After you were corralled in Brega, before they transferred you to Tripoli, Berlin starts teething hard, I mean I can hear the teeth
coming in and it sounds like slack getting waxed;
meanwhile, several other journos have disappeared,
and some have recently been released, the whole
thing is a mess of nerves, a hive of manners colliding
with a thick oak trunk. So, I'm not sleeping as I imagine
you're not sleeping so possibly there is some telekinesis
we might discharge, except I can't find sleep, whereas
you're obstructed from sleep as a way to standardize
or control the exhalation of your incarceration. Teeth,
funny conspirators, take brunt to flower, but easily
wilt away into maw, as when in dreams you chew your teeth
and the sensation is not unlike a mouthful of pebbles.
Then, I wake up at night and make homeopathic concoction
and Berlin's mother, Panda, rubs his gums until he hushes
up and whimpers to sleep so then I am up watching ribald
contraptions and flashing numbers, pure distraction but
soothing nonetheless, soothing longitudinal duress on
the glowing idiot box with zero news of your status.
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.