3 a.m. is the cruellest hour, breeding
Burritos out of the dead night, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull guacamole with gloved hands, feeding
A little life with Spicy Black Beans.
Here is no water but only Senor Sangria Red [sic]
Senor Sangria White [sic] and no water and the
Datta. Dayadhvam. Dos Equis.
Spicy
black
beans.
Mein Gott, wie viel habe
ich getrunken?
The Stool I sat on, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the tile, where the seat
Held up by legs wrought with bare metal
From which I saw the hot sauce
(Burning burning burning burning).
In vials of plastic and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked Jefe’s strange synthetic spice,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the tongue in sauce; stirred by the roasted veggies
That languished amongst the tomato, the hot sauce descended
In fat drops that flung themselves into the burrito,
Disturbing the pattern on the sour cream.
But
O O O O that Corona Light
HURRY UP PLEASE WITH LIME
The Phoenician flames of fluorescence
Reflect light upon the table as
The soft edges of my burrito roll over it,
From satin tortilla poured Salsa—Mild or Hot in rich profusion.
Huge meat chunks fed with Refried Pinto Beans
Burned light brown and dark brown,
Framed by the salsa verde,
In whose saucy spice Carne Molida Picante swam.
Above the folded foil was displayed
As though a window gave upon the savory scene
The smiling burrito forced, by the barbarous poet
So rudely forced into the gullet.
Belches, short and infrequent, were exhaled.
la la
“my stomxxach bad tonioght stay woith meii.”
“Where are you? Why do you never text. Text.”
“im dsso fussscking dddrunk”
I think we are in El Jefe’s Taqueria
Where the toilet has a code.
“What is that noise?”
The Carne Asada is sautéing.
“What is that noise now? What is the Super Quesadilla doing?”
Nothing again nothing.
“Do
“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
“Nothing?”
I remember Nothing. Blackout.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
I will show you fear in a handful of Extra Meat Side.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
The burrito is gone. The Cilantro Lime White Rice stains my gums.
I cannot walk. But what I really cannot stand is modernity.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Norah. Goonight Frank. Goonight Hillary. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
— Magazine writer Drew C. Pendergrass can be reached at drew.pendergrass@thecrimson.com. Follow him on Twitter @pendergrassdrew.
