Talking All That Taco De Harina

We were sitting at the window seat
of the Tex-Mex, my friend and me, and I was explaining
to her the simple secret behind an authentic burrito.
About how the rice and the pinto beans and
the sour cream and the guaca-mole and the salsa
should all be folded-up inside the soft flour tortilla,
and not simply served on the side like salad garnish.
And how the knife and the fork really only added insult to injury.
And we were sitting there, deciding whether or not
there was time to finish up here, wipe our lips
and grab one more amaretto sour each before
the long tube ride home, when a hairy face
appeared on the other side of the glass, looking in.
The hairy face was instantly familiar to us, for it belonged
to a headlining anti-folk singer, who’d just spent the evening
crooning and strumming and wiggling his zitzit tassels for us
from up upon the wooden stage of a nearby Anglican church.
I tried to warn him. Honestly I did. I stepped right outside
onto the pavement there, and I tried my best to warn him off.
And yes, I tried my best to warn his American band-mates too.
I apologized on behalf of myself and all my fellow citizens.
I explained that things were slowly changing.
That the message was slowly getting through.
But that yes, for the most part, the majority of wannabe taquerías
in this godforsaken sad little desperado shanty-town city of mine,
were still unfortunately run by the kind of chef de plúnges
who wouldn’t know a decent cochinita pibil if it were to suddenly
turn around and bite them on their güero-coloured gabacho asses.
But of course, in the end, it wasn’t anything they hadn’t heard before.
And I could see the burning hunger all around their eyes.
And I knew they hadn't eaten properly since the flight.
And so, we left them there, beneath the stars, guitars in hands,
knowing that ultimately it had to be their decision. And their decision alone.
We stopped at the first bar we came to, my friend and me,
and we ordered our amaretto sours. One each. For the road.
Made with fresh egg white, with a maraschino cherry on the top.
As if we had any kind of choice in the matter.


Video for the Herman Dune single ‘1-2-3 Apple Tree’