Beauty is in the eye of the beholder cause if there's none he goes crazy.

?
To look at an icicle versus to smash it
convenience versus adventure
to love one person versus to love a thousand.

?
Regarder un stalactite ou le casser
le confort ou l'aventure
aimer une personne ou en aimer mille.

Le brouhaha, le brouhaha, le brouhaha
le brouhaha ne s’arrêtera pas
le brouhaha, le brouhaha, le brouhaha
quand moi j’étais en 5^e
les profs en parlait déjà
mes oreilles bourdonnent comme une machine à tatouer
ma gorge est sèche et irritée.
Je m’arrête, je m’assieds
je n’en peux plus, je n’en peux pas
du brouhaha, du brouhaha, du brrrrrouhaha…
Mais au milieu de toute l’agitation
je vois le gosse autiste assis sur sa chaise
la tête penchée sur un compas
et quelques bouts de stylos,
comme s’il était à cent mètres de là.
Je l’observe, il ne me voit pas,
il se parle, se chuchote,
son visage change d’expression aussi
vite que ses petits doigts sales,
tâché d’encres multicolores,
qui fabriquent, qui tricotent.
Au milieu de la foule de la classe,
je m’arrête et je l’observe
pendant que les autres élèves, les NORMAUX
s’agitent, font les fous, foutent la merde.
Je les laisse ruiner mon cours quelques instants de plus
pour regarder cet iceberg de calme non-normatif,
non-diagnostiqué.
Je pense aux enfants, aux désaxés, aux fous
quand ils se heurtent aux tabous.
Je regarde l’horloge et puisque c’est mon devoir,
je le rappelle à l’ordre, lui confisque ses bouts de stylos,
je dissipe sa brume éveillée avant de m’occuper des autres…

Recueil terminé, cherche éditeur

LA FAUTE AUX DINOSAURES

MISERE HUMAINE

Je me suis arrêté pour regarder les gens faire les poubelles.
La grille du Carrefour City s’est ouverte
et une petite dame s’est engouffrée dès que la grille était à sa hauteur.
C’est elle qui a attiré mon attention au départ
quand elle a immédiatement été repoussée par l’employée en gilet bleu
qui traînait la grande poubelle grise à roulette en grimaçant;
_______________________________repoussée comme une mouche
dans le sens où elle est revenue à l’assaut une fois, puis deux,
devant ses deux fils, jusqu’à ce que la poubelle soit dehors.
Ils portaient un jogging bariolé, le genre qui était populaire
au début des années 90 et qu’on trouve chez Emmaüs pour pas cher,
leur mère portait un gilet en laine et un voile sur les cheveux
qui se prolongeait en robe longue et sale,
l’un des deux m’a regardé avec un léger sourire
Et s’est mis à fouiller...
Une baguette de pain, de la laitue, des cartons avec des œufs écrasés dessus.
Pendant que la poubelle révélait et distribuait ses trésors dans l’agitation
des bras et des mains qui pénétraient les couches successives
et la surface noire des sacs poubelles
moi j’étais sur le trottoir d’en face.
Deux ou trois personnes les ont rejoint, un peu en retard au rendez-vous.
Pas des clochards, pas gens sales, pas des « pauvres » ou des « gitans »,
des gens. Des gens qui avaient dû être à ma place il y a quelques temps.
Au bout d’un moment, ils ont commencé à se partager le contenu de la poubelle
et à travailler en équipe. Ils discutaient, l’un deux a ri.

Cette scène m’a rappelé un autocollant que je voyais souvent
sur les poteaux de mon quartier :
Partageons les richesses, pas la misère.
Eux, ils partageaient la misère
en plein milieu de la place, à côté de la Banque de France
et ils n’avaient pas l’air gêné, mal à l’aise ou triste,
ils étaient juste contents de manger.

ROSEANNE, MERCED, CA

The vitiligo stains on her arms and hands
and the bandages on her legs were like the flowers and the litter
on the bushes along the freeway were she was sparing for change.
She is a mother but i can't remember the name of her son
and she hasn't seen him in 20 years...

Before i asked for her name i wanted to call her Mary
because she had an immaculate blue dress and the red plastic umbrella
between her pale hair and the burning California sun
was shining a red glow on her freckled face,
and after she told me her name was Roseanne,
            she told me her nickname was Mary.

She had ridden the Greyhound bus to Florida to see her family
and when she got there and no one was there
            she had a heart failure.
The ambulance took her to the hospital
but instead of taking care of her
_______broke as she was
they strapped her to a hospital bed
at the UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL OF MIAMI
they tested drugs and products on her legs,
the doctors and students around the hospital bed.
She said they had strapped 200 people on the beds
and tested shit on them.
She said she could still hear the screams in the night.
One thing's for sure she could still feel the burns on her very body.

America and the rest of the fucked up human race
has not enough of the monkeys and dogs in the labs
now they're so used to inflicting pain on abused lives
that they take their Lower Class Saints
and hold them in captivity
like the American Nazis at the Hospital in Miami.

