The Waste Land But It’s El Jefe’s

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.