For All the Veteranas

And who is it that cares to think anymore as to whatever became of the former femme fatales- yesterday's darling divas? Those once glittering beauties from the barrios of Denver and L.A. the sultry sirens ( All has- beens now) from Illinois hamlets where grain elevators dot I-70. And what of the ex- Aphrodites from quiet southern towns like Cleveland, Mississippi? And faded princesses from bustling eastern cities such as Boston, Baltimore and Philly and fresh- faced angels, now in their demise from the vast Dakotas and Montana's big skies. Have they sunk into obscurity with time? Ravaged by age do they disappear? As their shapely legs turn to varicose- veined blubber and the goddess faces become furrowed caricatures haggard and worn. These are the dowdy matrons riding on your city's buses unnoticed, the women who hide the decline of their bodies dressed in long skirts and baggy sweaters ( modest as a Sunday school teacher) the same women who once wowed in skimpy halter tops and dazzled in daring leather minis the women whose flesh now sags so much like their once pinnacled dreams. And these women don't know whether to laugh or to cry at the ironies of today's youth- smooth- skinned, arrogant, ( as they once were) the boisterous cholos and cholas homeboys and homegirls who snicker at, scoff, or at best dismiss, these grizzled veterans for being old-fashioned, mundane, not hip, uncool. While all of the young ones money, time and energy is spent glorifying, idolizing the " gangsta" life that they know absolutely nothing about. It is more than your attire, rhythms and speech more than your favorite action movie. I tell you glory doesn't exist look at me I've lived the lyrics but my brokenness is no script this tarnished life not a motion picture it's real. And this poem is dedicated to all the weary veterans the old- school heinas of the 70s and 80s the ones struggling to survive. Who work at Walmart, or at your local diner, who telemarket magazines- the ones living alone in cheap motels with cigarette burned carpets or in small studios that have no air conditioning. With only our memories for company some bad, of jails and prisons that we've been in, of crimes we've witnessed, committed, or been victims of and some bittersweet- of the husbands and lovers who've left taut muscled, with luminous eyes and beguiling smiles. Young Lance corporals from Camp Lejeune, Lakota boys from the rez, big hearted drifters, poor campesinos. Men who've moved on but are nevertheless gone- whether successfully respectfully to money marrying other wives fathering other's children or- some lost to mental illness, alcoholism, suicide and it is only we rucas and viejas who remember those who will die in Statesville, Huntsville, Leavenworth, Cañón City. This is for all you former heinas who've never tattooed a teardrop in the corner of your eye because your hearts are already tattooed with tears.