tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68094757445900773532024-03-12T20:54:24.727-07:00SpicaresqueA Spanglish poetry blog dedicated to the mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura.Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.comBlogger635125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-61933229697304910562023-11-16T09:29:00.000-08:002023-11-16T09:29:57.924-08:00MIS HIJOS<br/>I grew up in Miami a Latino, but not Cuban
<br/>Which is kind of like, what’s the point of this?
<br></br>
<br/>Then, I moved to Western Mass for grad school
<br/>and the pedigree of my Latinoness did not matter
<br/>because there were so few of us you could tag us
<br/>like coyotes or timberwolves, and track us as blips
<br/>on a cold, green Transponder.
<br></br>
<br/>Then, I moved to (back to) Brooklyn:
<br/>Gravesend, Ocean Parkway and Avenue O
<br/>but was not Russian, Syrian, Chinese, Ukrainian, or Israeli,
<br/>although the Guatemalan Super in my building was in a Police
<br/>cover band in the basement,Tuesday nights.
<br/></br>
<br/>Then, I moved to Spanish Harlem, One Hundredth and Third,
<br/>but was not Puerto Rican nor Dominican with a twist of ‘Rican
<br/>nor even distant Puerto Rican adjacent, like Cuban.
<br/></br>
<br/>Then, I moved to Harlem proper and because I was the only
<br/>Latino in my building I became Mexican by default because that’s
<br/>who was working in the kitchens and making Harlem sparkle.
<br/></br>
<br/>I taught in the Bronx but was not Dominican, was not Black
<br/>but I could speak Cuban, and this meant I could rapport with parents,
<br/>and make home visits and dance a mean bachata and support the right
<br/>bodegas, and order bacon, egg, and cheese with local aplomb.
<br/></br>
<br/>Then, I moved to Los Angeles because my wife grew up here and
<br/>I was not Mexican nor Salvi (El Salvadorean) nor even Korean, and
<br/></br>
<br/>still my California babe of a wife gave me two beautiful California boys
<br/>that are ALL gringo but HALF Mexican and HALF Argentine so there are three
<br/>things they know despite orientation, intuition, or calculation.
<br/></br>
<br/>My boys are carnivorous, swarthy, and fancy futbol over football
<br/>not just as a matter of aesthetic but as a statement on skill.
<br/></br>
<br/>My boys feel good eating black noodle goo and seaweed crunch tablets
<br/>and pozole plum-puddinged with tripe or ceso or chocolate-covered grass-
<br/>hoppers and insect lollipops. They tear up tacos, demolish burritos, and
<br/>crave a good choripan every now and again.
<br/></br>
<br/>My boys are dark morsels, raven-haired, discrete, olive-skinned geeks.
<br/>They carry the Levant, the U.S./Mexico Border, the California Deserts
<br/>in their maw, in their genetic Powerschool, in their take-home folders.
<br/></br>
<br/>The older boy adores his grandfather’s futbol club.
<br/>The younger boy, at five, can already run with the ball.</br>
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-9320101870504273802023-10-08T14:13:00.000-07:002023-10-08T14:13:42.262-07:00IMMUTABLE LAW OF DISHES<br>This is dishes.,</br>
<br>Dishes, dishes, this is.</br>
<br>This is dishes, dishes. dishes.</br>
<br>This is–dishes, dishes, this is</br>
<br>Dishes, This is dishes so,</br>
<br>Dishes, dishes, dishes.</br>
<br>Dishes, this is dishes?</br>
<br>This is dishes, dishes,</br>
<br>dishes, this is, dishes.</br>
<br>Dishes this is, dishes,</br>
<br>say it with me, thes dishes</br>
<br>is this dishes is this thistle</br>
<br>a dish of this is or dishes,</br>
<br>this is the this dishes, is this</br>
<br>Dishes, this is, or is dishes</br>
<br>Dishes, dishes, dishes this</br>
<br>is it, this is dishes, dishes</br>
<br>This is dishing dishes, is it not</br>
<br>dissolution of this is, dishes,</br>
<br>dishes, dishes, and even if</br>
<br>this is dishes, there is this is</br>
<br>which says, thesis this is dishes.</br>
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-54507074371648841772021-11-18T10:18:00.000-08:002021-11-18T10:18:29.724-08:00ELBA AND PINI ON NOSTRAND AVEElba was a badass broad in every sense of the word.
Despite having to rely on immigrant English, she succesfully petitioned Congressperson Kirkpatrick to demand her son, Jose Antonio, be released from the prison where he had been since turning 16. I was in the room when she passed and I can't tell you what it means to me yet, but her ascendancy is assured because she was the tia with the pad on Nostrand Ave. Elba was the reason I was born in a Jewish hospital named for a 13th century seer in Brooklyn. She's the catalyst for my parents forging ahead in parenthood by having my sister. Without her maybe my folks don't leave on a freight ship, they stay in Argentina and get caught up, disappeared, and I don't exist.
In fact, the fact you are reading this on this side, and we can share this conscious sentence means Elba overstays her tourist visa with Pinino. Pinino is my Uncle, Elba's husband. He's part goat and part toothpick, and will not be easily surprised by any of the rhetoric you might want to fantabulate towards his earholes. Pinino grew up poor in Buenos Aires and spent a whole year in a cast because of scoliosis. Pinino was no stranger to adversity; he lived near Fort Apache, one of Buenos Aires most notorious slums, and all during high school had to carry a zip gun for protection. But this tale ain't about Pinino, it's about Elba, and what Elba saw in Pinino enough to convince her to immigrate to the blackest part of Brooklyn in 1973.
