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, April 18, 2016

METRO(polis): 705

Cadillac? How about that?

This firetruck-red accordion
on wheels is picking me up
on Cadillac and Venice:
an alien car-
toon of a comic hoisting up
the King of Cars on a boule-
vard known for speed demons?
It stops, kneels
to kiss curb and begins to belt
a succession of beeps for me
to embark on my blerp blerp blerp.
I pause aloud, step
into thorax of accordion and
there are zero seats, zero.
there are two Babyzilla Destroyer-
Strollers, eight cotton-candy-on-a-stick
vendors, 18 blind wenches on sentient
Rascals, 64 Identical Eminems, jabbing
bars into black books, and 3,421 unicorns
with security guard uniforms on.

In other words, this bus is thick,
always and forever, with the promise
of raises, increases, and aumentos.

At least they turned the tundra on
is what everyone is thinking, except,
maybe, they are also thinking
variety is the spice
of strife, both in genetics and
interpersonal singularities.

Maybe, they are thinking, I
thrive in a province of fossils
and ride a beast to work?

Regardless, Crenshaw creeeps
up repositories of things that have
transpired, some singular
and devastating and some just
this side of a yawn at work.

Like, I read somewheresss that
Puerto Rican women are closest,
genetically, to the ideal of perfection
in a geneticist’s playbook.

It was an article wielded by a woman
wearing Sphinx earrings who told me
her information baton is at the heart
a battery of inconclusive printouts.

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