Ronaldo roadrunner with a sovereign ring.
A disciple of flair, purveyor of ridonkulis
pomp; possibly, the prime material for
Peacocks, lightning bolts, and aneurisms?
A disciple of flair gets highlights in their hair.
Who the fuck cares? He dizzies balón,
combing it back and forth like diaphanous
Kevlar hair or spider web cotton candy
with drool-jewels of lewd dew.
Ronaldo is an Atomic Squid with thousands
of tentalegticles. On each foot, a sneaker signed
by speed certificates. He is rather a supple
unstoppable? Ronaldo is like ink black garden
snakes that stitch through scrub until they flash
the eye photography. When Ronaldo fakes,
a wake of whatif precludes his intent. I mean,
the man wears hazard yellowrange cleats and
bandages to hilt. Look, the designer jeans’
depots and Techno music—Maserati loafers
were invented for a minotaur like Ronaldo.
Dope cologne and power point presentations
with cascading flaming swooshes. He’s got this
one rubber band move which is the bane of D's
existence because as D-man you must commit
to a lunge; you can't half-lunge now, can you?
You can't flux capacitor back once you gigawatt.
You lunge, but he just blows past—as if your life
were a stop-motion parable set to Hawaiian music.
Spicaresque:
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.
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