Eyes without a Face, Huaraches without a Race

“OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE. THEY JUST FADE AWAY.” (General Douglas MacArthur)

Near the porch she hoards cats under, my friend Teeny, a womyn-loving-womyn lacking rhythm, the kind of womyn warrior who sways against the music once a year at Michigan Womyn’s Festival, displays a store-bought rock among the petunias. Etched onto it is the epigram: “Old gardeners never die. They just spade away.”

You can totally hide that with gardening gloves.

Down the hood of the Ford Focus the forty-year-old chola living next door drives, I want to key, “Old cholas never die but their tattoos sure as shit fade hella uuuuuuuuuuuuuugly!”

The forty-year-old chola…if you live in LA County, not one of the bougie parts, you’ve got at least one, who lives with her responsible sister, somewhere on your block. If you’re Chicana and you think you don’t know any forty-year-old cholas, check the mirror and then your mom. Is she frying chorizo in a tube top? Are you frying chorizo in a tube top? Are you chorizo in a tube top?

I would feel less antipathy towards the forty-year-old chola if she wouldn’t flick lit cigarettes out her window and onto my rosemary. The sign that she’s been smoking is the Italian smell. I would also thank the forty-year-old chola if she’d strut her flan in an adequately-sized tube top. You can’t squeeze flan into a container smaller than it. Flan doesn’t work that way. Contrary to what her clothes tell me she believes, it has been years since her flan was a California roll.

Metaphor.

Another thing I’d appreciate would be if she enjoyed her music alone. When the forty-year-old chola plays songs, we all have to listen and, sometimes, I’m not in the mood to hear her sing The Greatest Love of All to herself. Also, in the morning, when I’m just beginning to accept consciousness, I can hear her cracking eggs to Make It Nasty.

Click here to Make It Nasty but exercise caution. If a forty-year-old chola is in the vicinity, she will start to cook, and worse, get low.

Maternal chola, Lily Munster. I think she sold my mom Avon.

When gardening near my dying Fremontodenron,

I sweat within gang-sign throwing distance of the forty-year-old chola’s window.

Her fuchsia curtains were shut when I brought out my pail to weed.

On days her curtains hang open, I can see into a room with fuchsia walls. Hanging from one, against a wave of coochy pink, a framed picture of la Virgen de Guadalupe radiates light.

Although God emblazoned this image on the cloak of Indian Juan Diego, art historians note a strong Flemish influence.

To see her suspended that way, beaming against that color, would do Betsey Johnson proud.

Johnson

& Johnson!

And then…it’s as if you hear the virgin…talking…to you. 

“Ay! Staaaaaaapit! Who told you sluts are ticklish! Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!

“Guadid you say, stoopit? I SAID BRING ME A BEER! DO WHAT I TAL YOU. I’M YOUR MUTHER’S SISTER!”

“Pepe, yer a f*ckin’ duuuuuuuuuuuuumbass! I hope you to go jile.”

“What happen to my heel?”

Pepe took it with him on “vacation.”

I can lurk in my bushes for hours, listening to la Virgen talk.

It makes me feel close to Paul Rodriguez.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, click Paul Rodriguez’ name to watch Jesus speak to him.

With her curtains drawn, I couldn’t live out my Juan Diego fantasies.

Thanks for hooking me with flowers. Now, how about you emblazon this cloak with some Lotto numbers?

I weeded.

My cacti showed me a good time.

The Ambassador.

Breast cancer aware.

Freak dancers.

The Rudy Huxtable.

Stryker.

Aromatic bushwacker.

Spiderman doilies.

Agave, a camel without a toe.

Thank you, agave, for protecting us from peeping toms. Maybe if the forty-year-old chola had some of you, she wouldn’t provide me with so much entertainment.

Sadly, the lazy Mexican statue guarding my front steps ran away. It left its feet behind. Disembodied, they now seem Old Testamenty.

Eyes Without a Face, huaraches without a race.

I wonder what he stole before he left.

Gringos are the opposite. They get hospitality twisted.

They abandon metaphor when told mi casa es su casa.

My inheritance! Damn you, T. Boone Pickens!

They slide their not-sandals under your bed and buy the Southwest for two scraps of hairy bread.

So as not to confuse anyone, mi casa es mine and TJ’s only.

And after a summer of mucking around in our roots and inheriting ancestral loot,

Which of these

was not

a grandpa’s?

we can now stand in front of our fridge to reap what’s spoiled.

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7 comments

  1. OH MY GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWSSSHHHHH! HO-LARIOUSSSSSSSSSSSS-ESA! American Meeeeeeeeeeerrrrrriam RARE!
    I love what you said about gringotes getting hospitality twisted! Remind me to tell you about the blanco boysura that did our roof, when I see you next!
    I fucking live for your words!

    1. I’ve gotta head over to the neighbor’s and bring a welcome basket for the house’s newest addition, a brother, Big Something, who just got back from “vacation.”

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