Rub-a-dub-dub

rub-a-dub-dub
something quacks
beneath the lake

I never really got it, that there hip-hip. I don't get a word of what they're saying. Not entirely true: it's 95% I don't get. Even if it's my own language. Admitted, I'm too old for getting the codes, the lingo, and can't relate to that ‘whites who wanna be black’ thing.

strange winds
my left ear takes off
Round Midnight

We all want to be someone or something else at times. That's o.k. It can be tiring just being the same old you whom you have spend so much time with. Can be boring. Not many surprises there. I blame MTV and the fashion industry. In my village even decent boys who do everything their mama tells them wears gangsta outfit. They're not in LA and they're not carrying guns. They look left and right before crossing the empty street. And they address me 'Sir'. They may act tough and speak dirty when they're with friends on the train going to the nearest town, but when the train conductor comes to check their tickets they're really small and polite. They even take down their feet from the seats. And they blush if you speak to them directly.

coughing again
the last cabbage white
flutters by slowly

I plug in the earphones: “What need have I for this, what need have I for that. I'm dancing at the feet of my Lord. All is bliss, all is bliss”* and offer all around me a fruit drop. Even the gangsta wannabes like fruit drops.


–


* A track from “Shakti with John Mclaughlin”.



…

file date: September 20, 2013

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