Lowcura
An introspective virtual cruise through an American
sub-cultural tradition
Levi
Romero
of a chrome airplane on the rusted hood
of a ‘56 Chevy
...daydream'
on the soft grass
down by the river
where dragonflies buzzed all day
have now decayed
like the fallen cottonwoods
along the gnarled paths
of the Rio Embudo
where free form poetry
mixed with cheap beer
on warm nights by the riverbanks
and stories of lowered ’49 Fleetlines
with flame jobs and spinners
were cast into the dark wind…”
Hearts and Arrows
Years later, I would hear stories
I remember it this way, Magdalena. As a small child
I would accompany my grandmother on her walks to or from my mother’s
house, which was about a mile and a half away. We would follow a walking path
along the Rio Embudo, a small stream weaving along the northern edge
of the village where I grew up. There was a certain place along this
walk that we always looked forward in coming to. It was there, just
off the sand and gravel trail under the shade of the towering cottonwoods
and heavy scent of river willow and summer heat where we would stop
for a short respite. It was at this section along the river where some
of the villager
Resuello
y Alma
I began cruising when I was about 12 years old with
some older cousins who would take me along on their nightly cruises
into town. It was in the early 1970' light’s
glow of shopping center parking lots and Main Street. One of my cousins,
known as l
And, so Magdalena, there begins my story, my earliest
recollections of low rider'
Eran en los
dias de Los Heroes
The low rider
has always been a representation of individual expression and identity
with connotations of a rebellious and non-conforming nature. The vato
loco archetype became the model for the low rider,
and it was that paragon of social deviance that formed the alluring
quality that sometimes attracted a young Chicano feeling the need to
affirm his own social status within his proper world. In my contemplations
regarding the lo
Los Heroes
los
watchávamos
cuando
pasaban
echando
jumito azul
en
sus ranflas aplanadas
como
ranas de ojelata
eran
en los días
de
los heroes
cuando
había heroes
turriqueando
en
lengua
mocha
y
riza torcida
Q-volé
ahora
nomás pasan
los
recuerdos
uno
tras del otro
y
mi corazón
baila
bendición
bendición
es
estar
contento
Señor,
gracias por...
gracias
por todo
Por Vida
“always on the outside of whatever side there was
when they asked
him why it had to be that way
well, he answered, just because”
Joey,
Bob Dylan
For any l, a
social misfit understood neither within his own culture nor within the
Western Anglo-Saxon world to which he could not relate. For that type
of individual, there was no way out. His locura was with him
from the beginning to the end, Por Vida. For those who didn’t
and for those who did persevere, who did not buy in or sell out, sangre
joven y veteranos igual que no dejaron cae la bandera, who lived
through la vida loca and came out laughing, grabbing at life’s
sweet hustle, for the honor and glory of not caring to know any other
way, it is in their own locura and from their own perspective
that the lo
En Tu Memoria
el Leonard
no le caiva que lo llamaran Lenny
sandy blonde raspy voice
green eyes toward the distant
crazy
walking
out of the Allsup’s in Mora
unbuttoned shirt and a quart of
vodka
stuffed in his jeans
¡watcha lo que
traigo aqui!
he said, as we drove away
¡que jodido, huero!
¿ que no tienes miedo que te
tuersan?
he
chuckled, popped the bottle open
!ponle! he said
¡ay, que Lenny!
nomas los recuerdos
quedan
aqui
te va
un buen pajuelaso en tu memoria
Theirs is an endearing language of colloquialisms,
pachuquism hood mural, and as vibrant as the
memories they’ve painted and etched across our own everyday palettes
of blandness and conformity.
El
Chapulin y El Bionic
me
tope con el Chapulin y el Bionic
en
el Swap Meet en ‘burque
pura
ojelata vieja, tu sabes
y
hay se comenzo el tripe
how
much did you say?
Fifty
I’ll
take that one and one of these
and
two of those
yeah,
one,
one
of those and how much for one of these?
o.k.
do I get one of those for free
you
know, as a bonus for two of those
one
of these and one of those?
well,
that’ll be seventy-eight
I
thought you said forty-five?
forty-five?
