I like the way little old women with blue hair
step aside on the pavement when they see me;
the way their poodle lifts a leg to piss on the wall
as if it were the most natural thing to do; and, of course,
I dig the way the white lady stares at my crotch
and neglects the diamond inside my heart, I love it
because she has listened not to the lessons
of the past but to what her daddy-o tells her.
I love how MC Solaar raps in French and with him
drags the entire Gaul, and has it stamping feet
like France was the centre of a secret Africa.
I like me, here, in Europe, in this country, this town,
because when I am done with these people
the way a minister leaves with his satchel
when he has exorcised, I will ask for water
and soap to wash my hands, not as any sign
of disrespect or abandon, but as a means
to say to this part of the world: I have placed
before you the fruit of my belonging today,
and you have defiled it and rendered it uneatable.
I like the way I know people here will scorn me
and call me names, and wave bananas
in my fucking face. I like the way I shall snort
and head home, and flop next to my wife and kids
with MC Solaar rapping on the stereo,
the same blue-haired woman still acting
against the intention of her innermost self.

Why not share this poem, huh?