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-69280654961724371052021-10-12T22:26:00.002-07:002021-10-12T22:26:18.307-07:00Because I am a Square, Old Fuck that Lives on the West Side (of Los Angeles)It’s easy to get things mixed up.
We are, however you paint it, a deciduous rabble
of debutantes and derelicts in leather pants.
We see parking spaces as barometers of whether
businesses will actually have any business existing.
We prune our echo chambers of signature interference,
deny you the merge of conversation, the comeuppance
of a dialogue; we rebuke your lane-change-chit-chat.
If you’re on a bicycle in the bicycle lane, we’re aiming for your hind quarters.
If you’re on an electric scooter we get to clip you between the hip and knee.
If you’re a swarthy kid we reserve the right to never have seen you at all.
We barrel down neighborhoods in all of our sedan-class tout suiteness.
We Armor-All our sunglasses until they display pixelated avatar drivel.
We tantalize our mufflers with ragamuffin megaphone elite gravity.
We park like czars so as not to share the municipal parking loam.
We block driveways, boulder causeways, break collarbone loading zones.
We drive two blocks for milk, but not before lauding each other on the brand of dolphin-safe tuna, ignoring the dinosaur in the room.
We pretend people bagging our food were born to bag our food.
It’s easy to see sacrifice from the dashboard of my thrive.
It’s easy to see how things get done when you’re a pilot ace.
It’s easy to bury your feelings in a Frosty or thicker, chocolate shake food.
It’s easy to believe the we we assume when you are are you.
We assume no responsibility for your nuance, doodad, or eunich.
We believe belief is the truest route to Wilshire.
We believe bike lanes are fake news.
We believe eons ago our ego took a really loud picture.
We agree to send you via the route that takes you by the dying airport
even though it will be sold slab by slab to scions of loft spaces
and self-parking mavens.
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-65648052328607301122021-07-02T07:44:00.002-07:002021-07-02T07:44:22.620-07:00LAX2MIA<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8480uLsWzt0/YN8mFQv8MWI/AAAAAAAABlc/hNp-iPPfv485khTqDkpneGUH8dy-4mKiwCLcBGAsYHQ/s817/LAX2MIA.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="526" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8480uLsWzt0/YN8mFQv8MWI/AAAAAAAABlc/hNp-iPPfv485khTqDkpneGUH8dy-4mKiwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/LAX2MIA.jpg"/></a></div>
Read the flyer for registration deets!Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-16345855671856543762021-02-06T11:38:00.001-08:002021-02-06T11:38:20.810-08:00LA PALABRA SCHEDULE 2021<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gro1uFaELjQ/YB7wGzOwvJI/AAAAAAAABjg/UT_WssY5tT4JgqFeZ1p1CO2LjdG6GZlLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s540/LA_PALABRA_2021.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="540" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gro1uFaELjQ/YB7wGzOwvJI/AAAAAAAABjg/UT_WssY5tT4JgqFeZ1p1CO2LjdG6GZlLQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/LA_PALABRA_2021.jpg"/></a></div>Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-49378403039939543422020-12-10T08:46:00.001-08:002020-12-10T09:16:31.952-08:00SCOPOLAMINE--para Adolfo Guzman Lopez, truth obstretician y periodista
<br><br>
Papers say the two cops<br>
that shot a non-lethal 40 mm<br>
projectile into the throat<br>
of my friend, a journalist,<br>
acted well within means<br>
and protocols and policy.<br>
<br><br>
Cops say the round bounced<br>
off a pregnant protestor or<br>
belligenrent ectoplasm, so<br>
do over, and chas-chas on the<br>
bottom of their personnel files?<br>
<br><br>
But, what of the duty and<br>
discretion of sworn peace<br>
officers?<br>
<br><br>
If I live under CCTV regime, <br>
why should cops get to decide <br>
when centralized bodycams power<br>
on their Cyclopslog?<br>
<br><br>
Police are not<br>
butlers for abuse, true true;<br>
but, clap on my friends that clap<br>
on star chambers of pedigree and power<br>
and we begin to gots sword-prollems.<br>
<br><br>
Sending out bruisers to enforce<br>
peace is like sending out a tank<br>
because someone stole your <i>changuito.</i>
<br><br>
What of the steering column<br>
of these elite, peace-keepers?<br>
<br><br>
What of the humanists in uniform<br>
that have seen this all before<br>
maybe, in crooked-ass cuneiform?<br>
<br><br>
<i>Quizas, una lecture sobre modales:</i><br>
When you discharge pepperballs as you retreat<br>
everyone is guilty as shit.<br>
<br><br>Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-43630476648759564182020-11-05T07:51:00.003-08:002020-11-05T08:29:19.535-08:00FOREWORD: 8 LA POETSThe first book HINCHAS published was a collection of ghazals for James Foley; I titled the collection "Ghazals for Foley" in honor of Jim's conversion to Islam, but also to highlight the rot, the void left in the world by Jim's graphic murder. This was 2016, almost 18 months after Foley's murder, and most of the ghazals that were published were from former classmates from the UMASS-Amherst Poets & Writers Program. One of the people that didn't go to school with Jim or I, but that submitted ghazals was radio journalist, Adolfo Guzman Lopez. He submitted a ghazal that added leagues to the collection, and solidified our burgeoning friendship.
