Reworked Prose: I Blame Herzl

In January 2009, I wrote a prose post entitled "I blame Herzl." It was a lame attempt to engage.  I decided that I ought to do the same, having advanced so much these past four years, but now in poetry.  Pristine logic, plus, this time, there's food. The remarkable painting is by Erez Vaxman.

Sunday Chowder: I Blame Herzl

 

I made fish chowder

and then we said

these things:

 

"Do the right wing bigots

really think that leftist assholes

cannot distinguish between Hamas

and the deserving

-- overarching --

Question of Palestine?"

 

I wouldn't deign to waste

time proposing an inanity

such as Israel

not having the right

to self-determination,

or to exist.

 

Israel is the King

of de facto

everything,

particularly

of annexation,

so what would be

 

the point?

 

Haddock and cod.

Five Idaho potatoes.

Four celery stalks.

 

Israel is,

de facto.

May Palestine eventually be,

de jure.

 

I blame those peacenik

Ottomans, those opium-toking

he-went-that-a-way Turks.

And the oh-so-benign,

not-to-mention secret

Sykes-Picot

 

incestuous

annexations.

 

I blame the Lame League.

 

A nutty garlic butter roux.

Six carrots.

One huge onion.

 

I would link up 

with some of these right

wing bigoted commentaries,

but then I would have to pretend

to want

to debate. 

 

("Typical left-wing amour propre!"

 

"Yeah, well, still better

than their queer robes

of purple armor.")

 

Beware such winning

and unconsidered repartee!

I gotta stop smoking

that wacky tobacky.

 

Corn, golden, sweet.

Okra, properly done.

Dried slices of poblano peppers.

 

These are tragic times.

 

Those of us not being bombed

or doing the bombing,

let's not subvert the causes

of deserving peoples

because we lack the mental

 

agility to dissect the issues,

 

that is, if we even understand them.

 

I sure don't.

 

Kosher salt.                 (Taste, taste, taste!)

Cayenne.

Huge amounts of fresh ground pepper.

 

I am swayed by the passions

of individual Israelis and Palestinians

and want to planify discrepancy.

 

I belong in a home for the feeble-mindedly optimistic.

 

It should be my job to wash and dress the dead,

then bury them -- in accordance to the prevailing customs.

Winds. Incoming missiles. Available space, and clergy.

 

Fresh dill.

Cream (not much).

Milk.

 

Obviously, competing intransigence

is a waste of the world's time --

backing one or the other

 

purely smacks.

 

We all know the answer lies

in the two-state solution --

in which Hamas can play no role.

So am I to support the occupation

of Gaza in the hopes that when the bullets cease,

Hamas will {poof} be gone?

 

If not Hamas, who will see

to the trapped 1.5 million Gazans? 

 

Your knife skills are key:

Small, even dices.

Be more generous when cubing the fish.

 

The desperation of the Gazans does not resonate in the breast of Mahmoud Abbas.

 

When the League of Nations

had the brilliant idea to divide

 

Palestine,

 

and to screw the Palestinians

by means of that ever-buggering British Rule

 

-- the Mandatory Power that was to be

provisory, transitory,

and every other meaningful -ory --

 

the world chose not to take notice.

 

When we deigned to glance        

around,

we saw Arafat in fatigues,

sporting a weapon

before the United

 

Nations.

 

It was all rather confusing.

 

A light fish stock.

Thai fish sauce (but don't tell anyone).

Organic bitter baby greens at the last minute.

 

And so we have see-sawed back 

and forth through the decades.

The one thing that I have learned

in my in-depth, spirited

study of world

 

conflicts? 

 

There has to be someone to blame.

 

As always, the mise en place is key.

Build the flavors; Do not forget to taste, taste, taste.

Finish with one tablespoon of butter.

 

I blame Theodor Herzl for not having settled on Brazil.

© 2013 L. Ryan