeryburgers
wears the same clothes during the week
can not program his sophisticated mobile
makes you sit through same stories over and over
takes the bus for subway duty
takes the cat to the park to prompt larks
jumps on beds in the Sleepy's
talks up the librarian for sport
buys fruit from Turkman with Ike coiffure
plops down by the ac and gears up loins
denies the downsize of our vigor,
in a loincloth or flagmug or freedomrag
purees the verbs of bygone era in pejorative sleeve
nighthawks from the turret of your chambre
dispatches legions of resumes, cover letter platoons
places one too many stamps for domestic, ground
drives to Key West for poonani with Luciano
has father ranked satrap of billiards, other entretemps
plays soccer like bishops wield miters
walks with eyes glued to the sake of scrapes

Monday, June 9, 2008


you run errands all day
space out yr cigarettes
push grandma cart to pharmacy
withstand Polish refurbishers
powersawing through old wood
feed yr cat the special gruel
take out all the garbage bags
overuse the library's materials
chafe yr thighs in the Martian heat
scan the magazines for contemporaries
writers that may have done you dirty
all your mugs become ashtrays
bc you threw out the ashtray
when you quit smoking again
you walk yr girl to the station
kiss her in the neck before
she descends the crumbling stairs
you flex to the gym around noon
and batter yr soccer ball
bc the ballers came after two
you send resumes to the listings
for jobs you could do if you could do if
you did what the cover letter says
you mongrel around on a short leash
picking up exotic pennies and stamps
take copious notes on yr interpreting business
you wait for the call from dispatch
for the refugees of the Grand Concourse
you ask yr sister if she needs company
to the drop-off bc that scumbag photog
might try to grab his lense before
handing off the loot that he owes you
you check your e-mail constant bc
they might have written while you
were trolling for porno nouggat.