<br></br>
<br>In 2019, Adolfo invited me to be a part of a ragtag group of poets, writers, and thinkers called Project 1521. The group was called Project 1521 in an attempt to fight the erasure of the 500 years that had passed since Cortes plundered Tenochtitlan. The poets in this group were people like Adolfo and Adrian Arrancibia, two former poets from the Taco Shop Poets, and Linda Ravenswood, the mera mera of the Los Angeles Press, and the bawse behind the Melrose Poetry Bureau and several other literary incubators, and Gloria Enedina Alvarez, the most known unknown poetry matriarch in SoCal. For an interloper like myself (east coast douchebag and such) to be among working-class writers in Los Angeles that are wrestling with art in the pursuit of better rendering their aesthetic has been a major gift.<br></br>
<br>Linda and I initially geeked out over typewriters, and ended up with the legacy of Miriam Matthews, the first African-American credentialed librarian in California. She plied her trade for the Los Angeles Public Library at a time when she was probably the only person of color in every room all of the time. As a librarian of color in SoCal, I can attest to the peculiar ways in which patrons interact with librarians and vice versa (are YOU the librarian?). Linda and I were going to build an index of libraries that hire performers and build a super femmed out volume so that women of color were not only highlighted, but emphasized. We thought a print edition would be keen since we were going for maximum usability.
<br></br>
And then, the pandemic hit and body slammed our poor, poor mice plans. All of a sudden, all budgest were being contested, especially the print collection budgets of libraries. The demand for online books, services, and materials has literally upended most library systems in the U.S. leading to major library system layoffs in cities like Portland and Kansas City, MO. In other words, it's not that print is dead, but the symbiosis the library world has entertained for the last ten years, between print and online books, just tipped over dramatically into the half destined to be prey. I spoke with Linda and we decided to put the project with the namesake on hold, or at least switch it over to the digital world, and proceed with another project: 8 LA Poets.
<br></br>
Because the future is Female, or at the very least the future is super-less Testosteronny, I decided to publish only women poets in Los Angeles County and to prioritize wonen of color poets. Because Armine and Linda and I are in the same workshop, I have been front and center when they have read original pieces they've crafted on the spot. I have glimpsed their ferocity and basked in their analysis and feel in every sense of the word that they are the real deal. And that's because these bad ass ladies have built their houses from the ground up and never got the motherloving permits and didn't think to ask any government agency for permission. For example, Armine runs her own press and is so ovaries-to-the-wall that she left her steady job as an English teacher to stick her neck out and fight the good fight one word at a time.
<br></br>
Thank you for coming to this book and for drinking a little from its lip. We hope you like the sensory feast Linda has curated for you, and we hope to see you on the inside of this book where space has purposefully been alloted for you, dear reader.
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-54743994660259834152020-08-15T00:19:00.001-07:002020-08-15T00:25:09.234-07:005 QUESTIONS FOR STARI am going to interview Star Khan for "Librarians with Spines," volume 3 and I told her that I would have five questions to her by Monday but because of several familial obligations, I did not get her the 5 questions by Monday. However, we talked about the concept of "white time" so I know she will understand when she reads these questions.<br />
<b><br />
1.) Personalmente, I am not un grande fan de reggeaton; I like Calle 13, but am also easily fatigued by the repetetive percussive drone of the genre. Why is Spanglish the reggeaton of dialects? En otras palabras, what about Spanglish is so off-putting to dominant Latinx groups? Should libraries delve into dialect for their signage dedicated to Latinx? In your work with libraries, might proper Spanish be more of an obstacle when serving/supporting U.S. Latinx?<br />
<b><br />
2.) How can we better apoyar a nuestros bibliohermanas/hermanos in Latin America? Why have Latinx Librarians in N America not reached out to their counterparts in S America? Que es lo que Latin America nos puede brindar with respect to libraries and information professionals? Might libraries in N America choose to champion their counterparts in S America out of a professional courtersy, or do you think librarians como toda la gente are just as tribal as anyone else?<br />
<b><br />
3.) According to el Pew Ctr for Internet Research, 61% of Latinx households have access to broadband at home compared with 79% of White households and 66% of Black households. How can Latinx households ensure academic acievement sin el WiFi en la casa? How do padres that can't afford WiFi right now get ahead of the curve and still find recursos for their children? How can US Latinx Librarians help to close the Digital Divide in Latinx households?<br />
<b><br />
4.) Please tell us about your trayectorio as a librarian? How did you get to where you're at, and how did you persevere when your counterparts were not not particularly helpful. O sea, what is the clave for getting along in the library world as a Latinx Librarian? What does the future of biblioteacas hold in Oregon and the Pacific Northwest? How can Latinx Librarians get involved in ensuring libraries in Oregon stay funded and don't resort to layoffs?<br />
<b><br />
5.) Borges said que el cielo tiene que ser una biblioteca? In your library heaven, what books, codices, or compendiums are on the shelf for everyone to look through and use for research? What texts are essential to a Latinx education? to a Spanglish education? Is there Spanglish in heaven? Do you think St Peter's like janglingn keys and abriendo puertas? In your version of heaven, who is on the roster?<br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-8291922588509826722020-07-31T15:59:00.005-07:002020-08-01T17:26:51.495-07:00Poema para WaltercitoChico, it's 2016 and I'm presenting to a roomful of White librarians<br />
in the South Bay about Latino Senior computer classes in Spanish, and<br />
<br />
I exploit your misterio quotient in one of my slides, an interstellar
headshot,<br />
elicits such a response that I rewatch those episodes of Primer Impacto on<br />
YouTube thinking, Waltercito, you never broke character in our story of your
life.<br />
<br />
Now that you are firmly esconced into the ether architecture of our
Latinidad,<br />
you show us how to embrace love and become star-architects ourselves.<br />
<br />
Your most terrestrial critics charge your timeless aura with sterile banter<br />
about the gender of this one or that one, when they’re not even on the
escenario.<br />
<br />
Waltercito, bailemos un bolero on the edge of the Milky Way,<br />
your hands and writhing wrists stick in the cosmic centrifuge that is our
galaxy, <br />
and let your dance transcended fractal refrain.<br />
<br />
Waltercito, Moms and I are watching you on Primer Impacto.<br />
<br />
Fam, it's 1994, which means it’s my first year at my Miami commuter college,<br />
and we're waiting for your Scorpio edict, Waltercito, fifteen words written
specifically, <br />
prophetically about our stinging species that prove your prestige as our rabbi.
