Get The Dick Out Yo Throat and Go Vote!
(c) Snoop Dogg
So maybe you’re not a Snoop fan or a devoted listener of W-BALZ (1-8-7 on the AM dizial!) and our title seems offensive to you. In which case this could be a pretty long read. But we invoke the Snoopular sounds as a segue to our recent discovery of presidential candidate Barack Obama’s fledgling poetry career.
Unfortunately issues of Feast are no longer available and those with a mint Spring 1981 issue could find themselves sitting on a goldmine come November 5th. Sadly, it appears from Barack’s work (below) that he’s a member of the School of Quietude. For shame!
However, we should point out that Barack is not the only poet president (and he’s definitely not the best). Peru’s José Luis Bustamante Rivero was dubbed “Poet President” by TIME in an August 1945 issue. As it turns out TIME gets the scoop on all the presidential poets, featuring an October 1927 gem about Austria’s President Michael Hainisch. Apparently Hainisch penned an 8 stanza poem about his native Lower Austria entitled “My Country”, purely for aesthetic satisfaction and purposes of personal commemoration.
More recent poet leaders include Sengal’s late president Leopold Sedar Senghor, and former Czech president Vaclav Havel, who is both a “poet and playwright”. But scroll on down and check America’s latest contribution to this tradition.
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
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.
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
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.