Avenida de la Revolución

Back in the day we would cut the top of the lemon and stick saladitos in my mouthe.

You'd squeeze the lemon and then suck out all the juice.

We had cracked lips from the dry desert heat.

The lemon would sting like a salty tattoo on the mouth.

Back then the only thing better than saladitos and lemon
were my lips on Dona Ortega's.

She was a grade above me.
She was the hottest teen in school.
At least I thought so.

She pretty much taught me how to kiss.
And her mouth always tasted like Jolly Rancher's candy.

I would watch her as she would walk through the halls at school.

Her walk had this Latin rhythm to it.
It was totally cool.

She had ragged curls for the age
and she would tied them together with a tied little pink top.
Dark blue 501s and sandals.

Dark brown eyes as big as her lips.
And her eye shadows that I don't give a fuck.

Her hair was dark and curly.
Like the curse of John Henry...
But she kept it above the shoulders so you could see the curve or her neck.
She was beautiful like a proud rose.
And she was heavy like 1968.
Some days I feel like we gotta take our shot and change the world.
Other days I just feel like drinking tequila and listening to old case records.
Those crack New York groups remind me the time before I played music.
The time before Marta gave me a shitty cassette tape of Suicidal Tendences on one
side and DOA on the other.
It was the key to unlocking the door to a world of wasteland.