<br />
<br />
Moms and I are both Scorpios, so, naturally we’re suspicious of everyone’s
motives, <br />
but relaxed enough to let our stingers down and heed unsolicited advice from a
gangster.<br />
<br />
Your segment on Primer Impacto starts, and the producers drop you into space.<br />
<br />
You're sitting on a Calculus White Rattan Armchair and you're wearing<br />
a pumpkin majordomo kimono uniform and addressing the other, less-important
signs first.<br />
<br />
Waltercito, Tia Mercedes draped a PR flag on your ataud and plopped a jibaro
hat<br />
at your head. There was so much music at your funeral that Wille Acosta was
photographed<br />
mumbling lyrics into the cracks of your casket, and hugging the curves with his
eyes closed.<br />
<br />
So, there was no mistaking your loyalties to who you were at your core, the
things that defined<br />
and defied you. Waltercito, on what plane y en cual dimension do you find
yourself?<br />
<br />
It's 2020, and, of course, your Pisces-ass finds a way to pass to the portals<br />
during a pandemic. Now, Waltercito when your message of love compounded by
love,<br />
now when we could really use your laser-guided abuelita guidance systems<br />
and genderless excesses on orientation, now when we are calling out your
name,<br />
we find ourselves at the whims of Stupid Jupiter.<br />
<br />
No, loquito, it’s 1987, and my parents have sent my sister and I to Baires for
the summer.<br />
It’s way past our American bedtime, but my Argentine cousins are promising us
that after<br />
“Las Gatas de Porcell,” a Puerto Rican wizard with a cape is going to spill
secrets<br />
from the Yucatan to Tierra del Fuego<br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-42199942251721278202020-07-01T08:57:00.000-07:002020-07-01T09:00:22.902-07:00LAUNCHING OF THE JAMES FOLEY SCRIPTORIUMToday, I am launching a project very close to my heart in which I send you a free, gently-used book from the <a href="https://bit.ly/38iKrMA">James Foley Scriptorium<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j2hK3laswo4/XvyzCsvdOBI/AAAAAAAABhs/fguY8bqFFIAgRRdnhknov87c9MhogU-4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/JFS_LANDING_PAGE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j2hK3laswo4/XvyzCsvdOBI/AAAAAAAABhs/fguY8bqFFIAgRRdnhknov87c9MhogU-4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/JFS_LANDING_PAGE.jpg" width="400" height="225" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a></div></a> in exchange for a zine you send me that I will add to the West LA Regional Branch Zine LibrarySpicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-13315535013512768012020-06-15T08:26:00.000-07:002020-06-15T08:27:25.172-07:00HINCHAS PRESS BUTTONS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lqbU7Mq4Oxk/XueS75m7DEI/AAAAAAAABhE/rmj82PcHgKosJAocISBqxE9MGTSzbdAvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/HINCHAS_buttons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lqbU7Mq4Oxk/XueS75m7DEI/AAAAAAAABhE/rmj82PcHgKosJAocISBqxE9MGTSzbdAvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/HINCHAS_buttons.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div><br />
HINCHAS Press buttons, $1.00 on the site, <a href="https://bit.ly/3hvxqna">https://bit.ly/3hvxqna</a>Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-5883140429891067972020-04-15T17:42:00.002-07:002020-04-15T17:42:22.536-07:00ECHOSTENCHB asks me, does an echo have a stench?<br />
<br />
When people talk at me I drop everything<br />
and set my ears to listening.<br />
<br />
Panda corrects me from the bedroom<br />
when B asks me a physics question,<br />
okay maybe doesn't correct me but<br />
makes B know she knows answer too.<br />
<br />
My parents are so bored they are going<br />
to give themselves the 'Rona sin querer<br />
completely by mistake but for a super<br />
kooky reason like running out of BBQ sauce.<br />
<br />
The Lego birdfeeders B and I made are sweet,<br />
but we have since learned that little birds are jerks,<br />
free-loading oafs that will spill lesser seeds<br />
to beak at savory and scintillating flavorpods.<br />
<br />
The baby moonwalks on your face if your sleep<br />
in the bed, so I hangnail on the edge like a speedbump,<br />
okay maybe not a speedbump but certainly a retaining wall.<br />
<br />
I'm sending emails all day for work, but should I be <br />
monitoring the acronyms for the daily dirty decree?<br />
<br />
Should I be out beating cazuelas and bleating vuvuselas<br />
about pandemic blues? <br />
<br />
Do I go out then and make more trouble for myself<br />
than I can possibly handle? Should I take advantage<br />
of steals and bargains when the world is losing its<br />
Purell mind, its miniature hand-sanitizer carabiner?<br />
<br />
At the very least, you are going to have to support<br />
the water balloon fight on the side of your wife and come<br />
down hard on B when he sloshes an aquatic grenade at her face.<br />
<br />
The problem with water balloons as a projectile are that they<br />
are a dollar too late and a dollar too little.<br />
<br />
How crisp the explosion of coldwater on my nape, down my shirt,<br />
slaloming down my hirsute belly and quicksilver kissing my nipples.Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-54157960024513228002020-04-11T20:49:00.002-07:002020-04-11T20:49:14.428-07:00FACE TIME WITH DAVID OF THE OCEANI spoke with an old <br />
friend today on Face, <br />
while chasing the baby <br />
through a church <br />
parking lot. <br />
<br />
The friend on Face <br />
was shooting hoops <br />
on an empty indoor <br />
basketball court.<br />
<br />
