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, July 4, 2011


Anyone who says having a child was the best moment of their life never had two Kit Kats fall out of a vending machine at once.
Likewise, smoking spliffs with your daughter in Amsterdam might be an ill-advised venture or joint or whatever zanganos are calling it nowadays.
Sometimes, I even pass out for a minute from the monster toke like some somnambulant
Buju Banton, and I feel the CHiPs come after my Shiloh with dilated pupil charts.
Obviously, I am after apparent largesse randomly dolloped from the ether of boring,
dilapidated ouevres involving public dispensaries of chance and loot.
But vending machines hold special scrim with my maneuvers of faith, my rabid tautology
of disbelief when exceptional things absorb the surrounding gravity.
When spectacular decrees of hiccoughs herald the system, when nougat logs or diabetes lozenges rain from one of the floors of a vending machine to the pit below.
Listen, I've driven through terrain with my tendrils at bay; I’ve wished Tetanus
Armageddon on vending machines from Miami to Astoria to El Segundo.
And, the only thing I have to show for it is a crowbar in my heart, a boulder tome of a snow globe through the security glass, lead pipe surprise, intelligent brick.
Therefore, as they dropped their payload, I dropped pretense and waited for the register to manifest the seemingly impossible: twice the prison of vision, twice the mundane turned gloriously verboten.

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