Où est-il écrit que le blanc est plus valable que le noir?
Où est-il écrit que le noir vaux moins que le blanc ?
Dans quels livres ces règles ont-elles été appliquées?
Pourquoi l’assassinat de Patrice Lumumba?
Pourquoi la souffrance en Afrique?
Comment se fait-il qu’à l’Epoque
Le Blanc pouvait s’exprimer
Mais le noir se faisait torturer et même tué?
Les questions qu’on se pose
Dont les réponses sont au-de-la nos pensées
Je suis l’enfant des Noirs
Je n’ai pas connu ce genre de tyrannie
Mais qui guère voudrais ?
Sommes-nous capable d’effacer les erreurs du passé?
Mais essayons d’en faire un monde meilleur
Où l’inconnu sera connu
Où l’autrui sera notre meilleur ami
Où l’esclavagisme sera que dans les films d’horreur
Où l’injustice règnera que dans les mauvais rêves
Où le racisme n’aurait jamais existé
Pour un monde plus Fraternel
Notre cœur est rouge
Ton amour est blanc
Tu dois me croire
Notre amour sera toujours saint
Bleu montre la calme
Vert est toujours mon favori
Peux-tu être mon âme?
Mon amour n'est jamais fini
La forêt est vert
L'orange est orange
Je t'aime à la mort
Même si je pars en France
On s'est battu
On s'est disputé
Mais toujours et toujours
Mon amour ne va pas diminuer
Je te vois pour la première fois
Mon cœur à battu rapidement
Je ne sais pas pourquoi
Est-ce que tu es mon charme
Sonnet pour mon épagneul anglais Nils
De son smoking de noir vêtu,
mêmes quand il court dans les rues,
à un artiste de gala
il semble emprunter le pas
Ton ventre est blanc comme une hermine.
Sur ton museau blanc, une truffe
Son dos de noir tout habillé.
Sur le front, il se fait doré.
De « prince », il s’attire le nom
Tant sa démarche est altiere ;
mais de « Nils », il a le surnom,
Car autant qu’un jar, il est fier.
Assis, il paraît méditer,
Sur le monde sa vanité.
De ses yeux noirs il vous regarde,
Comme un reproche qui s’attarde.
Quand il court, parmi les genêts,
Il fend l’air comme un destrier ;
Et le panache de sa queue
En flottant, vous ravit les yeux.
Mon épagneul est très dormeur,
Et aux sofas, il fait honneur.
Mais lorsque se lève le jour,
A se promener, il accourt.
Quand il dort, il est écureuil,
mais jamais, il ne ferme l’œil.
Un léger murmure l’éveille
Tant aérien est son sommeil.
Il semble emprunter le pas
Lorsqu’un aboiement le réveille
De sa voix, il donne l’éveil.
Et les chats, les chiens maraudeurs,
Il met en fuite avec bonheur.
Lorsque dans mes bras, il vient,
Son pelage se fait câlin.
Et la douceur de sa vêture
Lui fait une jolie voilure.
Sur ma table, sa tête repose
Lorsque je taquine la prose,
Comme pour dire ; même par-là,
je veux que tu restes avec moi.
Sous ma caresse, il se blottit,
comme le ferait un petit.
De ma tristesse, il vient à bout,
tant le regard qu’il pose est doux.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
Poème à ma chienne Laika dite «Caquine»
Tu as un gros museau,
Des yeux entre amandes et noisettes
Teintés d’une humeur suppliante.
Ta fourrure est quelque peu rêche
Mais prend l’éclat de la noisette
et le reflet du renard roux.
La caresse se fait satin.
Ma fille Célia t’appelle : «Caquine»
Pour des raisons que je ne peux
Au lecteur dévoiler ici,
Mais toute ta place tu tiens.
A ta maitresses adorée
Tu dresses ton gros museau
Et te blottis pour la garder
En menaçant ceux qui approchent.
Tu es peureuse comme un lézard,
Et sait ramper devant Célia.
Mais ton museau, sur mes genoux
Au petit déjeuner veille et guette.
Quand je te sors, tu tires en laisse
Jusqu’à m’en laisser essoufflé,
Après avoir d’énervement
Dans ta gueule, mes chaussons saisis.
