Friday, December 4, 2009

El Duende de la Lámpara

You’ve got no soul, when you’re the only guero on the block.
Mi duende es la puta. Kids with first names like Andres, last names like Aguilar
in the line for the shower in junior high, towels act as shanks. ¿Donde esta mi duende?
Lil’ Frankie and some baldheads jump you for pennies in front of a church. ¿Adonde vas, mi duende?

Girls, who smell like Aquanet, think you’re weird. ¿En mis manos? They come to school wearing lingerie as outerwear. ¿En mis huesos o mi verga o mis huevos? Your grades in classes where you sit behind them start to slip. No yo se, mi duende. But their breasts are so round and so new that you can’t help it. Estamos en la alma del Dios. First names like Yesenia, last names like Benividez that you caress before bed under covers. No se, duende.

So lost in a pervasive size 48 Ben Davis on size 28 waist-culture that you buy into your otherness. ¿No comprende para mi duende, las hermanas de los pantalones de viajar? You discover subculture, which makes you more of a target. Sus sangre es el miel por los lobos del amores con Tres Flores. “You dress like a maricon, chingon.” An esé will say. No se duende, amigo. They’ll befriend if you fight back and tell you to watch movies like Blood In, Blood Out. No se duende, chon chon.

They’ll say you’re honorary Chicano and invite you to barbeques in the park.
Tengo hambre por los niños de la mañana. You’ll eat potato tacos and their tio will aid you in getting boracho. Fuiste mi duende por la fiesta. Abuelita will sit watching a novela with you and wonder how people come up with these kinds of plot lines. Vaya con monos, mi duende.

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