One of those alone is forty-five
give
me seventy-five
I’ll
give you seventy
no,
seventy-five
Bionic
stands in the hot sun
wisps
of hair from his pony tail
cling
to his sweating forehead
¡y,
wachate este, que locote!
¿que
tanto? Ten.Ten? Ten
bueno,
save it for me
that’s
a head lamp ring from a ’37, no? Yup
Cool!
hay vengo por el later
How Can I Tell You, Baby?
Well, Magdalena,
I hope your interest hasn’t begun to wane by now. This whole lo
Low rider
(ló’ ri’dah) 1. A car culture lifestyle
with its origins in California. 2. An individual whose personal identity
is manifested through his automobile. 3. A car, truck, or bicycle that
has been modified to achieve a lowered profile.
And even if a definitive description could be applied
to illustrate the aesthetic qualities and physical characteristics of
the lo
Wheels
how
can I tell you
baby,
oh honey, you’ll
never know the ride
the ride of a lowered Chevy
slithering through the
blue dotted night along
Riverside Drive Española
poetry rides the wings
of a ‘59 Impala
yes, it does
and it points
chrome antennae towards
‘Burque stations rocking
oldies Van Morrison
brown eyed girls
Creedence and a
bad moon rising
over Chimayo
and I guess
it also rides
on muddy Subaru’s
tuned
into new-age radio
on the frigid road
to Taos on weekend
ski trips
yes, baby
you and I are two
kinds of wheels
on the same road
listen, listen
to the lonesome humming
of
the tracks we leave
behind
And how descriptive or accurate
could a portrayal of the low
Easy Nig
Rosendo used to ride the buses
scoring phone numbers from
rucas
he’d meet at the parque
or
along Central’s bus stops
and diners
three to five numbers a day,
homes
he’d say, by the end of the
week
I know I’ll get lucky with
at least one, ‘ey
maybe she’ll have her own
canton
and I’ll drop by with a bottle of wine
and some good smoke
¡ y vamonos recio, carnal!
and he’d laugh, tilting his
head back
taking a long drag from a
Camel regular
and then he’d look at me
and laugh again, saying
¡ iii, este vato!
sometimes, I just don’t know
about you, bro
one night I was down at Jack’s
shooting pool
when the bartender yelled
out
that there was a phone call
for someone whose name sounded
like mine
and I was real surprised
that it was for me, you know
well, it was this fine babe
from the Westside
that I’d met a few weeks before
she said that my roommate
had told her that I’d be there
she said she’d been wondering
what I’d been doing
and how come I hadn’t called
she wanted me to go over
so I said, great! but that
I’d like to shoot a few more
games of pool
and that I’d be there in a
while
not that I was really interested
in pool anymore
but, hey I couldn’t let on
like I didn’t ever get
those kinda calls, you know
not like those vatos
down at Tito’s
with tattoos and dead-aim
stares did
leaning back against the wall
flirting with some ruca
over the phone
laughing and teasing while
the jukebox
plays Sam Cooke and me sitting
there
watching and wondering where
I
went wrong going right
I asked her if there’s anything
she wants me to bring over
some wine, maybe
and she says, yeah
that sounds good
and could you bring some cigarettes
too?
so there I am going down the
street
being all truchas for
the jura
‘’cause I didn’t want nothin’
to ruin this movida,
you know
well, I pulled into the Casa
Grande
and asked for a bottle of
Easynights
and a pack of frajos
and I sat looking through
the drive-up window
at the naked pinup girls on
the wall
and I started thinking of home, so far away
and how oftentimes I had nowhere
to go
wishing I knew some nice girl
I could drop by to visit
and watch a mono with
or just to sit and talk to
it was a rainy night
a beautiful rainy night
and the streets were all black
and wet
neon lights reflecting off
of everything
and running down the street
in streams of color
and I thought of Rosendo
and how he was going to laugh
and I knew he was going to
want
to know everything
¿órale, serio?
chale, you’re jiving,
homes
¡no, serio
her name’s Carmela !
serio, homes?
yeah!
no?
yeah, deveras!