Sur les sentiers de senteur,
Ton flair à humer se déploie.
Tu es, ma chienne, compagnie.
De mes longues après-midi.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
On the 15th of May
In the French Laund-er-y
There was a small man,
The Chef De Partie
He was mixing and stirring
And stirring his sauce,
But his sauce wouldn’t thicken
He was at a loss
So he needed to think
and ponder awhile
Until on his face
Was a bright white smile.
“I have it!” He said.
“I know what to do
All that I need
Is a nice thick roux.”
No reductions or tomatoes
Or even puree
He needed the roux
It was the only way
So what he did next
was truly “the shit”
He melted some butter
And dumped flour in it.
This mixture was gloppy
And looked like wet sand
The roux was ‘a cooking
But looked awfully bland
Morton must think
How to flavor this glob
Chef Tomas Keller said
“Morton its your job”
He thought and he thought
“Oh what can I do?
Bechamel or Veloute?
What to do with this roux.”
“Veloute I think
Sounds good for today.
I’ll make some of that.
Chef might exclaim, “yay!”
So he added some stock
Of Gertrude McFuzz
It was the best bird
It certainly was
Fond Blanc De McFuzz
Was clear and not milky
Ought to be silky
He cooked it awhile
Maybe for one half an hour
And when it began to bubble
The roux showed its power.
It thickened and coated
The back of a spoon
This stuff’s almost ready
It should be done soon
He strained it
removing the floury bits
It needed to be clean
No clumpys or grits
It was almost over
It was just about ready
It still needed some tweaking
“Can’t we eat it already?!”
“No” said chef Teller
as he took a lick
Was it good? Was it bad?
Was the sauce too thick
“You did a great job!
Trust me, you did.”
Said Teller to Morton
“You did good kid”
“One thing I will say
That you forgot to put in
It’s the most vital ingredient
In the entire kitchen”
“Its something that most chefs
Don’t use a lot of
It comes from within
The spice of true love”
Morton thought a bit
Like he often does
And then he said
“Chef! That’s what it was”
“It didn’t taste right
It was missing its pop
Its pep in its step
Its fizzle. Its hop”
He learned something there
From Chef Thomas Teller
Food needs more love
It needs to be stellar
After all that
And in the end
Morton threw it away
And started again.
Shhh, don’t tell my friends, but it’s not easy being thirteen. You have to buy pants two sizes too big to show just enough crack to say, ‘Hey, I’m cool’. But if the pants accidentally creep down an extra two inches, your friends yell, ‘Hey, Shlomo’s gay’ and stick the blunt end of a toilet plunger up your ass like they were planting the flag at Iwo Jima. I guess the best part of being thirteen is the big Bar Mitzvah party your parents throw ‘you’. I know it’s for ‘them’ – but I play along because I know, in the end, there are lots of cash prizes.
When the caterer’s unveiled the smorgasbord, my 200 guests stormed the table like Omaha Beach. Fuck ‘Private Ryan’, these people were taking no prisoners, and leaving no kishka (stuffed derma) behind. Most of the women had asses so big they warranted their own zip codes and their men waddled around with enough spare tires to supply the Indy 500. What is it about Jews and food? My Uncle Bernie from Baltimore told an old joke that summarizes the essence of every Jewish holiday: “They tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat.” His wife, Aunt Shmeckel, inspired a bogus Wikipedia listing “as being living proof that light bends around objects of humongous mass, namely, her toches and torpedo tits.” Her son, cousin Hymie, insists he deleted the article but I’ll bet you a million dollars he’s the one who wrote it. Aunt Shmeckel teases Hymie by calling him a ‘luksh’ which is Yiddish for ‘long noodle’. If he replies by calling her a ‘helfond mit ah graisseh nuz’ (‘big nosed elephant’) he gets grounded. There is no justice for teen boys, just distractions, like World of Warcraft, Legend of Zelda, Resident Evil and a laundry list of ways to dis our parents and teachers.
I was seated at the head of the ‘Bar Mitzvah Boy’s Table’ with my best friends as various guests drifted by to hand me envelopes filled with moolah. I felt like the capo di tutti capi collecting busta da denaro from his lieutenants. Aunt Shmeckel was the first to come by, with a shank of lamb in her left hand and a greasy envelope in her right hoof.
