XPost: dc.urban-planning, wa.politics   
   From: down-low@barackobama.com   
      
   “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.   
      
   The poem reads autobiographical — about a young Obama’s   
   relationship with a much older man whom he calls Pop.   
      
   “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;”   
      
   Obama is a fucking queer.   
      
           
      
        
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)