SECRET CAVE BASES

Secret cave bases are bases drawn by bored boys; they have swivel chambers of profuse firepower and helicopter landing pads and machine gun turrets.

Moreover, these illustrations proved to be like blueprints for the most personal space a young boy could conjure. I knew some boys that had whole notebooks of secret cave bases, organized by date, class, and service.

What a shame that these bases were not a part of my living biology. Like, the villains in James Bond movies (and some arch rivals) lived in sweet secret cave bases. You know the SPECTRE bunch, agent Emilio Largo and his henchmen iterations.

The point of a secret cave base is the allocation of uninviting space. The secret cave base is either camoflauged or craggy, anything that does not invite snoopers, foxy naturalists and/or octogenarian gadget mavens.

Also, there should be a large amount of non-union mercenaries in jumpsuits milling about, guarding the entrance haphazardly, oiling their warheads.

ODE TO CARLOS TEVEZ

Little by little, Tevez is getting the raiments
of celebrity established; they’ve reconstructed
his ensnarled incisors, but they could have left
the man with a neck, for Tevez has no visible neck.

His shoulders segue into his mandible which gives
him a quasi-hunchback appearance, possibly
a result of the malnutrition he suffered as a shanty rat.

But, mundo fútbol is no popularity exhibition.
This cumbia-dancing, chupete-sucking, head-job
regularly jumps into crowds of weekend Centurions
after launching particularly pretty retardent pellets
into the un-bonded pockets of the post.

This means he is a cult of his own personality.

Maybe, the moral is never give an exceptionally
ugly man an inch for you they always define the yard.

Tecnico Narcisas billboards your Manchester jersey
wears it like a personal brown-shirt while scarfing
milanesas or smelting gold cement into pincering precious.

(Tecnico Narcisas even wears his Tevez jersey
out to dinner: pan con tortilla en Sergio's.)

I have to remind him to change his shirt when la Trocka
pulls its possum play because I fear he is going get grimey,
caked motor oil swaths of chata dirt on his second skin.

I have never seen Tecnico Narcisas wear a jersey outside
the celeste and white, and seeing him in this Rayon red,
fishscale Manchester jersey is like god’s poker sleeves.

He's always boostered Boca Jrs. and now he's boostering
for a former Boca Jrs player murdering English language interviews?

So, I turn to oracle audio-visual for your inimitable top ten.
Probably, the most savage goal el Apache ever scored
was against Serbia: he dogs one defenseman, lets the second one
overshoot him, and dispatches of the goalie with a razor range
Jimmy leg cumbia matrix of slick shit pasta and the evanescent.

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.

ODE TO PATO FILIOL

Such a shame the pato moniker stuck
because of your wingtip hands-up;
el balon, she ricochets aceitoso
off your Teflon torso, and your checkpoint-
splits sentinel defense mechanism.
Nothing harder to forget than an apodo
given by children and menace consorts.
You braved Naranja Mecanica in '78
which must have been like keeping dry
a dam of pins over a waterbed berth,
like plugging gash with miniscule
prehensil fingers. On defensive display
your torso spreads flaps, grand zones
of vortex control, where balon finds
pero zero currency. With River Plate's
Millionaires you brokered seven victories:
four on the Buenos Aires floor
and three national spots.(After
18 years of wandering through the woods
you bring River Plate a national title
and how do they pay you back: they lose
you due to financial complications to Racing).
So you do your thing and transfer to Flamengo
in Brasil and eventually Atletico de Madrid
to build up prodigal points perhaps but more
so to prevent River from winning the title
once you came back to Argentina for Racing.
Then you trained the next seat of arqueros
for Racing because they showed you love
when your colors turned on you because of loot.

"BESTIAS INBERBES (BEARDLESS BEASTS)" BY ABEL FOLGAR AND YAGO S. CURA

"Bestias Inberbes (Beardless Beasts)" is the latest offering from the dynamic duo of Yago S. Cura and Abel Folgar. This collection of 8 poems--solely about futbol, soccer, the beautiful game--brings together some of the greatest names in futbol.

For example, Folgar's "Ode to Ali Daei" and "Ode to Lev Yashin" mash nicely with Cura's "Ode to La Brujita Veron" or "Ode to Pele". Moreover, this collaboration represent the first time Hinchas has collaborated with Carlos Folgar.

This is Hinchas de Poesia's first zine of 2010. If you feel the way Abel and Yago do about futbol, then this zine is for you! If you would like to purchase a copy you may do so on the Hinchas website (http://www.hinchasdepoesia.com/Hinchas/Hinchas_html_pages/Hinchas_press.html) or you can just click here...