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, May 10, 2010


Dear Baby Don Cheadle Chewbaka Chakalaka

You are making your mother turn into a comma.
I swear, I have never asked a person if they're all right this much
in my whole life, which is like saying two of yours.
We lay in bed coming up with names, or your mother
steals my hand onto her stomach, only for you to cease kicking.
Pa' que sepas, your mama has forbidden me from matriculating you in any
variation of boxing not Tae Kwon Do or Karate.
And coming back to names, can we just concede that whatever
your name is going to be you will be made fun of for it?
Like, we could name you Michael and kids would taunt you for being named
after God's funkiest angel; they would call you an un-commie Mikhail.
People named Steve would make fun of you for having a more common name than them.
They might even jeer at you from the windows of their Windstars.
Etcetera is what I say when Fu-Shnickened with the scenario of naming you
something that will save you from being the butt of name-jokes.
I say, look at your Pops with a moniker like Yago, with which miscreants
derived permutations like Yoda, You Go, Yoga, Yugo, Devo(?), Yallup, Yarbro, Yargen, We Go, You Go, Y'all Go, Yowza, Yakuza, Yoruba, Yela.
Can we just both agree that whatever it is that serves as name is ridiculed
as an act of existence, as a registrant of being, because it must needs premise.
And that you are the most special non-existent punctuation in the galaxy.
You will be christened accordingly.

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