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.

Saturday, April 27, 2013


Las albóndigas remedy remorse, and have been known
to erase all vestiges of a shitty day.
Las albóndigas require furious thumbwork and
bloom in briny, tomato-based broth.
What could be more perfect that ground meat meteors
imploded with cumin, shattered with garlic?

Cristian calls, says, I have my mother’s recipe for albóndigas.
He tells us this as if we are sixteen and taking the recipe
for a joyride. He says it as if the recipe is a state secret cloistered
by amnesiatic librarians, as if carrying the recipe in your brain
automatically imparts short-term memory loss.

Las albóndigas are Mexican soul food, they bulwark your anima,
they prop up your resilience and defenses; let us say that albóndigas
buoy the whine so that it does not weigh or make the coolie overtired.

Las albóndigas say to us as they replace our double A’s: You, you are
besieged on the daily, the slings and arrows of tolerance weigh heavy
in your quiver, but there is respite, and it has been marinating, wordlessly
like some underwater volcano spigot, broiling broth eminence.

Las albóndigas are meant to dry the more waterlogged parts
of your day, so if Cristian tells you to be there at 7, to bring Panda
comma Criatura & co., you cancel all your grand Netflix plans,
all your machinations to the God of Paja, and you clear the calendar
for the evening.

You make sure you are there a little after 7
with a 6 pack of chelas.

Friday, April 26, 2013


We love you because you will do whatever to win
even if that means demeaning yourself from means.

We love you because you are the horse that bucks
and debrains an heiresses that’s escaped
with blueprints for the Star-blowing-up-stars.

We love you because you are our father’s
Mother, mother’s father, a decoy in the blind
that doesn’t know when to shut up,
stop quacking, relent, callate la puta boca.

Suárez: te amamos por que you are a Dark Vader
of Incisors, viejo! We love you as Periodontal Peronists!

Like, quien te manda darle un jab a Gonzalo Jara
en el pinche World Cup, in the penalty box,
only to be detected on Closed-Circuit Host?
Who has sent you to elude the linemen and
referees? Quien le puede detonar some equanimity
a este Uruguayan Thug Euclidian?

And what about those ridiculous things you were alleged
to have muttered to Evra? And what about what drove you
to bite Bakkal in the shoulder while you stormtrooped
for Ajax in the Eredivisie? Loco, don’t they have Law & Order
reruns in your neck of the woods to learn you some Forensics?
A salubrious bite on the skin of another can funaticize your aura.

Luisito, por fi, dejate de morder a tus oponientes
don’t you see that Passion has no mandible like that of Colossus
that droves of goals for Liverpool make you hungry like the wolf
terse like the Vindictive Futbol Pharaoh, recondite like a subcutaneous gopher
a joker of a spoiled sport, a Uruguayanillionaire dreaming of grinding
the shoulder out of existence, the overbite into a sort of circulation only the infirm
can respond to. But, what might you take for uncontrollable gnashing, gnawing,
gnarlying? What side effects are conjured by the manic carnivore overstepping his reach
with ends all about the ends and not the manner of play, the honor of an eloquence technique.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013


We moved in to a one bedroom on Venice Blvd. The same Venice Blvd. you take in to downtown Los Angeles. The same Venice that takes you to the beach and kind of Santa Monica. The apt's front door was mere feet from the street, and you could never tell what might be dragged out of the Ocean and on to Venice. One morning I went for crullers and found a snow leopard doll dozing in the crux of a maroon babyseat. Who knew you could put out such sculptures for los basureros?

The parking space for the apartment was right off of the street, so you had no choice but to park head-in. Upon leaving though, you found yourself at the mercy of Venice's current. Tremulously, we backed-out on to Venice several times a day. We started doing it so much that we could time the lights, and egress like derelict wombats if we so desired. We got good at being super paranoid about not cracking a bicyclist or driver.

Therefore, at all costs, the parking space had to be defended; but, possession of the parking space in front of the apartment proved a spurious entre temps that brought little honor outside preventing dullards-on-wheels from making our exits even more dangerous than they already needed to be. In this respect, we did not suffer fools; we had the Department of Parking Enformcement on speed-dial; openly, I fantasized nailing signage to the tree threatening repercussions for inappropriate parking.

One of many downsides is waves of Eastbound cars. That sound of car upon car is proving to be the apartment's largest amenity, outside of the public library one block away and minor commercial centers in the immediate vicinity (Centinela Ave). Other downside is our driveway could be blocked by an impertinent parker. The curb outside our residence, in front of a leafy tree, can easily fit two cars, but a neighbor running in to fetch something, or the inconsiderate early-afternoon visitor could put you terribly out.

I used to park my beat up Volvo right in front of the apartment, prohibiting anyone from blocking the driveway, or parking in an idiscriminate manner, messing up the whole vibe. And that's worked for a while now. And people don't ask too many questions if they see my car in front of my place, and most of my neighbors shoot sparklers of accord while uttering my names and the names of my forebearers. This is a daily occurence, like a programmed show at a theme park, or the dance of traffic of myriad boulevards during rush hour.

Other downside is the owner of a jet black Cadillac tank likes to park wily nily and take up two spots just because. I can't imagine anyone would be cool with letting a monolith with a shoving problem take over their base parking spot and not say shit. I can't imagine you reading this now would not have been incensed by their derelict of space and time, knowing full well the stark parking decrees that are issued inside the confines of the city. I like to think you might want to act as accessory to battering the enemies of my state, or at least act in an unfavorable manner towards them.

I could tell what the owner of the jet black Cadillac tank really had a problem with was the state of my beat-up Volvo. The owner of the jet black Cadillac tank could not believe that a man might not care about the make of his ride, or the species of his whip. The fact of the matter is that this man was an abberation of laughter in your face, a cretin of fiberglass shiny fenders, fixtures, and lustrous chrome. There was not a court of public opinion in which I could not get the backing to seriously demolish this lode of man fool, child boy, silly smatter.