“funky, is
“leaky, is
“a soggy, bloody crotch, is
“sharp jets of breast milk shot straight across the room,
“is gaudy, mustard-colored poop, is
“postpartum tears that soak the baby’s lovely head.
Posted on 12/20/2008 1:03:48 PM PST by 2ndDivisionVet
Edited on 12/20/2008 1:10:52 PM PST by Admin Moderator. [history]
Obama has been touted as among the most literary presidents in modern history, but his choice for an inaugural poet has some scratching their heads.
Acting more like a man of politics than a man of letters, Obama picked former Chicago neighbor and family chum Elizabeth Alexander to deliver an original inaugural poem next month. Alexander, 46, is an African-American studies professor at Yale. Her brother worked on Obama’s campaign and transition team, according to the New Yorker magazine.
I think that poem is a particularly good and vivid illustration of the coming administration.
“African-American studies professor at Yale”
There’s an educator preparing you for the future...
He stutters like a moron when not in front of a teleprompter. What the hell is wrong with the people who worship this this third rate pissant.
We're Doomed, Doomed.
By whom? I've never seen anything that indicates he reads anything other than the little red book. Wow, now they are just making up stuff.
Did you know he leaps tall buildings in a single bound?
I can’t find on-line copies of some of her worst poems, but here’s one of (I suppose) her better ones:
Blues
by Elizabeth Alexander
I am lazy, the laziest
girl in the world. I sleep during
the day when I want to, ‘til
my face is creased and swollen,
‘til my lips are dry and hot. I
eat as I please: cookies and milk
after lunch, butter and sour cream
on my baked potato, foods that
slothful people eat, that turn
yellow and opaque beneath the skin.
Sometimes come dinnertime Sunday
I am still in my nightgown, the one
with the lace trim listing because
I have not mended it. Many days
I do not exercise, only
consider it, then rub my curdy
belly and lie down. Even
my poems are lazy. I use
syllabics instead of iambs,
prefer slant to the gong of full rhyme,
write briefly while others go
for pages. And yesterday,
for example, I did not work at all!
I got in my car and I drove
to factory outlet stores, purchased
stockings and panties and socks
with my father’s money.
To think, in childhood I missed only
one day of school per year. I went
to ballet class four days a week
at four-forty-five and on
Saturdays, beginning always
with plie, ending with curtsy.
To think, I knew only industry,
the industry of my race
and of immigrants, the radio
tuned always to the station
that said, Line up your summer
job months in advance. Work hard
and do not shame your family,
who worked hard to give you what you have.
There is no sin but sloth. Burn
to a wick and keep moving.
I avoided sleep for years,
up at night replaying
evening news stories about
nearby jailbreaks, fat people
who ate fried chicken and woke up
dead. In sleep I am looking
for poems in the shape of open
V’s of birds flying in formation,
or open arms saying, I forgive you, all.
They’re basing it upon his past. His vast experience as a...well...you know, that job he had as a...er...well, all that stuff he studied in school like...um...nevermind.
“funky, is
“leaky, is
“a soggy, bloody crotch, is
“sharp jets of breast milk shot straight across the room,
“is gaudy, mustard-colored poop, is
“postpartum tears that soak the baby’s lovely head.
He would be told to shut up , go home and prepare before appearing again by about a dozen judges I know .
Anything that ends in “studies.”
Anything that ends in “theory.”
I think ‘dun-colored poop’ or ‘buff-colored poop’ is more artsy and poetic than simple ‘mustard-colored poop’. I protest!!!
Ooh! Ooh! I pick ableism.
Obama, Obama, our Savior and King
His Kenyan self can do any damn thing
Save us and bail us out of jams we are in
He's the Messiah and quite without sin.
Obama, Obama, he's black in a way
Get married or hooked up we like that you're gay
Abort lots of babies they don't need to live
I want me a bail-out how much will he give?
OK, Obongo knows his sh!t. Question is: Can he get it together?
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