He told me he was<br />
in Texas because<br />
the National Guard<br />
needed him to mold<br />
cadets into leaders,<br />
but that his wife<br />
was still in Northern<br />
California with <br />
the baby they adopted<br />
from when they were<br />
just guardians.<br />
<br />
The baby tackled <br />
the steps at back<br />
and was picking up<br />
speed, you should<br />
have seen him<br />
coordinate knees<br />
to elbows and gallop<br />
up them like a spider-<br />
horse-monkey-jockey.<br />
<br />
All that distance,<br />
all those years, dis-<br />
appeared from the cache<br />
of this current I-don't- <br />
know as we sat there <br />
trying to make light <br />
of old trophies,<br />
lauding old colleagues,<br />
recalling the work<br />
only we clearly cared about.<br />
<br />
Today I did Face<br />
with an old friend,<br />
a friend I used to<br />
teach in the jail with<br />
and the baby conquered<br />
steps in a church parking<br />
lot with great acoustics.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-64497830540665412192020-01-13T22:48:00.001-08:002020-01-13T22:48:18.279-08:00VETE AL INFIERNO ZINE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X4fOgV_vGDA/Xh1jwmrwWeI/AAAAAAAABf8/xYucYpg6MGQ-qx8U9wdSW9989c8myMHrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/VETE_AL_INFIERNO_NEW_YEAR_ZINE_2019_2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X4fOgV_vGDA/Xh1jwmrwWeI/AAAAAAAABf8/xYucYpg6MGQ-qx8U9wdSW9989c8myMHrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/VETE_AL_INFIERNO_NEW_YEAR_ZINE_2019_2020.jpg" width="309" height="400" data-original-width="1237" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
Yo, Happy 2020! Please download and fold this zine to use in any celebrations of the New Year, or if you just feel like making a 6-fold zine.Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-391388091400289252020-01-09T12:20:00.001-08:002020-01-09T12:20:45.526-08:00BECAUSE I'M SQUARE AND LIVE ON THE WEST SIDE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VaOEpwqmpQw/XheKfit4M2I/AAAAAAAABfw/en1fbqkm7RMpRkHF4ciPHuMbap_b0CoUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Swest-la-re20010911540_0001%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VaOEpwqmpQw/XheKfit4M2I/AAAAAAAABfw/en1fbqkm7RMpRkHF4ciPHuMbap_b0CoUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Swest-la-re20010911540_0001%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="247" height="320" data-original-width="1237" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-80889999293526898812019-07-24T08:52:00.001-07:002019-07-24T08:52:28.948-07:00JACARANDA TAKEOVER<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/p/By5rePfA_VP/" data-instgrm-version="12" style=" background:#FFF; 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font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; font-style:normal; font-weight:550; line-height:18px;">View this post on Instagram</div></div><div style="padding: 12.5% 0;"></div><div style="display: flex; flex-direction: row; margin-bottom: 14px; align-items: center;"><div><div style="background-color: #F4F4F4; border-radius: 50%; height: 12.5px; width: 12.5px; transform: translateX(0px) translateY(7px);"></div><div style="background-color: #F4F4F4; height: 12.5px; transform: rotate(-45deg) translateX(3px) translateY(1px); width: 12.5px; flex-grow: 0; margin-right: 14px; margin-left: 2px;"></div><div style="background-color: #F4F4F4; border-radius: 50%; height: 12.5px; width: 12.5px; transform: translateX(9px) translateY(-18px);"></div></div><div style="margin-left: 8px;"><div style=" background-color: #F4F4F4; border-radius: 50%; flex-grow: 0; height: 20px; width: 20px;"></div><div style=" width: 0; height: 0; border-top: 2px solid transparent; border-left: 6px solid #f4f4f4; border-bottom: 2px solid transparent; transform: translateX(16px) translateY(-4px) rotate(30deg)"></div></div><div style="margin-left: auto;"><div style=" width: 0px; border-top: 8px solid #F4F4F4; border-right: 8px solid transparent; transform: translateY(16px);"></div><div style=" background-color: #F4F4F4; flex-grow: 0; height: 12px; width: 16px; transform: translateY(-4px);"></div><div style=" width: 0; height: 0; border-top: 8px solid #F4F4F4; border-left: 8px solid transparent; transform: translateY(-4px) translateX(8px);"></div></div></div></a> <p style=" margin:8px 0 0 0; padding:0 4px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/By5rePfA_VP/" style=" color:#000; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; font-style:normal; font-weight:normal; line-height:17px; text-decoration:none; word-wrap:break-word;" target="_blank">Jacaranda Tunnel.</a></p><p style=" color:#c9c8cd; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px; margin-bottom:0; margin-top:8px; overflow:hidden; padding:8px 0 7px; text-align:center; text-overflow:ellipsis; white-space:nowrap;">A post shared by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/hinchas_press/" style=" color:#c9c8cd; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; font-style:normal; font-weight:normal; line-height:17px;" target="_blank"> Yago Cura</a> (@hinchas_press) on <time style=" font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px;" datetime="2019-06-19T18:22:32+00:00">Jun 19, 2019 at 11:22am PDT</time></p></div></blockquote><script async src="//www.instagram.com/embed.js"></script><br />
<br />
<br />
What it is is two Jacaranda Trees<br />
planted along the same longitudinal<br />
on the south side of Inglewood Blvd.<br />
<br />
They post up fifty feet into the air, <br />
dusky, purple billows, that tumble into<br />