“Oy! I’ve got to kiss the Mitzvah boy. Mmmmmmuah!”
I wiped the goat grease off my punim with the back of my hand and said, “Where’s cousin Hymie?”
“Oh, he’s grounded,” she said, wagging the shank (the left one). “He doesn’t listen to his parents, like you Shlomo. You’re a good boy!”
“I hope it paid off,” I said, lifting the envelope. “Seems a little light.”
“Don’t worry, shmendrik, it’s overstuffed with hundreds like a pastrami sandwich at Katz’s.”
“Thanks, Aunt Shmeckel. I will commend thee to my mistress.”
As she left my friends burst out in laughter. “Your aunt looks like the ‘before’ picture in nose job ad,” Avi said.
“Now, that’s a nose you can hang a punim on!” Dovid, chimed in.
“Yeah,” said Avi. “Hang her high like Hayman, with her boots on. Next time she comes by, I’ll whip out my Purim gragger.”
“Hey, lay off, my Aunt,” I said, counting the cash under the table. “She delivers, like Domino’s. Not like you two schnorrers.”
“Quick, put away the cash,” Dovid says, giving me the elbow. “Nexxxxxt victim.”
Up to the table comes my Aunt Farsclepteh Krenk. She from my dad’s side which makes her a ‘black sheep’ or some shit according to my mom, whose side my dad calls faputztah lollkehs, which I guess means ‘white sheep’. Aunt Krenk sports a three-day-moustache and an extravagant growth on her chin, the likes of which have not been seen since that gianormous mole disappeared off Sarah Jessica Parker – BTW, named the ‘Unsexiest Woman Alive’ by my Qur’an and stroking stash, Maxim magazine.
“Oy! You’re so handsome. Let me give this handsome man about town a big kiss,” and she plants one right on my lips!” Dovid drops to the floor.
“Ziss ve tzuker! I got a little something for you,” she whispers, and discretely hands me an envelope like it was a hot potato. “Save it for college and don’t buy any more facokteh computer games!”
“I’ll put it all on the ponies just like your husband, Uncle Max,” I teased. “Thanks!”
The envelopes kept coming until some shmuck clinked a glass and announced, “The Rabbi will now give a speech.”
Up to the podium came the Rabbi of our shul, Rabbi Ziggy ‘Ineverpromisedyoua’ Rosegarten. He’s so boring when he delivers a speech illegals jump the fence to get back into Mexico. The Rabbi was trying to act all cool to show he was ‘one of us’. The microphone blurts out, ping.” We yell back, “ACK.” Everyone is confused.
“Ay-o, homies,” the Rabbi said, grabbing his cock gangsta style. “Yo, what’s crackin? What’s the dills?” Turning to my parents table he adds, “Sup niggaz?”
At that moment my dad dropped the piece of gefilte fish dangling from his fork with such force that the high velocity splatter covered my mom’s entire gown. It looked like a CSI crime scene but with Gold’s horseradish instead of blood.
“If you will permit me,” the Rabbi starts galambling, “I shall dispense with my usual address for such an occasion, and adhere to the parameters of the ‘Hip Hop’ theme suggested to me by your Bar Mitzvah planner.”
My table started heckling the Rabbi with a barrage of insults.
“Go make some burnt offerings!”
“Rabbi, I want you to speak at my Bar Mitzvah. Not!”
“Make like a burning bush and leave already.”
The Rabbi, unperturbed, continued his spiel, “Nu, DJ, spin that platter…
Yo, I heard from a Sage, that
when Joseph was Bar Mitzvah age,
Yaakov, his dad, feeling kinda glad,
gave him a multicolored robe --
prettiest on this globe.
When Joseph paraded in that coat
it got all his brother’s goat.
First it made his brothers sad,
then it made his brothers mad,
so, in a fit, they threw’em in a pit
then sold Joseph to a caravan
of traders headed towards Sudan.
This gorey story’s moral,
Which the Sages often quote,
Is if you wear a multicolored coat
You’re probably gay --
so there’s no need to gloat.
The only important things the Torah,
So let’s all dance the hora!”
Dovid and Avi were making a puking gesture, ready to blow chunks – and pushed me to the podium to dis the Rabbi once and for all. I steeled my nerves with a glass of grape juice and grabbed the mike from his hands and began to rap back.
