|knights in low riders
By Zyskandar A. Jaimot on 06/26/2007
knights in low riders
Just at dusk
before white lights of civilized community
knights in low riders;
Hispanic boys streak toward manhood.
Speeding on highways
with cars waxed and washed everyday,
cleaner than their clothes.
And on those asphalt roads guarded
by ever vigilant mostly Anglo-police
hiding behind dark glasses,
watching for rims and alloy wheels
to speedily shimmer by in chrome sparkle -
these nasty looking cars with chopped suspensions, cut shocks
all equipped with spoilers and SR wings zoom by.
Like vultures or birds of prey ready to strike
then gone too fast to catch or even chase.
Stereos implanted, systems worth more
than sex with JLo.
Leaving only streaks of xenon lights
and blaring sound -
echoes and ground effects of spearmint or purple,
visible badges of belonging.
try to arrest these illegals and keep
our streets empty -
of racing immigrants
with names of Hernandez, Rodriguez, Rivera, Ochoa.
No not American Graffiti bluejeaned youth,
'dragging' souped-up cars in blonde sweet desire,
but different desires, different tastes, like
the sting of intense jalapenos as they stomp on gas pedals
of red and black flame emblazoned
4.6 supercharged Mustang V-8s,
rumbling throaty roars of pentup frustration.
Because Latino pride demands machismo.
Because to a Latino,
how fast you are dictates your status.
Because Latinos have abandoned King Arthur's stallions
and replaced them with horsepower.
Because cars outlive wives
so don't ask to drive -
for when you loan out your car
it's like lending out your woman.
Stickers proclaim, Keeker, Eclipse, Nakamichi speakers.
Adding decibel deafness to enhance their dream,
blasting us all back into seats. Watching them
slowed by infrequent stoplights. Heads bobbing from rap and hip-hop,
in time to music blasting, booming out
to rock other cars in line.
Knights in low riders shift punch slam gears
redlining through 9500 rpm's to prove their worth as quick
as sons become fathers, with willing partners
in sweaty fake or wicked real leather seats. .
A caravan of DelSol's, CRX's, Integras, Civics, Camaros, line up
reeking of nitrous bottles and hi-octane.
Heady aromas supplying a quick-fix hit of power
waiting for a clean run,
waiting to launch themselves into ecstasy,
waiting to torque and blowout V-tec engines.
No matter - about life at risk.
On the streets word is, "It's night - let's go run".
And all through the night cops circle
bright beams on,
hoping to scatter these hoodracers -
never realizing chromed fenders flash is valued more
than any noble's carefully tended armour.
Knights in low riders bet life for
2 - 3 - 5 hundred a run. Not for money – but for pride.
Girls wear butthugging pants and highheeled strappy sandals
hungering for rides on spinning wheels,
thrilling to the burnt smell of 18inch slicks,
all the while begging
for them "to do it again".
And when racing with the night is over -
Knights in low riders
fill their driveways with love.
© By Zyskandar A. Jaimot On 6/26/2007 1:03:10 PM