¡ iii, este vato!
then I saw myself in the mirror
and I started laughing
sometimes, I just don’t know
about you, bro
“Take a little
trip,
take a little trip,
with
me” WAR
And no matter how many the
years, how far removed, or how long the distance from the road once
traveled, what it is still is because it was, because we were, because
we still are at heart cruiser’s cruising through the homeland. So
no matter how much things change, that which gave us life, sustained
us, will always be with us, here, aqui- en el pecho, en el corazon.
One Last Cruise:
Taos Plaza
this morning I decided
to throw one more cruise
through the plaza
en memoria de primo Bill
y de los resolaneros de aquellos
tiempos
who had found their circle
come together
in the presence of
each other
like
everything else around here
it
seems all is become memory
some Saturday mornings
my father would make the 20
mile trip
into town
we’d park at Cantu Furniture
the parking lot that sits
a’top
the old 7-11 building
off Paseo del Sur
it was exciting for me then
as a small boy
to know that our car
was moving across the roof
of the store below
and now, I still find it amusing
how did that sort of engineering
feat
arrive in Taos?
the other evening as I was
looking for a place to park
I pulled into that same parking
lot
and for a brief moment
contemplated leaving my truck
there
but, for the sign that read
Customer
Parking Only
All
Others Towed Away!
this morning
as I cruised into the plaza
I saw one lone, recognizable
living, remnant, figure
standing in faded jeans
white t-shirt and Converse
canvas Allstars
and a bundle of newspapers
strapped around his shoulder
el Paulie
flat-topped, square jawed
and looking 30 years
still the same
but, where were you primo Bill?
the park benches deserted
the covered portals no longer
bursting
with children clinging
to their mothers shopping
stride
mama’s strolling elegant
black hair curled
red lip-stick
the purse and coat
was it that Jackie Kennedy
period
or was it Connie Francis?
I look out the window
! nada!
¿que paso con la palomia
con los Indios envueltos en sus frezadas
que paso con la mini-falda?
I reach for the radio knob
and I crank up Santana
I let the sound of the timbales
snap
against
the vacant hollowness of memory
against the plaza’s
deserted facade
against the songbirds mournful
eulogy
I notice a group of tourist’s
congregating next to where
the old Army Surplus
used to be
I look
don’t look
I look again
they pretend not to
I know I’m on trial
I let off the gas pedal
and cruise in slowly
I lean back
into the seat, lowdown
and make myself comfortable
controlling the steering wheel
with one finger
here’s one for the ol’ times
baby!
! dale huelo!
I remember cruising through
the plaza
as a teenager with the Luna
brothers, Pedro and Rupert
I remember Rupert
bad-ass Califas loco
coming out to spend time with
his grandparents
whenever he was wanted by
the law back in Madera
I remember him
leaning far back against the
seat of that black ‘67 chevy
sporting spit-shined calco’s
with one leg up on the dashboard
and finger-snappin time to
War tunes on the 8-track stereo
his locura, cocky and loud
estilo California, nothin’
like Nuevo’s
quiet and proud
back then Taosie wasn’t a lowriding town
chale, low Impalas came from Espa’
I remember Rupert blurting out the window
to some Taoseño dudes staring
us out
“whatcha lookin’ at, ese
we’re just lowriding!”
well, I remember those times
being mostly like that
the predictable unknown lurking
waiting around like some badass
dude
leaning back with one bent
leg against the wall
and somehow we’d slip through
each incident
acting like it hadn’t mattered
whether we would or not
this morning
the people hanging out
by the coffee shop
laugh and languish
their carefree tourist manner
void of history, of memory
neither attachment nor sentiment
to time and place
no scars as enduring testaments
to the questions posed, the
answers given
a young girl stretches out
against the oncoming morning
her breasts
her form
that figure
¡mmm, gringa!
what am I thinking?
I’m the writing instructor
of this summer’s poetry class!
I can’t think
act
look
this way
but, hell
I pull my shoulder back
turn my head
and stare
mmm, baby, baby!
at the stop light
a young vato
long hair
and a pony tail
looks at me
catches
the riff
he knows the movida
a tight smile forms across
his mouth
Oye Como Va
Mi Ritmo
!bongo, boom, da!
