Vato Loco de la Maravilla

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Vato Loco de la Maravilla


Ayer watché al frankie
cruising the varrio in his
firme sixty-four, chingón
como los vatos locos de
tiempos pasados, listening
to the oldies a madre como
si todo 'stuviera de aquellas
with the world.
El frankie es uno de esos
veteranos del varrio,
laid back cabrones with their
cool ass talk and walk, ese
starting everything with an orale
carnal, shaking your hands
in that raza way to tell you
que you're all right.

He likes to tell stories
about his days en la vida loca
con el flaco pinche loco at chuy's
corner of fifth and main.
"I ever tell you about that time
flaco threw blows with la Carmen
that waitress there, ese?" Frankie
smiles, carnal, always smiles
when he thinks of that.

Back in esos tiempos cuando todo
'staba más calmado, en esos tiempos
when vatos took care of pedos
con chingazos and the biggest
enemy was the cops, when
Frankie and Beto y el Puppet
eran chavillos pero con huevos,

they started calling themselves los
vatos locos de la maravilla, ese
big time VLM con safos and only
fourteen years old. Pero todos
sabían que el Frankie was bad
and he proved it on anyone
who talked shit.

Frankie didn't land in the pinta
til he was twenty-one, el vato
no era como el Flaco o Chino,
crazy mother-fuckers that started
with batteries then took the whole cars,
Frankie played it cool saying
the pinta wasn't for him,
but he got caught in some
jale that went wrong one night
at the Circle K when a chota caught
him and Beto on a beer run and
cuetes blasted and the vato
at the counter came out dead.

The chota said it was Frankie
that killed him and everyone
believed him, the judge the news
and us, y lo mandaron a la pinta
where Frankie said he didn't belong
to spend twenty-five no chance
of parole.

We didn't know about chotas
and raza and about the varrio, ese.
We didn't see how the cop
saw his life as more important
and Frankie just another punk
that would end up in jail anyway,
and who really gives a fuck
about another mexican that kills.

We didn't know that Frankie wasn't
packing and that people panic some
times, ese, the chota only heard
the shot and shot back not knowing
it was the clerk who shot first and got hit.

But things get lost and go
unsaid and the judge finds
it easier to lay the blame
on a vato loco de la maravilla.

Ayer watché al frankie
cruising the varrio in his
firme sixty-four, chingón
con los vatos locos de tiempos
pasados, two days after he was killed
in huntsville for some smokes.

Laid back veterano with his
cool ass talk and walk and
just glad to be home, smiles carnal
to tell us we're all right.

From the book Bus Stops and Other Poems © 1998 Manuel J. Vélez.