la muy muy
hot summer afternoon,
waiting for the right set of bells to pass by my block,
slinking around in blue pastel shorts
and a little white tanktop, bearfoot.
my little pony tail rocks side to side. as i lay with my head hanging over the side of our old brown flowery couch we got at muebleria el paisano.
ring ring, the elote man comes, its not time yet,
ahoooga ahoooga,
the lil durito man comes with the big squares and the little round wheels,
waiting to drench them with limon and tapatio,
but it would be hard to hide the evidence...
my dirty little fingers would be so greasy afterwards....
and this is getting harder by the minute.
bing bing bing, the tamale lady,
tempting,
but im saving my dollar for the raspado man.
the one my mom tells me not to buy from
cause he doesnt wash his hands all day,
and then he touches my ice. i dont care.
that rompope one is calling my name,
he even adds extra raisins to mine.
and my brother says theyre cockaroches.
whatever, hes just jealous.
esa mi gordita, the little brown man exclaims...
his face burnt by the sun.
as i run across the street,
and i think he only passes by this street cause the flood of little brown and black kids probably makes a killing. fuck with all the ones i buy ive probably paid his rent
and
i secretly eat it in my back yard,
and my little dirty mutt terrier dog waits for the drips to fall down from my spoon,
he licks my toes and i laugh,
and i have to hide it from my mom who comes to see what all the commotion was about.
that was a dollar well spent i think,
and i smile with satisfaction
as i sit and push myself with both feet on a broken skateboard.
put some shoes on she yells at me.
youre not some street kid...
and i tell her mines have a hole on the bottom......
but really they dont
tomorrow we'll go buy you new ones "en el swamee".....yes, the swapmeet.
fast forward.
the elote man comes
and now theyre so stinky with their gooey cheese and driping mayonaise.
and the tamale lady comes,
but ive had better at the little shop in silverlake,
where the the foodies go to get "authentic" mexican food,
after all it is zagat rated.
so i skip him.
and the durito man,
i have to watch my grease intake.
fried foods.
a childhood luxury at best.
he goes along unnoticed.
climbing up ladders,
from corporate pawn,
to assistant,
to newfangled writer.
its not even that high. dont fret.
esa se cree la muy muy, mirala.
and with my apartment,fighting for modern amenities
in spite of it being a vintage space.
so picky.
i guess in some ways i want to hold onto the past.
and ive traded the indoor swapmeet for a mall
and my mutt terrier, now a fashionable boxer,
who i spoil with pedigree treats.
and my furniture not from a muebleria, no, its all ikea, and some vintage pieces from H.D. Buttercup.
forgive me for expanding my horizons.....
and with that line alone, ive offended you.
oh well.
but my dollar,
my dollar i still save for the raspado man.
nothing compares to that rich rompope flavor.
nothing compares to that taste on hot summer nights.
and nothing can compare to the joy i feel when i hear those little bells.
and its not the same man now
theres a new one every week
and i push passed the little bearfoot kids.
with sticky little fingers, clearly the durito man has alread passed by today.
and i step aside all the moms with strollers and he greets me...
"de que le doy?"....
i dont have to think about it,
ROMPOPE! i squeal with delight.
and for 2 seconds im 7 again....
somethings are just to good to give up...
no matter how 'creida' i am.
you matter how 'muy muy' you think i can be.
waiting for the right set of bells to pass by my block,
slinking around in blue pastel shorts
and a little white tanktop, bearfoot.
my little pony tail rocks side to side. as i lay with my head hanging over the side of our old brown flowery couch we got at muebleria el paisano.
ring ring, the elote man comes, its not time yet,
ahoooga ahoooga,
the lil durito man comes with the big squares and the little round wheels,
waiting to drench them with limon and tapatio,
but it would be hard to hide the evidence...
my dirty little fingers would be so greasy afterwards....
and this is getting harder by the minute.
bing bing bing, the tamale lady,
tempting,
but im saving my dollar for the raspado man.
the one my mom tells me not to buy from
cause he doesnt wash his hands all day,
and then he touches my ice. i dont care.
that rompope one is calling my name,
he even adds extra raisins to mine.
and my brother says theyre cockaroches.
whatever, hes just jealous.
esa mi gordita, the little brown man exclaims...
his face burnt by the sun.
as i run across the street,
and i think he only passes by this street cause the flood of little brown and black kids probably makes a killing. fuck with all the ones i buy ive probably paid his rent
and
i secretly eat it in my back yard,
and my little dirty mutt terrier dog waits for the drips to fall down from my spoon,
he licks my toes and i laugh,
and i have to hide it from my mom who comes to see what all the commotion was about.
that was a dollar well spent i think,
and i smile with satisfaction
as i sit and push myself with both feet on a broken skateboard.
put some shoes on she yells at me.
youre not some street kid...
and i tell her mines have a hole on the bottom......
but really they dont
tomorrow we'll go buy you new ones "en el swamee".....yes, the swapmeet.
fast forward.
the elote man comes
and now theyre so stinky with their gooey cheese and driping mayonaise.
and the tamale lady comes,
but ive had better at the little shop in silverlake,
where the the foodies go to get "authentic" mexican food,
after all it is zagat rated.
so i skip him.
and the durito man,
i have to watch my grease intake.
fried foods.
a childhood luxury at best.
he goes along unnoticed.
climbing up ladders,
from corporate pawn,
to assistant,
to newfangled writer.
its not even that high. dont fret.
esa se cree la muy muy, mirala.
and with my apartment,fighting for modern amenities
in spite of it being a vintage space.
so picky.
i guess in some ways i want to hold onto the past.
and ive traded the indoor swapmeet for a mall
and my mutt terrier, now a fashionable boxer,
who i spoil with pedigree treats.
and my furniture not from a muebleria, no, its all ikea, and some vintage pieces from H.D. Buttercup.
forgive me for expanding my horizons.....
and with that line alone, ive offended you.
oh well.
but my dollar,
my dollar i still save for the raspado man.
nothing compares to that rich rompope flavor.
nothing compares to that taste on hot summer nights.
and nothing can compare to the joy i feel when i hear those little bells.
and its not the same man now
theres a new one every week
and i push passed the little bearfoot kids.
with sticky little fingers, clearly the durito man has alread passed by today.
and i step aside all the moms with strollers and he greets me...
"de que le doy?"....
i dont have to think about it,
ROMPOPE! i squeal with delight.
and for 2 seconds im 7 again....
somethings are just to good to give up...
no matter how 'creida' i am.
you matter how 'muy muy' you think i can be.