Mi Ritmo!
tssssssssss_______ !!
for you, carnal!
one last cruise
around
the plaza
What does all this all
mean?
And because you’ve asked
me for my insights and contributions, Magdalena, I’ve tried. ‘Though
really, what can I offer you but this? Broken-tongue stories, some thoughts,
a few poems, a low-down cruise with a panoramic view into a seemingly
ominous future and a reconciliation born out of a come- what- may resiliency —
Maybe you can find a way
to break it all up, fragment it, present it in a more presentable way,
wring out the blood, harness the spirit, translate the non-translatable,
remove the music from the song, raise the ride back up and still call
it low. Que te vaya bien. I couldn’t do it even if I knew how.
Es todo- un viaje por mi Lowcura, por mi Tierra Sagrada.
New And
I watched a dropped
Metallic lavender colored
’66 Lemans
Pull out of the AutoZone onto
Sunset
Sporting 5/60’s, 14” Cragars
and rabbit ears
Rabbit ears!
A true period piece, man!
A mid-seventies testament
A real gem of the Sunday afternoon
cruise
A Hoochie-Coo Park, everyone’s
eyes on it, car wash bitchin’
Piece of ass finding ranfla
What does all this all mean?
What true literary aficionado
Could understand or bare even
the slightest interest
In this ghost-patterned paint,
chrome, and rubber observation?
Will this poem
Be allowed to exist alongside
other genres of poetry?
To say the least of its highly
improbable publication possibilities
In reputable established “American”
poetry journals
That hold in their editorial
exercising power
The ability to affirm and
measure a writer’s worthwhile poetic existence
No, probably not
Yet, what I saw rolling out’ve
that parking lot
Cautiously avoiding the teeth gnashing, bumper
scraping injury
To a 1966 Lemans dressed in
accessories from a past era
And rolling literally naked
to the general public mind
Was in itself poetry to me
A statement of personal taste
Much as the interest akin
to knife collecting
Gun shows, or extravagant
doll exhibits
As well as, say, literary
journal subscribers who must have their
Poetic fix mailed to them
every month
Curbing an appetite for the
compositional qualities and technical structuring
Of a language that works best
in literal abstraction
Is this poem abstract enough?
Does it carry a central theme
engaging a universal dialogue?
Is it eastern enough to satisfy
the taste of the self-absorbing
Intellectually sophisticated
western palette?
Will the U.S. poet laureate
nod his head in approval
And suggest that it at least
be considered placed next
To the greatest poems ever
written about cats curled up on a windowsill?
Hmmm, maybe, it’s just a little
bit too literal
Too barrio, too East L.A-ish
Or just too Aztlanish
There are, of course, great
literary enthusiasts
That could easily decipher
the blue-dot, ‘67 Cougar tail light
blinking like a Christmas tree, boogie-woogie rolas riffing out’ve
the organ pipes,
And dashboard saint protecting
us
From that which does not understand
us, chain steering wheeled chariot
With the red lights flashing
in the mirror
Red lights
flashing in the mirror?
Maybe
it’s the poetry police- ! ponte truchas, carnal!
Great literary enthusiasts
who can’t even read
Because nothing they were
ever given to read
Made sense to them either
Who do not have subscriptions
to anything of self-interest
Great literary enthusiasts
holed up in a lock-up facility
Who sit waiting for their
final sentence to be read to them
Who without explanation and
by implication are told
We are simply following due
process
Whose hearts and souls and
spirits and lives
Have been censored by mainstream
off-the shelf everything
And who were given instead
the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity
Hydrotherapy psychotherapy
ping pong and amnesia
Oops, now, where did that
come from?
How come nothing in the great
American poetry anthology
Reads like the America I know?
Or sounds like the chrome
tipped, cherry-bombed
Idle of a lowered bomba
at the stoplight
With a tattered page manuscript
lying
Under a pile of sorry assed
Thank you for your interest
rejection letters
Carpeting the floor?
|
