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Brant Bjork
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Avenida de la Revolución
Back in the day we cut out the top of the lemon and stick saladitos in the middle.
You would squeeze the lemon and then suck out all the juice.
We had cracked lips from the desert heat.
The lepon would sting like a salty tattoo on the mouth.
Back then the only thing better than saladitos and lemon were my lips on Dona Orteguez.
She was a grade above me; was the hardest thing at school; at least I thought so.
She pretty much taught me how to kiss; and her mouth always tasted like Jolly Rangers candy.
I would watch her as she would walk through the halls at school.
Her was had this lazy rythm to it; it was totally cool.
She had ragged curls for the age; and she always kept it together with a tied little tin top.
Dark blue 501s and brown sandals; dark brown eyes as big as her lips.
Had eye shadows but I don't give a fuck.
Her hair was dark and curly; and the curse of hairline (...) school fool, but she kept it above her shoulder so you could see the curve of her neck.
She was beautiful like a proud rose and she was heavy like 1968.
Some days I feel like we've got to take our shot and change the world.
Other days I just feel like drinking tequila and listening to old case records.
These cracked head New York groups remind me of a time before I played music.
A time before Marta Bell gave me a shitty cassette with Suicidal Tendences on one side and Dio on the other.
It was the key to unlocking the door to a suburb of wasteland.
And I would crank it out of my sound stereo for just an hour before my folks got to home from work.
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I found a sound that was real. It was our sound. And allowed us to be fucked up; in a possitive way.
Couple of years later skateboarding got his name at MTV so I got into Jimmy Hendrix and practice the art of Let your dreams seduce you.
When I was 16 I was secuded by this 28 year old chick.
It was a beautiful confusion.
Like the first time I smell the older kids smoking weed.
When I started hitting the necks she had a sack in the middle of the street.
Ate green burritos and discovered a new world.
The day I entered the Chiuaua House, I never went back.
There was a time where we would share dreams of some day getting out of the dessert.
But is the dessert where all of our dreams are.
Where are your dreams?
Poetically I was in France with the election.
It's funny. Some people are in the three symposium and other people are in the war.
It's a trippy time.
It's time to get rad; rad like Harry Larry.
It's time for sex; like sketches of Spain (Paz Vega).
It's time to go down the Sands Liquor, grab a twelve pack of middle half live and the bottles around the stereo.
Sneak a peack in the new low rider.
And continue rocking free style down the Avenida de la Revolución.
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