a momentary tunnel over sidewalksides.<br />
<br />
It's their takeover factor, sheer spectacle,<br />
dueling cumulus branches, that toggles my awe <br />
into something more feral and focused than zeal.<br />
<br />
Except, I've come to put my infant son to sleep. <br />
And, stumbled upon this enormous lavender aberration,<br />
and, now, have to keep from erupting in the sharp sun?<br />
<br />
Under the trees themselves, carpeted mauve wilt<br />
that stains paint jobs and tinges the makeshift tunnel<br />
drawn by the two Sumo jacaranda trees straddling Inglewood.<br />
<br />
The mid-management palms grow away from las Jacaranda gemelas. <br />
In fact, you won't find a plant not perturbed by the brightness<br />
of their tasteless display, vegetation can be so shameless.<br />
<br />
In the middle of the Jacaranda tunnel is a mail truck.<br />
It is parked at the mouth of the tunnel on the other side<br />
of all this purple, but there is no mailperson in sight.<br />
<br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-19221839003926224422019-06-22T13:52:00.002-07:002019-06-22T13:52:48.541-07:00LAS FRENCH COOKIES QUE ME TRAJO TIA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SCaWfT1HLyA/XQ6U95nFU8I/AAAAAAAABec/Nqf5TjuJOoo65_TOyXZzLcDSZYH69NnAwCLcBGAs/s1600/FRENCH_COOKIE_A%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SCaWfT1HLyA/XQ6U95nFU8I/AAAAAAAABec/Nqf5TjuJOoo65_TOyXZzLcDSZYH69NnAwCLcBGAs/s320/FRENCH_COOKIE_A%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="225" height="320" data-original-width="588" data-original-height="835" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v3QLlzbixcw/XQ6U98LGCkI/AAAAAAAABeg/m_3H2vEBuJMVg3pku2ztvECjoccqYItWACLcBGAs/s1600/FRENCH_COOKIE_B%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v3QLlzbixcw/XQ6U98LGCkI/AAAAAAAABeg/m_3H2vEBuJMVg3pku2ztvECjoccqYItWACLcBGAs/s320/FRENCH_COOKIE_B%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="221" height="320" data-original-width="565" data-original-height="817" /></a></div>Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-70346008948730587302019-05-29T23:07:00.004-07:002019-05-29T23:07:58.920-07:00HINCHAS' PUSHCART NOMINATION 2019<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qnFT-u6pWew/XO9zE16vuZI/AAAAAAAABeI/qR0Qs6k4Q3g35jM5ZKPYStQR3BmbNdtiwCLcBGAs/s1600/HINCHAS_PUSHCART_2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qnFT-u6pWew/XO9zE16vuZI/AAAAAAAABeI/qR0Qs6k4Q3g35jM5ZKPYStQR3BmbNdtiwCLcBGAs/s400/HINCHAS_PUSHCART_2019.jpg" width="400" height="178" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="713" /></a></div>Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-59274319568887061742019-05-11T03:23:00.000-07:002019-05-11T03:25:06.678-07:00IMMIGRANT CROUPIER by YAGO S. CURAImmigrant Croupier <br />
by Yago Cura<br />
<br />
<br />
My great, great grandfather was a Lebanese ocean croupier.<br />
Rolled the dice on Argentina as payout with my tatara abuela. <br />
Debarking Buenos Aires, tongues calloused by Spanish knots,<br />
they handsplained their way through racist-ass aduanas.<br />
<br />
Teleported themselves to the middle of the country to secure dough. <br />
Raised a family flanked by immense grass deserts of desiccant wind.<br />
Without their gamble, my parents don’t ante on that freight ship’s hold.<br />
They don’t overstay tourist visas, or buy a house in Brooklyn to fill with din.<br />
<br />
If neither I nor my sister are born, the junta wins, and my parents lose.<br />
The existence of this very poem becomes ensnared in red date stamps?<br />
Relax, I make it to California because my tatara abuelos establish abuse<br />
of odds as their hedge in the face of exile, erasure, and military gavels. <br />
<br />
It is not luck which brings me to the brink of this continent <br />
to commune with my predecessors, and polish the wilderness <br />
of their bruise. <br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-47062448621396211282018-06-26T17:43:00.000-07:002018-06-26T17:43:44.822-07:00Oda al Masche<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FmwZ5xTginM/WzLdo_EpQ1I/AAAAAAAABdE/j57H4t1QfpoQuARylNYKQOBv-6pCHpG3QCLcBGAs/s1600/masche_bleeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FmwZ5xTginM/WzLdo_EpQ1I/AAAAAAAABdE/j57H4t1QfpoQuARylNYKQOBv-6pCHpG3QCLcBGAs/s400/masche_bleeding.jpg" width="400" height="294" data-original-width="742" data-original-height="546" /></a></div><br />
Maradona says the squad is you plus 10.<br />
In interviews, he amps you up by calling you a pitbull<br />
(he should’ve called you a dogo).<br />
<br />
What Maradona’s ig’nant-ass means is that there<br />
are few who will sweat or bleed more <br />
for the Albiceleste than good, old Masche.<br />
<br />
Quizas, what Maradona doesn’t have the nuance<br />
to say is imagine how far Argentina might get <br />
with an entire squad of Masches?<br />
<br />
For Christ’s sakes, you’re only the second <br />
Argentine in the world with two gold medals!<br />
<br />
And, little beast, your slide tackles are guided, <br />
precise strikes, all-in, all-ball, that leave strikers <br />
blubbering indignities to the ref.<br />
<br />
Your instep decimates plots, foils chance volleys, <br />
serves to redirect possession, served to bulwark Barça’s <br />
almost impenetrable perimeter.<br />
<br />
You bark at the strikers and bark at the lumps<br />
and somehow are always dragging forward the threshold <br />
of a dire future we are about to escape; you’re known <br />
for bringing teams back from their brinks.<br />
<br />
Masche, 8 years you built at Barcelona, <br />
3 or so at Liverpool, Corinthians, River Plate<br />
