ODE TO CARLOS TEVEZ

Little by little, Tevez is getting the raiments
of celebrity established; they’ve reconstructed
his ensnarled incisors, but they could have left
the man with a neck, for Tevez has no visible neck.

His shoulders segue into his mandible which gives
him a quasi-hunchback appearance, possibly
a result of the malnutrition he suffered as a shanty rat.

But, mundo fútbol is no popularity exhibition.
This cumbia-dancing, chupete-sucking, head-job
regularly jumps into crowds of weekend Centurions
after launching particularly pretty retardent pellets
into the un-bonded pockets of the post.

This means he is a cult of his own personality.

Maybe, the moral is never give an exceptionally
ugly man an inch for you they always define the yard.

Tecnico Narcisas billboards your Manchester jersey
wears it like a personal brown-shirt while scarfing
milanesas or smelting gold cement into pincering precious.

(Tecnico Narcisas even wears his Tevez jersey
out to dinner: pan con tortilla en Sergio's.)

I have to remind him to change his shirt when la Trocka
pulls its possum play because I fear he is going get grimey,
caked motor oil swaths of chata dirt on his second skin.

I have never seen Tecnico Narcisas wear a jersey outside
the celeste and white, and seeing him in this Rayon red,
fishscale Manchester jersey is like god’s poker sleeves.

He's always boostered Boca Jrs. and now he's boostering
for a former Boca Jrs player murdering English language interviews?

So, I turn to oracle audio-visual for your inimitable top ten.
Probably, the most savage goal el Apache ever scored
was against Serbia: he dogs one defenseman, lets the second one
overshoot him, and dispatches of the goalie with a razor range
Jimmy leg cumbia matrix of slick shit pasta and the evanescent.