Davis is also believed to have written more "soft-porn" novels, according to the editor of his biography, J. E. Tidwell.
It's almost inescapable that Obama's grandfather, Stanley Dunham, was seriously disturbed. He not only took the kid on his visits to Frank (who divorced his white wife, and left his five kids, in 1970 to become a derelict); Stanley Dunham also took the 11-12-year-old Barry to a bar in the black "red-light district," the hangout of prostitutes and drug pushers, according to Obama's book.
What a totally dysfunctional family. I really don't want to hear anymore about how he's not responsible for his family -- neither were a slew of other human monsters raised in ugly circumstances.
The question is: do we want someone with this childhood background, along with all his other known amoral or hateful associates as an adult, in the Whitehouse?
Remember Bubba also had a dysfunctional family in his upbringing -- this country should have learned from that experience alone. Obama's upbringing seems much more dysfunctional, actually.
Yep, explains that Pop poem...
POP
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink,* my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.
I can’t even begin to tell you which direction this is going... though I have many ideas...
UNDERGROUND
Under water grottos, caverns
Filled with apes
That eat figs.
Stepping on the figs
That the apes
Eat, they crunch.
The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Rushing water,
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.
* “Shink” may be a typo, but the poem is reproduced as published.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/steven-barrieanthony/obamas-poetry_b_44271.html
Davis described how the encounters with the child, who he called "Anne," would materialize: "Anne came up many times the next several weeks, her aunt thinking she was in good hands. Actually she was. She obtained a course in practical sex from experienced and considerate practitioners rather than from ignorant insensitive neophytes
Stanley Ann Dunham
Even if it is not, do you think that Frank's "drinking " buddy Stanley had no idea that Frank engaged in these exploits?
Perhaps an encounter with Frank was the root of Stanley Ann's attraction to dark men.