and now, Hebei China Fortune Futbol Club?<br />
<br />
Back to Pellegrini, I guess, your trainer at <br />
River Plate, your salad days at the club that <br />
broke you and Tevez off, so you fools might shine.<br />
<br />
Sure, you lost some time at West Ham. <br />
You might have developed a mild case of soul cirrhosis. <br />
Guardiola might have molded you into something you don’t like, <br />
a solid, center defender, but people say Masche <br />
and that stands for something, it means something resolute.<br />
<br />
Masche stands for slide-tackling Robben’s incursion in 2014,<br />
even if it means tearing your anus; Masche means limping off field to fanfare. <br />
<br />
Masche stands for frustrating divas like Ronaldo with a little too much contact<br />
because every cop’s got to have some criminal in her and every criminal has got <br />
to be able to think like a cop.Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-60269442078803534552017-06-15T08:13:00.002-07:002017-06-15T08:13:29.812-07:00SOUTH CENTRAL LIBRARIAN MANUAL: CUSTOMER SERVICE SCENARIO INVOLVING DOLLAR TREE MOTHERSJamila throttles into the lobby of the library; there is blood in her eyes, which forces her to squint deep. <br />
She wants the name of the motherfucker that told her mother the only place she can work is Dollar Tree.<br />
She wants his name, his motherfucking badge number, and the FICO score of his old lady.<br />
<br />
I tell her I am the motherfucker she is looking for, which comes out all wrong (I don't clinch the emphasis).<br />
But, that I never would have told her mother the only place she can work is Dollar Tree. I tell her, I told her.<br />
I told her that the only place that might accept papers applications in this neighborhood is Dollar Tree or Family Farms.<br />
<br />
Jamila in a NY JETS jersey and sparkly sandals; Jamila, tough customer on a vendetta query, looking through motherfuckers.<br />
Jamila, all employers force applicants to pilot their websites, so they can assess their protocol-pulse and proclivities.<br />
Jamila, I would like nothing more than to be the motherfucker that helped your mother get a job, but I can't.<br />
<br />
Bring her to my computer class on Wednesdays so she can learn some new skills and come hang out in the air conditioning with us.<br />
Jamila, libraries love your mother, libraries love mothers in general, libraries are full of motherfucking mother-lovers, Jamila.<br />
<br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-11260345970057871442017-06-12T22:08:00.001-07:002017-06-12T22:08:14.863-07:00JESUS ALDANA-ALBA REVIEWS CAVITY'S "AFTER DEATH"Cavity, After Death, 2017<br />
by Jesús Aldana-Alba<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgCI3jCOImQ/WT9yx2omyYI/AAAAAAAABcE/Rndvkpz7ZlMI3W5LrVQ_LvnArp-omxgWwCLcB/s1600/cavity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgCI3jCOImQ/WT9yx2omyYI/AAAAAAAABcE/Rndvkpz7ZlMI3W5LrVQ_LvnArp-omxgWwCLcB/s400/cavity.jpg" width="400" height="397" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="596" /></a></div><br />
This is ugly music for ugly people with ugly friends who like it that way. Now, I’d never heard of Cavity before being asked to review this album, so, I’m not going to be comparing it to any of their past efforts. <br />
<br />
I’ll start by saying that, “After Death” is reminiscent of so many other records that have done that sound well. Nonetheless, it is far from a mediocre endeavor. Whereas Sleep is heavier; Neurosis more intellectual; Boneworm, more psychedelic; and, Sub Rosa and Pallbearer, more elegant, Cavity’s latest is as reliable as winter rust.<br />
<br />
By the 3rd track “Fangs On Beyond” the album begins to sound exactly like what you might guess it sounds like from the title: a couple of bare, mid-paced, super-aggressive tracks that pound away on heavy, dirty distortion-drenched guitars and vocals, exemplified on side 1, for example, by tracks like “Scalpel A.D. and Neanderthal.”<br />
<br />
The vocals are captivating throughout though; they do have a very scratch-your-eyes-out sort-of feel to them. And the lyrics - what I could make out of them, anyways - are thoughtful<br />
<br />
<br />
The cymbal work on the first track gives it a bit of Industrial flavor, at first; then, the track gives way to a slow, bluesy churn that makes one want to get ink. “Neanderthal” starts to feel like an unfolding, of sorts. Maybe, it’s the slight wobble between the instruments, as if the time signature is just a suggestion, but, this unmooring ends up working in Cavity’s favor. <br />
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I imagine that if you could slow time down to a crawl, and be a fly on the wall inside of an Internal Combustion Engine, you’d hear the sounds of After Death’s side 1. After that roar, naturally, follows the paranormal rust and blues of side 2. If you’ve ever heard Neurosis’ Sovereign, (Cavity’s track) “Fangs” will sound familiar. It’s noisy and jarring and tribal--a bit Sci-Fi, too. The track scrapes across the sky like nails on a chalkboard (but we, that is my ugly friends and I, like a little pain here). <br />
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The album’s closer, is gold. “Collision” is so sparse, at first, that it feels quiet, despite it being loud, as loud as an unexpected thrah-rattling while walking alone in the desert. The percussion is adroit. And the vocals - THE VOCALS!!! - they go from sweet and delicate to reckless, ebullient hooting, like Michael Jackson at a Mr. Bungle hostage situation. <br />