“Yo, you call that crap rap?
Take a nap, who you takin’ for a sap.
We don’t need your Hava Nagila
Your moms tea-bagged Godzilla.
Yo’ moms, all about the schlong,
She been ass raped by King Kong.
And look atchu, Rosegarten
You spent half your time just fartin’,
From both ends, you be gassy
More stanky than…Lassie.
You be foamin at the mout(h)
Shoutin shit thru your snout.
Hey, you got nuttin’ to say,
Get on your feet of clay, and pray.
Pray, I don’t cap your nappy ass
Cuz, alas, my balls are made of brass.
Nigga, I’m way out,
Way out of your class.”
I grabbed the Rabbi by his balls until he fell to his knees and dubbed him by his newly annointed name, “Bitchgarten.”
The guests all stood up and clapped their hands faster and faster. They then lifted me on a chair and twirled me around like that carnival ride that makes you hurl. The band played Hava Negila and 200 people danced the hora until midnight.
That night I raked in $17,300 in cash and another $12,800 in Savings Bonds. Not to mention a Breitling Cockpit watch, a Mont Blanc Meisterstück pen and a Norelco shaver. Also, that night, in the men’s room, Caitlyn Goldstein, a Beit Yaakov girl, removed her retainer and gave me my first blow job. When I came I blurted out, “Man-o, man-o, Manishevitz!” I didn’t know what else to say.
The next day I put all my video games in a cardboard box and asked my mom to give them to charity. You see, being Bat Mitzvahed, was not about scoring lots of cash like I thought, or being a Torah observant Jew like the Rabbi wanted. Being bar Mitzvahed, for me, was about becoming a mensch. It’s about loving people who aren’t your family as much as you love your family; it’s about learning to enjoy giving as much as taking; and it’s about being cool by just being yourself – without having to show the crack in your ass.
Moi: blanc, pur, droit.
Toi: noir, impur, a plat.
Une guerre, une embrasse, une rencontre
Une éternité, sévère, sans importance
Peeled potato skin,
and washed them,
then diced them in small pieces.
Added them into a scallion with lightly cooked beef,
onions, and touch of salt.
Simmered them with added water and curry packets,
while stirred them slowly but well.
Played BWV 1051 on iTunes radio,
while raised the volume linked to the Bose stereo.
Have white linen spread on dining table,
candle lights lit, and unplug the light cable.
When you came home,
I greeted you like a queen of Rome.
Gave you a warm embrace,
asked you how was your workplace.
and looked upon your beautiful face.
Held onto your hand,
pulled you to the dining table,
I seated you across from me.
Grabbed the bread stick from the oven,
pulled prepared salad from the frig,
and a bottle of "Appellation Anjou Blanc Controlée."
We smiled together,
and enjoyed the meal together,
then connected together.
Next rest upon your imagination!
BWV 1051: link
The moonlight reflects on her eyes and tears
As if, the moon is spilling out of her eyes
Her body begins to numb
Slowly the sorrow lingers through her fingers
Her delicate arms begin to weaken
Her crisped shoulders begin to dull
Her legs begin to shake very delicately
A shade of blanc takes over her complexion
As she wipes the spilling moon with sorrow
The cool breeze grows stronger as she becomes weaker and fatigue
Poor girl, she's bound to fall again eventually
She is slowly falling
But not inlove
pouring out my heart
into your glass cup--
emotions ferment over time
soon you runneth over
drowning in a taste once sweet
to the ears,
a heart-healthy concoction of poetry
and lame jokes about "what"
once able to warm your body
now tastes bitter like a rotten cheese
of moldy frowns
stinging like shards of passive aggressive glass
in the back of your throat.
after everything is gone
I feel empty--
like one of those cheap bottle's of tuesday night sauvignon blanc
discarded next to my bed--
swilled in under a half-hour
because taste is irrelevant--
just using it for dizzy forgetfulness
waiting in bed next to me
for the opportunity
to kiss me with puke breath
and wrap my head in tender aching nausea .
Feeling used as I drift off
into a series of hazy dreams
only to be forgotten in the morning.
retour au blanc
au bon sens
j’ai pas pris