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?
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