Posts filed under '"Cuentos que se cuentan las comadres"'
2:19
It took you two hours-and-nineteen minutes
to get all dolled up
30 in the shower
An hour on the hair & make-up
and the rest on those small details that, on occasions like this, make a world of difference
Pedicured toes and all
2 hours-and-19 minutes
Eyeshadow in place, mascara on the lashes
Hair stunning, and did I mention, without any frizz?
A dab of pink on those luscious lips
Skinny jeans on those hips
You was sure to get his attention looking this way
No way jose, he was not going to think,
“Man, should’ve stayed with her”
You were early to church
Gave you time to calculate
Just where you were going to sit
Not too close to the casket
But not too far from him
Sure the father’s dead
The man is losing his head
But, hey, it’s no excuse
Why not have a rendezvous?
I don’t matter anyway
I never did, in the first place
You never liked me, either way
Standing at that church
Watching you prowling for your next move
Thought about how long
All that glitz and glamour took you
You looked stunning that day
Yet your best work doesn’t compare
To my lousiest of days
Your swaying hips
are no contest
to my natural curves
Glossy lips
don’t compare
To my sun-kissed face
Your latest hair-do, with no frizz
although trendy, was a miss
When you compared it to my locks
Straight and shiny with no fuzz
2 hours-and-19 minutes
Head-to-toe glamour
Thought you looked tasty like honey
Yet your best work doesn’t compare
to my lousiest of days
That cake on your face, that you like to call make-up
May have caught his eye
And yet compared to my barren face–
It’s simply
A disgrace
What you didn’t plan out, sweet-stunning-thing
Sexiest-thing-funeral-has-ever-seen
What you fail to realize
and probably will never know
Is that
While make-up may do wonders
It doesn’t cover souls
And your dying-low-life, blood-sucking, funeral-hounding
love-snatcher-soul…
Reeked a mile away
Add comment November 9, 2007
Autobiography/ Autobiografia
My father didn’t eat for three days before crossing to “el otro lado”. While my dad scavenged his surroundings—todo hambriento, trying to figure out a way into the land of opportunity, farther south my grandmother passed her days worried sick for him. What’s peculiar about this story is that my grandmother, completely clueless of her son’s whereabouts, didn’t eat for three days as well. The story goes that for those three days every time my grandmother would try to swallow her food, she would feel a “raspón” in her throat. Witnesses say that every time she attempted to eat during those three days and she felt that sharp “raspón”, she would remember my father exclaiming, “Ese raspón lo siento porque mi hijo no ha comido”.
Add comment November 4, 2004
