In a Memoir of Sorts, a War Protester Talks of Life With the Weathermen

''I don't regret setting bombs,'' Bill Ayers said. ''I feel we didn't do enough.'' Mr. Ayers, who spent the 1970's as a fugitive in the Weather Underground, was sitting in the kitchen of his big turn-of-the-19th-century stone house in the Hyde Park district of Chicago. The long curly locks in his Wanted poster are shorn, though he wears earrings. He still has tattooed on his neck the rainbow-and-lightning Weathermen logo that appeared on letters taking responsibility for bombings. And he still has the ebullient, ingratiating manner, the apparently intense interest in other people, that made him a charismatic figure in the radical student movement.

*A poem by Barack Obama published in the Spring 1981 issue of “Feast,” a 51-page student literary journal that described itself as "a semi-annual journal of short poetry and fiction collected from the Occidental College community.” The journal is no longer published, according to a college spokesman.

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 shrink, 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.

--------------

And if you can bear sitting through this video tribute to Frank Marshall Davis you'll find him sitting in that very same chair...

LINK TO VIDEO.CLICK

POP ISN'T OBAMA SNR. POP IS FRANK MARSHALL DAVIS.

The same reason Frank Marshall Davis (who gave him liquor at ten, smoked dope and liked young brown boys), three murdered black, gay men at Trinity within one month and a half, at Oxy (openly gay prof, one of the first there), was one of his favorite teachers (he opened his eyes to gay individuals) and the reason he couldn’t leave the church even though it was all over the news for a while.

People don’t know... with Communism and Marxism they like to break down the family to individuals, so they push sexual deviant behavior. Moral equivalence, no right or wrong, no conscience, it’s about power. That’s why you have the rape scene re: Ayers, with his brother and a black guy raping a girl; the Weathermen sex scene; Davis twisted Sex Rebel: Black and other examples. Most of them are screwed up, or pretending before their eyes are opened. These are truly miserable people who aren’t working on past issues... and trust me, they want to share the misery and get pay back from anyone.

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