by Rudolfo Carrillo
My blood's made from tragic encounters but also and more lightly so, the salsa from San Felipe's Restaurant. The original, bro, in Coronado Mall, after they closed Wyatt's and the lobby in Vip's Big Boy Became a caricature of itself, which was an empty shell made from plastic and coated lightly in a special grease made from meat juice and cigarette smoke. They had a bronze sculpture of La Entrada right by the main entrance and it had a fake river y todo. All the suffering had been frozen out of the soldier's faces and their horse's skin, first by the heat of an old foundry in Tesuque, then by a relentless sun that beat them senseless and gave the figurines una quietud extraña that we did not expect from conquerers. They had a pipe shop carved Out of ceramic wizards too. It was by Sears, yo, and we used to buy French frajos inside because we knew how much a tarry packet of Galoise impressed las jainas and imagined them whispering Vamos al borlo as that box of squares was tossed awkwardly onto a table at the self-referentially named dormitory dining hall where we did our gambling, after the last Suntran bus had returned from the land of glorious sopapillas, where one might glimpse what the real world must be like: con aire, with tropical plants overflowing here and there, the voices of a million happy humans humming hopefully.
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