I told her to go rest at a YMCA or something
but there is no YMCA in Merced
there is a lotta SUVs and Taco Bells,
Carl's Juniors and Am-Pms
Mc Donald's and Shell stations
but no YMCAs.

I gave her a bottle of water and a green bill
and as i left she told me "God bless you".
Well, maybe he has blessed me
…after he has blessed the surgeons,
the medecine students,
the troops and cops,
the white majority at the drive in,
and after that if he has the time
he will bless the people on the street corners and freeway exits
that go to jail for holding a sign
and have to walk all the way back to their corner
like modern days Sisyphuses under the burning sun
like Victor, Roseana's friend;
those who get their tents dismantled by pigs
and their legs bitten by bugs, their necks by spiders.
Maybe at that same time Obama is at his desk working on the Health Care Reform
but i don't trust Obama
and i don't trust God either

i don't trust the Silent Majority
and the minorities forever waiting
in their quiet Americansumerist cocoon
for the revolution to start on TV.

un parmi les autres, recueil DIY en construction...
Love always.

WINDOW BANE

Everyday, while writing at my desk
i often look out the window to the parking lot
separating my Welfare building from the middle class houses

and every day at the same exact hour i see a blue car parking
on the white-lined lot opposite my window.
____________Number 807.
The driver exits along the neighbors' bushes, closes the driver's door and,
keys in hands walks around the shabby car with a tiny sun roof whose edges are chipped by the sun.
His black pants and tucked white shirt caress the leaves,
he comes out the front of the car, switching his leather briefcase to his key-holding hand and combs his buzz cut,
his red tie sits impeccably, hiding the buttons of the shirt.

He starts whistling while reaching the back wheel:

the soundtrack to his perfect choreography,
everyday he dances in front of me,
unseen and undisturbed
master of the block's cosmos,
he passes the two trees that sit at the entrance of the parking lot
acclaimed by the birds and the soft summertime sun
and commences his run on the gravel sidewalk.
Pay day or not, rain or sun
always the same fucking run.
Today as he slips from my sight at the corner of the beige building
i wonder.
Tomorrow is Sunday, what the hell is he goin to do with his day?
Will he dance and whistle in the comfort of his appartment?
Will he lay his white collar uniform on the chair or the in the chest-a drawers
knowing it'll be worn again the next morning?
Will he leave the TV on?
Will he realize the sick routine has been paused
and enjoy the day off or linger on the things left undone at the office
while his kid or his wife try to talk to him?
Am i even any better than him?

As my scornful thoughts spin
my eyes catch the glowing blond hair
of a very desirable middle-aged woman
in a red tank top and tight jeans who's just parked her car...
and a second later my neighbor, a cancer survivor
who i haven't seen in a while on her way to the bakery,
then the bus stops and my sister exits with the wind in her hair.

If the world's bound to be wretched by the routine of shabby-car-driving executives at least my neighborhood has its saints.

L'enregistrement de l'album du projet Spoken Words and Open Chords est terminé, il sera disponible bientôt...

En attendant, une petite vidéo réalisée par Brice Gelot de la venue de Scott Bourne à Dijon dans le cadre des soirées Musique Mythes Murder: [lien]

SILENCE DOESN'T MEAN A THING II

The Earth has been here for a long time
but under these snowflakes
that froze my mistakes
it feels it could be the end.
Are we so desperately reaching for the end?
Are we so eager to know the end
that we destroy the place that we're given
by solid hands?
That we slay the living creatures
drench them in petroleum
cut them open with a knife and cook them?

Aren't we supposed to be afraid?

Primaveral feelings are at bay
a frozen bay
like the park and the lake.
We haven't seen the sky for five days
instead of it, covering it
a uniform grey mass drifted endlessly
like the released souls of forsaken ghosts
knowing the taste of freedom at last,
these ghosts i soaked like a ghostly sponge
while my lungs absorbed smoke,
lying on the bed and seeing red.

Red
like the sun that finally appears today
that fills the sky with a new tinge and hue
that changes the landscape and my mood,
that hungs hammocks of purple and orange
to the skeletons of the trees that line
the industrial avenue with its fences and trucks.
Red
like the sun i chase while it sets
at the end of another afternoon,
that is leaving way too soon,
like a girl you couldn't get to know
before she had to go back home, north,
It had just appeared
but now must leave for the moon.
So i look down to the wall
that spreads along the industrial avenue,
holes on the wall are like ballroom for birds.

Pigeons are out on the snowless ground
they patiently pace around
fearless of the cars and the sound.

Une interview de Gabriel et moi (Spoken Words and Open Chords)
dans le cadre du festival Humanist Records: [lien] l'Oreille au Poste du 11/3
Merci à Marie et sa collègue @ Radio Campus

"this mess in my head is a mess getting out"

Je lirais quelques uns de mes textes
le 10 mars à 13h15 à l'Atheneum (université de Dijon)
accompagné de mon cher ami Mr Mojo de Lillo à la guitare et autres instruments
(pause méridienne gratuite et ouverte à tous)
Un avant goût sur myspace