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.

Thursday, August 25, 2011


The dead don't pull U-turns, they don't reconstitute on the wrong side of the Mirropane, or heckle the horses at the track. You won't find them returning an alternator belt, or buying peach ice cream from the Oaxacan.
The dead stay dead, like, well, like, we try to stay undead--with that verve and repugnant confidence. With that neck thrust forward to break the winning tape. With that beam of teeth and nose, with feral gumption and berzerker battery will.
Now, Harry Houdini had the eyes of a Siberian husky and the sinister countenance of a Bond villain plotting Atomic Mayhem Sequence, Doomprints, errant launch
key codes.
Inside Houdini's head possibly the closest megaphone for speaking to the dead.
And yet, he judged Spiritualists, seance mediums, and Coteries of Nostalgia to be bunkum bouyed by Philistines. And yet, Houdini went before Congress to tattle on the influence of the Fox Sisters, pesky mediums fleecing World War One widows, and the unjustly bereaved.
You can't convince me, though, that Houdini the Mysteriarch, the Emir of the Air, didn't know how to decipher frequencies of post-mortem supplication with elan.
I have seen him levitate amperes with Tesla; I have seen him juggle Torrs in Eiffel's laboratory salon. You ask me about my collection of fetters; there are none which can contaminate or contain me.

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