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All in all, After Death is a very satisfying record, perfect for drowning out unruly neighbors while you solder cables or cycling through your yoga routine. Personally, After Death has a meditative quality you might want to blast while you slap some glue on some art, which if you think about it might be the highest compliment one could pay to a band.<br />
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Buy the album, here: <a href="https://www.secretserpents.com/products/cavity-after-death">https://www.secretserpents.com/products/cavity-after-death</a><br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-30448683774926942392017-02-03T08:04:00.000-08:002017-02-03T08:04:31.987-08:00QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST, "BAD WEEK"Was about to drive to Fatburger for pick-up lethargy (well-done)<br />
when me steed clonks out and refuses to turn over, which<br />
makes me think battery, but could also be alternator not <br />
keeping the charge, or even the fecund distributor on that <br />
grassy knoll of toil.<br />
<br />
was about to call the cops when the madmad woman come in crying<br />
blubbering about people laughing at her, so much so that my colleagues<br />
cloistered her at a table to see if they could calm her down from<br />
peal upon peal of laughter that kept zinging from her maw.<br />
<br />
was asking administration buffoons to peter out and hold dome<br />
for four solar lowrides past our immense Pelagic Blue marble<br />
and now they want to hand revolvers out at pill call and skull<br />
fuck orphans and collateral parcels from our illicit corporate darning.<br />
<br />
was asking law school Augustines and loot-filled philistines<br />
to sit down on the airport carpet and commandeer all the sockets<br />
to R.P.G. motions down the gullets of our most scary platforms<br />
and dockets and comprobantes and the sweat of fire hydrants.<br />
<br />
was asking nationalists and Leninists to stop colluding<br />
over the fiber(fiver)-optic cable dot com Rasputin.<br />
<br />
Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6809475744590077353.post-16838042181668304002017-01-25T08:00:00.002-08:002017-01-25T08:00:18.149-08:00SEYBOLD BUILDING: LOREJewelers have lots of friends because some are naturally gregarious, but all jewelers have lots of friend because they expect discounts. Discounts from their middlemen, discounts from their priests and rabbis, discounts from the children garden or synthetic oil club. Jewelers need you to cut from the top because they are always the one left holding the cup; they buff and sparkle the fuck out of that bauble before wrapping it in tissue and laying it in its silky, plastic zip-lock sheath.<br />
<br />
Just like the Phoenicians invented written language for commercial reasons, every sale, alteration, or consultation that jewelers make are based on a story, a narrative, un hilo or thread that carries the transaction from need to want to satiation. Jewelers are hubs from which emanate legions of anecdotes, cuentos, jokes, practicums and symposia. In our rush for k-pod singularity and 3D print articulations, jewelers might be some of the only remaining samurai artisan businessmen. Forget the retail chains or diamond wholesalers, many of those proprietors are just as privileged as your common portfolio manager; I'm talking about a hunger you can't teach in the U.S.<br />
<br />
I am talking specifically about the jeweler that puts food on the table with their craft and their neck. These women and men can associate a story with every point of purchase, and as we continue to accelerate the loss of our physical memory to make way for the android memory server, let no one say I was not at the helm shouting down from the oxygen tanks that jewelers are repositories of stages in the life of an artifact, and that objects and artifacts used to matter. Maybe, I am being a nostalgic dick, a petulant post-millennial, or a gigantic mamon. Truth be told, I am heavily all three, but that does not preclude me from seeing the importance of jewelers.<br />
<br />
But, I will never forget the tale of Eduardo and his loose wedding ring. Eduardo had recently gotten married; purely by mistake, he makes his ring a little looser than his fiance's. Because he was pressed for time, he decided to wear it loose and alter it the second he had a minute. Two months later, Eduardo is coming out of the Seybold, and while walking to Government Center, two dudes approach seemingly out nowhere and snatch his men's leather satchel, which the dudes probably mistaked for a bank deposit bag. While giving chase, the two dudes jumped over a fence with abundant ease; Eduardo gives chase, and manages to scamper up the fence with little difficulty.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, as Eduardo nears the crest of the fence, he manages to slip a tine of the fence between his finger and the ring. At the same time, Eduardo looses footing as he throws his weight over, and the actual wedding ring ends up severing his finger. It pulls through the flesh, bone, and tears. The subsequent screaming that Eduardo looses upon the cold edifices of downtown Miami makes the santeros leaving dead chickens on the steps of the court house think twice about how they exit. Even though gold is considered a soft metal, it can still cut through skin and bone without much hesitation. <br />
<br />
We need to see the serrated edge to know it cuts, but given enough weight and pressure, a ring of gold can act as a plasma slice of coin and cut through bone and plastic to yell its historical theater. .Spicarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00260845804858144426noreply@blogger.com0