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.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011


The young lady said, your hair,
may I touch it? And I obliged, sort
of swan in an injured, curtsied bow.

She pawed and graded my exquisite locks
and confessed the purse my hair
could fetch in the black markets of the world.

I had been summoned to slay mawfuckers
with my pizazzy Powerpoint for Playas’
and now, like a genie, I could not be rebottled.

The thought of follicle bazaars in Tangiers
or the Sarajaven mob trafficking my now
very valuable head ricocheted in my synapses tanks.

I had been thinking of nothing lucrative at all, nothing
like pure poetry strawberries as large as the heads of Shih Tzus
or contraband submarines forged in the jungles of Colombia.

I had been thinking that I don’t listen to Otis Redding enough
that I take too many scalding showers and don’t leave my hair
the chance to fume the bouquet of my wholly singular odor.

And now I am finally thinking of the young lady, her fingers
comb the epicenter of my vanity, they graze my thick head
my dull, oaken dome from which spectacular beauty glows.

1 comment:

Andy said...

Weird but good!
Isn't all good poetry tinged with the weird, the wild, the unmanageable stuff?
What's it all about, students will ask?
Tell me the meaning!
The medium is the message, or some variation thereof ...