I know Jimmy is running through cyphers, writing rhymes in his head, and staying strong through stamina epistles.
I know smokescreen dope, cilantro boudoirs, stringing the Higgs-Boson along like
a pearl instead of a pussy stone.
The writer factory done made us soft as pretzel gazelles, and all those politics
turned my seersucker into a poncho.
I know rapid-fire sobriety, pajama manamana, the sound large calibers make as they
darn kevlar at eight hundred miles an hour.
I know a bassmobile with resonate frequency turret for to wisk you from the pen
of inequity, the illegal corral.
I know you as handsome punching bag, an individual of interest with severe heat-up
doldrums, and zero violent priors.
Just a little malfeasance between friends, two rentals retired to the infirmary,
and a topless chick in the Pioneer hot tub.
I know Jimmy is looking for a word that rhymes with kaiser, or mumbling rapid core syllables, or lobbing foul balls.
I know the conditions are inexorable for you, while for us the banter makes us remember the rapport off your dome.
Hold on familial horse! Keep your regiment, adagio. Juggle the supple invocations
to return home safe, an adjunct of fortune.
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.