[Cindy]

Posted here for archival purposes.

#

http://americandigest.org/mt-archives/inverse/the_poetry_of_t.php

SEPTEMBER 24, 2008

“The Poetry of the Young Barry Obama
POP*”

[Cindy]

Video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNu9xjUwPEk

“60 Minutes Kroft To Joking Obama “Are You Punch Drunk?””

Video Description - quote:

Speakmymind02 — March 22, 2009 — http://hotairpundit.blogspot.com/
Rank Amateur, Immature, Rookie, Novice come to mind. An entry-level employee was made CEO. Mr. Obama, the world is watching, terrorist regimes are watching, America’s enemies plotting against this country are watching...
But it looks like it’s Sunday Night funnies at 60 Minutes
What would happen if Bush was caught laughing in an interview about money in banks and the auto industry?
They would have torn him to shreds.
I wonder if all those people who have lost their life savings in retirement connected to the Auto Industry stock were watching tonight?
Joking Obama forgetting he not on Leno tonight...

Category:
News & Politics

Tags:
60 Minutes Barack Obama Punch Drunk Cheney Gitmo Iraq AIG Bailout

[txlurker]

I never even knew he wrote a poem but this is strangely disturbing.....

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;

[mojitojoe]

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. *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.