ODE TO KEMPES

After the partidos portenos became defunct,
the bulk of glory of '78 belongs to
the stadiums in Rosario. It's there Kempes
got to marquise his moniker as El Matador.
The Killer, Finisher, Executioner?
All names are applicants stepping up to role.
All fantasies applicant a step of rote dollop.
I like to think of Kempes as mystical logistics,
a butcher in the bushes, sniper in the abattoir,
machine-gunner in the rafters. I like to think
of Kempes as that flash that scored 85 goals
in 105 matches; the one that sealed Argentina '78
as if the Cup were an envelope or pandemonium missive.
The Kempes that took years to get going,
as if his burrito or conejo were not regulating
adequate electricity. The curly, mangy, swanky
bastardo who could smack balon from miles outside the
holy-rotten box. The pudding's proof was his play
for Valencia where the clips still regale and dazzle
the Spaniards. Last I heard he was a ghost in the machine
for broadcast television, but to Tenico Narcissus
who watched the '78 Cup in a water flat off Nostrand
he was the underdog leading the charge of spectacular
volleys.